Fletch Won

“I look forward to seeing it.” Three police cars spotted Fletch at the corner. They accelerated after him. “Aren’t you hearing me, Gomez? Your pal Biff is in trouble.”

“Yeah?”

“At the newspaper. He’s in Frank Jaffe’s office. On the carpet, you might say. In danger of losing his job.”

“No way.”

“You know it’s possible.”

Gomez said nothing.

Fletch turned on his lights and pulled into the middle of a funeral cortege. Demonstrating little respect, the three police cars screamed by the cortege.

“He needs your help,” Fletch said. “He needs the ballistics and forensics reports on that gun. Immediately.”

“Yeah?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“What is this?”

Fletch turned off his lights and ducked down a side street. “As soon as you’ve got the reports, call the News-Tribune. Ask for Frank Jaffe’s office. Biff’s in Frank’s office.”

Two blocks up from the next corner, a police car hesitated in the middle of the intersection. As soon as the police saw Fletch’s car, they turned and came after him, lights flashing, sirens screaming.

“Gomez, you want to see Biff out on his rear?”

The line went dead.

Fletch dropped the phone in his lap again. He could see the roof of the News- Tribune building. The three police cars were back in V formation pursuing him.

There were only two more corners to skitter around….

“Hey! You can’t leave your car there!”

The guard in the lobby of the News-Tribune was known to get red-faced easily. Fletch had left his car half on the sidewalk at the front door of the News-Tribune.

Fletch was on the rising escalator to the city room.

“What?” he asked.

At the bottom of the escalator, the guard looked toward the front door. “What are all those sireens?”

“I can’t hear you,” Fletch said. “Too many sireens.”

He passed Morton Rickmers, the book editor, in the city room.

“Did you see Tom Farliegh?” Morton asked. “Is he worth an interview?”

“Naw,” Fletch answered. “He’s a little, blued-haired old lady in green tennis shoes.”

Morton wrinkled his eyebrows. “Okay.”

Through the glass door of Frank’s office, Fletch saw Frank, behind the desk, and Biff Wilson, in a side chair. The color of their faces was compatible with the color of the face of the guard downstairs, now doubtlessly talking to six policemen.

Frank’s secretary said, “You’re late.”

“It’s all relative.” He breezed by her.

Fletch closed Frank’s office door behind him. “Good afternoon, Frank. Good of you to ask me to stop by.” Frank’s watery eyes took in Fletch’s T-shirt, jeans, and holey sneakers. “Good afternoon, Biff.” Biff’s jaw tightened. He looked away. His right ear was swollen and red. Fletch commiserated. “That looks like a real ouch.” Biff’s face was splotched with little cuts from having glass thrown in it. “Lucky for you none of the glass from that beer bottle got in your eyes.” Biff looked at Fletch wondrously. Fletch said to Frank, “That’s nothing. You should see the News-Tribune car Biff drives. Big dents. Rear window smashed. Doubt you’ll be able to get much for it on the used-car market.”

“How the hell do you know about it?” Biff demanded.

“I’m a reporter.” Fletch sat in a chair. “Well, Frank. I’m glad to report that Mrs. Donald Habeck does not slip vodka into her tea. In fact, the poor thing doesn’t get to have any tea at all. I’ve learned my lesson in humility. Never go out on a story with preconceptions. Right, Biff?”

Frank said to him, “I’m surprised you showed up.”

“Frank,” Fletch said. “In a moment your phone is going to ring. It will be police lieutenant Francisco Gomez calling Biff. He knows Biff is in your office. I would like you to take the message for Biff, please.”

“Jeez!” In his chair, Biff threw one leg over the knee of his other leg. “Now the wise ass is telling you what to do!”

Through the windows of Frank’s office, Fletch saw six uniformed policemen milling around the city room.

“What’s going on between you two guys?” Although high in color, Frank was trying to sound reasonable. “Fletch, Biff tells me you’re screwing up in ways even I can’t believe. Everywhere he goes on this Habeck story, you’ve already been there, screwing up, swimming bare-assed in the Habecks’ pool, so upsetting Habeck’s son, a monk, he refuses to see Biff, angering another suspect so much that when Biff shows up this thug throws a beer bottle in his face. Twice.” Fletch was grinning. “It isn’t funny. You know you weren’t assigned to the Habeck story. Ann McGarrahan and I made that perfectly clear to you. There are easier ways to get fired.”

“No rookie should ever come anywhere near me,” Biff said. “Especially no wise-guy punk screw-up.”

Frank smiled to himself. “I thought you’d burn off your excess energy over the whorehouse story. Instead, last night I think I heard you say you can’t do that story.”

“I can do it.”

“You said you needed more time on it. Maybe if you spent your time on the story assigned to you instead of bird-dogging Biff…”

Through the window, Fletch saw Morton Rickmers talking to one of the policemen. Morton pointed toward Frank’s office.

“Screw it.” Biff made a move to get up. “This is a waste of time. Just can the son of a bitch and let me go back to work.”

“Do you like bullies, Frank?” Fletch asked. “I don’t like bullies.”

Frank forced a laugh. “Biff’s been with the News-Tribune all his adult life. You’ve been with us what? Three months? He’s the best crime reporter around. He’s got a right to do his work without being bird-dogged by a screw-up kid.”

“He’s a bully,” Fletch said. “I don’t like bullies.”

“You went after Biff because he’s a bully?” Frank asked. “Like hell. You went after Biff because you thought you could beat him at his own story. Little you know.”

“I have beaten him.”

“Sure,” said Biff. “You’re ready to wrap up the story of the Habeck murder? Like hell!”

“Right,” said Fletch. “I am.”

Frank was watching Fletch closely. “I told you two days ago, Fletch, Monday, that we’ve had about enough of your crap around here. I thought if I gave you a real assignment, the Ben Franklyn whorehouse story—”

“I’ve got that about wrapped up, too.” Fletch looked at the silent phone on Frank’s desk.

“Sure,” Biff said. “Tell us who killed Donald Habeck, wise ass. We can hardly wait to hear it from your lips. A member of the family, I bet. Crazy Louise? No-brain Jasmine? Daughter Nancy left her five kids in wet diapers and ran out and shot her pa? How about her husband, the two-bit poet? Or better yet, the monk, Robert? Tell us the monk murdered his old man. That will sell newspapers.”

The telephone on Frank’s desk wasn’t ringing. At that moment, Fletch would have appreciated some factual evidence. He took a deep breath. “Stuart Childers murdered Donald Habeck.”

Biff laughed. “Jeez! I’ll bet you know that ’cause he confessed to you!”

“Yeah,” Fletch said. “He did.” Biff laughed louder. “Gotta listen,” Fletch said. “Sometimes liars tell the truth.”