Fletch Won

“Now, Fletch.”

“What?”

“Now, Fletch… Have you always meant absolutely everything you’ve said after too much to drink?”

“Absolutely!”

“If I believed that, I wouldn’t be talking to you. Or you to me.”

“In vino a germ of truth?”

“Inadmissible. Especially when the vino came out of the cops’ locker.”

“I give up.” At the edge of the used-car lot a man wearing a ready smile and a lavender necktie dropped a lunch bag from a fast-food store into a waste receptacle. “In behalf of leaving no stone unturned, I guess I better go see Stuart Childers. The cops won’t listen to him again.”

“Maybe he keeps confessing to every crime in town just hoping for another free drink at the police station.”

“I’ve listened to every other nut in town. Might as well listen to him.”

“Got a story to tell you.”

“No more stories.”

“You like stories about lawyers.”

“No more, I don’t.”

“I remembered that in the old days, when my grandfather was a lawyer in northern California, lawyers used to charge by the case, rather than by the hour. So in their offices they would saw a few inches off the legs of the front of the chairs their clients would sit in. You know, to make them lean forward, state their case, and get out.”

“What’s funny about that? The chairs in modern fast-food restaurants are designed that way.”

“What’s funny is that when lawyers began charging by the hour instead of the case, they all bought new chairs for their clients, and sawed a few inches off the back legs. You know? So the clients would relax and talk about their last vacations?”

On the sidewalk, the car salesman stood, arms akimbo, smile ready, looking for a customer.

Fletch cleared his throat while Alston laughed. “My second favor, ol’ buddy…”

“Yes?”

“Would be a real favor. Three corporations called Wood Nymph, Cungwell Screw, and Lingman Toys….”

“I don’t think they’re on the exchange.”

“Even the telephone exchange. I need to know their relationship to each other. And, of most importance, who owns them.”

“I’ll trace them right now.”

“No need. Anytime within the next half-hour will do.”

“No. Seriously. I’ll do it right now.”

The salesman spotted Fletch sitting in the Datsun. “Doesn’t Habeck, Harrison and Haller give you any other work to do?”

“Not anymore. I resigned from Habeck, Harrison and Haller an hour ago.”

“What?”

Alston Chambers had hung up.

“So. How do you like it?” the used-car salesman asked Fletch through the car window.

“Like what?” Fletch asked.

“The car. Want to buy it?”

“I hate it.” Fletch turned the key in the ignition. “Listen to that! Muffler’s no damned good!”

To the amazement of the used-car dealer, Fletch put the Datsun in gear, roared off the lot into the street, and away. The FOR SALE sign blew off the windshield and landed on the sidewalk, not far from the salesman’s feet.

“You’re from the News-Tribune?” Stuart Childers looked young and neat in his business suit and necktie behind his wooden desk. He looked basically healthy, as well, except for bags of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. His teeth kept tearing at his lips.

“Yes. Name of Fletcher.”

“I take it you’re not here to see me about insurance?”

“No. I’m not. The doorman at your apartment house said you were here at your office.”

“You may be the answer to a prayer.” Stuart Childers took a .22 caliber revolver from the top drawer of his desk. He placed it in the center of the desk blotter in front of him. “If I’m not arrested for murder by five o’clock today, I intend to blow my brains out.”

“That’s some threat.” Fletch sat in a chair facing the desk. He quoted, ‘“When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.’ ”

The office was small but paneled with real wood. There was a Turkish rug on the floor.

“You want to find out who murdered Donald Habeck, is that right?” Childers asked.

“That’s the job of the police and the courts,” Fletch answered.

“The police!” Childers scoffed. “The courts! Oh, my God!”

“I want the story,” Fletch said. “I’m a journalist. My own purpose is to understand Donald Habeck, as much as possible, and why he was murdered.”

“Have you gotten far?”

“Yes. I’ve gotten some good background.”

Childers contemplated the handgun on his desk. “I murdered Donald Habeck.”

“The hell you say.”

“The police won’t listen to me.”

“You’ve confessed to everything that’s gone down in this area in the last two months.”

“I know,” Childers said. “That was a mistake.”

Fletch shrugged. “We all make mistakes.”

“Don’t you think we have a need for punishment?” Teeth tearing at his lips, Childers looked to Fletch for an answer, waited. “If we are being punished for what wrong we did, at least we can live with ourselves, die with ourselves.” He waved his fingers at the handgun. “Just going bang is not the better way.”

Still Fletch said nothing.

“What do you know of my brother’s death?”

“I know you were drunk when you confessed to the police. I know Habeck kept you drugged during the trial.”

“Yes. Tranquilizers. Habeck said he always gave them to his clients during a trial. I had no idea how strong they were. The trial went by in a blur, like a fast-moving railroad train.” Childers’s teeth worried his lips. “I murdered my brother.”

Fletch said, “I expect you did.”

“How is that forgivable?” Again, he seemed to be asking Fletch a real question. “Richard said he was going to blackmail me, for money to keep up his whacky, careless life. Even if I was paying him, he couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut. His need to hurt me, and my parents, was too great. My mistake was that I was horrified at the threat of the college, the world, my parents learning that I had cheated, hired an instructor to write my honors thesis. I went to Richard’s apartment. I didn’t intend to kill him. We fought like a couple of shouting, screaming, crying, angry kids. Suddenly we were on his little balcony. Suddenly the expression on his face changed. He fell backwards. Fell.”

“You confess very convincingly.”

“I woke up on the other side of the trial. I was back living in my apartment, coming to work here every day. Everybody was telling me the incident was over, closed, that I had to get on with my life. How could I get on with my life? The so-called incident wasn’t over. My parents knew I had cheated on my honors thesis. One son was dead. The other son had murdered him. And my parents knew it. I had destroyed my parents’ every dream, every