Hamm Starbuck was talking into Biff’s ear. Biff nodded affirmatively twice. Hamm released him.
Straightening his jacket, then making fists of his hands again, Biff skirted all the arguing policemen. He marched out of the office.
“Biff!” Fletch held his throat as he shouted after him. “I know a good lawyer! He’s available!”
The secretary said, “She said her name is Barbara something-or-other.”
Frank was saying, loudly, to the assembled police, “Look, guys, he can’t go to the police station now. He’s needed here.” Frank watched Fletch pick the phone up off his desk. “I’ll go with you to headquarters. Straighten things out myself.”
“Hello, Barbara!” Fletch croaked into the phone. “I won’t be able to make it to dinner with your mother tonight. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not Friday night. Absolutely. I’ve got work to do. Got a job. I’ll try to see you Saturday. Wait a minute. Hang on…” Fletch put his hand over the receiver. “Frank?”
At the side of the room, Hamm Starbuck was breathing deeply.
Frank, surrounded by policemen, looked at Fletch.
“When I do the story on Ben Franklyn,” Fletch asked, rubbing his throat, “you want me to report the full particulars of the involvement of Biff Wilson, late of the
“Damned right.” Frank grinned. “Screw the bully.”
