Fletch Won

“Now that you finally show up, you just wanted to sit and hear the story of my life?”

“I wanted to hear you say you murdered Donald Habeck.”

“Who are you?”

“I.M. Fletcher.”

“You’re not from the public agency?”

“I said I’m from a newspaper.” Fletch was standing at the door of the room. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Felix Gabais’s eyes grew huge. He tried to get up from the big chair.

Fletch said, “The News-Tribune.”

Felix fell back into the chair. He switched the beer bottle to his right hand.

Fletch ducked through the door. In the dark outer room he bumped into Therese Gabais’s wheelchair.

The beer bottle smashed against the doorframe.

Therese Gabais said, “My brother doesn’t like the newspapers.”

“I understand.”

“Blames ’em for everything,” Therese Gabais said.

Down Twig Street, Fletch ducked into his car quickly.

Opening the door of his car, Fletch had seen the car Biff Wilson used, lights, antennae, and NEWS-TRIBUNE all over it, stop in front of number 45447.

“555-2900.”

It was exactly twelve-thirty.

There were many places Fletch felt he ought not be. His apartment was one. The News- Tribune was another. Driving around the streets without his driver’s license or car registration, both of which had been taken by the police with his wallet and keys, and, with the police prone to recognize him as Alexander Liddicoat, the robber, and probably looking for him as Irwin Maurice Fletcher, angel-dust merchant, also struck him as imprudent.

So, after he watched Biff Wilson lift himself out of his car, button his suit jacket, and lumber into number 45447 Twig Street, Fletch drove into the used-car lot. He parked his Datsun 300 ZX in the front row of used cars, facing the street. All the other cars in the row, bigger than his, nevertheless were newer and cleaner.

No car salesmen were around. Undoubtedly they were off reenergizing their smiles and chatter with soup and sandwiches.

Fletch took a cardboard sign off the windshield of another car and put it on his own. The sign read: SALE! $5,000 AND THIS CAR IS YOURS!

Seated behind the FOR SALE sign in his car, Fletch could make his phone calls. He also could watch number 45447 Twig Street.

Cindy answered immediately. “Fletch?”

“You feel okay?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Sorry about the pizza last night.”

“Isn’t that what men do? Negotiate with women and then walk out on them, ignoring their agreements? I mean, even about bringing back pizza? It was no surprise to me. Of course, Barbara mentioned being both hungry and disappointed in you.”

“Hey, Cindy. Don’t be angry. If you only knew what happened—”

“I don’t want to be told. From what I know of men, they’re as incapable of telling the truth to women as snakes are of singing four-part harmony.”

“You’ve met a lot of snakes.”

“I’m not doing this for you, Fletcher. I’m doing this for Barbara.”

“Wedding presents are for brides and grooms, aren’t they? Isn’t that why, so often, there are rods and reels among the packages?”

“We all have to give men everything their little hearts desire so that a few of the good things of this world will dribble down to their dependent wives. Isn’t that the way the world works?”

“You’re doing it to screw Marta.”

“That, too.”

“Where are you?”

“None of your business.”

“Cindy, I just want to make sure you’re on a safe phone. That no one is listening in.”

“No one is listening.”

“Good. Who owns the Ben Franklyn Friend Service?”

“Okay. Wood Nymph, Incorporated, as I said. I got into the filing cabinet in Marta’s office this morning. She spent most of the morning at the reception desk. Found references to two other corporations. One is called Cungwell Screw—”

“That’s funny.”

“A riot. The other is called Lingman Toys, Incorporated.”

“Someone has a sense of humor. What’s the relationship among these three companies?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t expect terribly accurate or complete evidence of ownership to be lying about Marta’s office, would you?”

“No. But it’s more of a lead than we had, I guess.”

“I think Cungwell Screw and Lingman Toys are investors, owners of Wood Nymph.”

“Any reference to any of the officers of any of the companies?”

Down Twig Street, Biff Wilson dashed out of number 45447. He slammed the door behind him. Looking back, he stumbled down the steps.

“Marta. President of Wood Nymph, vice-president of both, Cungwell Screw and Lingman Toys. President of Cungwell Screw is a Marietta Ramsin.”

The door of 45447 Twig Street opened again. Felix Gabais, empty beer bottle in hand like a football, stood on the front stoop. Really, he was a massive person.

Felix threw the empty bottle at the fleeing Biff Wilson.

The bottle hit Biff on the ear. It fell into the gutter and smashed.

“Jokes everywhere,” Fletch said.

“And president of Lingman Toys is an Yvonne Heller. Treasurer of all these companies is a man named Jay Demarest. I know him.”

“You do?”

The ground-floor window of 45447 Twig Street opened. Therese Gabais leaned as far out the window as she could from her wheelchair. She was shaking her arm and shouting at Biff in the street.

“Yeah. Comes in all the time. Uses the place, you know, as if it were all for him. Never gets a bill. Exercises, gets what he wants when he wants it.”

“What’s he like?”

Now Felix was bending over as well as he could in the gutter and scooping up broken glass from his beer bottle.

“Actually, over the two years I’ve known him, he’s gotten himself into pretty good shape, one way and another. He’s in his thirties, not married.”

“Why would he marry, with the friends he’s got?”

“What?”

Head tilted, hand pressed against his wounded ear, Biff turned back to attack Felix.

Felix threw the bits of glass in Biff’s face.

“Nothing.”

“I’ve even been out with him on dates, you know, as escort. When he takes friends out for dinner, that sort of thing.”