“Millions of things just like it, so I hear.”
“This is the one I’ve got ahold of.”
“Right. That’s the one.”
“What will I do with it?” she asked.
“As you will. I can always grow another.”
“Mmmmmm.”
“My father …”
“My sneakers?” he asked.
“I gave them to the laundry man. I doubt you’ll get them back.”
Fletch stood in the middle of the room, dripping from a second shower.
“They’ll be crocked by now.” She was lying on some ski clothes on the floor, still looking at the ceiling.
“Who?”
“Your father and his friend. They’ll be relaxed. You’re relaxed.”
“I figured he could wait.”
Barbara rolled on her side and put her head on the palm of her hand. She bent one knee. “You look much better now. Your color has come back.”
“Barbara, I have to meet my father, for first the time, dressed in ski clothes, in equatorial Africa. Powder blue or rich yellow?”
“Wear your blue. It’s sort of a formal occasion.”
“Ski boots!”
“Am I coming downstairs with you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I could try to call my mother. She must be worried silly. I was supposed call her—how many days ago?—from Colorado!”
“Maybe I should meet him first myself. No distractions.”
“No moral support?”
“My morals don’t need support.” He was pulling on nylon, formfitting, powder-blue ski pants.
“She’s probably been bothering the airlines, the police, hospitals, the ski lodge. She must be frantic.”
“I’m sorry. I should have asked Alston to call her.”
“What sense would he have made? ‘Hello, Mrs. Ralton. Fletch took your daughter to Africa. Said something about the white slave trade.’” She rolled onto her back. “Oh, God. What am going to say? ‘Hi, Mom. The snow here is not all that great for skiing. We’re in Africa.’”
“Is one of these sweaters at least lightweight?”
“Wear the red one.”
“It looks hot.”
“Roll up the sleeves. ‘We missed doing what we said we were going to do by two whole continents and one huge ocean!’”
“Just tell her you’re all right.”
Keeping her legs straight, she raised them off the floor and held them, tightening her stomach muscles. “You’re not going to talk to the police?”
He was stomping into his ski boots. “One thing at a time. As you just said.”
“‘Hey, Mom! You know those aquamarine shorts of mine? Could you send them to Nairobi?’ How’s that for starters?”
“Sounds good.” He clicked his boots shut and knelt on the floor. He leaned over and kissed Barbara.
She ran her hand along the inside of his leg. “Ummm. You feel good, even with pants on.”
“The customs official thought they felt good, too.”
“Strange customs.”
At the door, he said, “You’ll come down in a while?”
She rolled onto her stomach. “Sure. What did I say?”
“‘Don’t be disappointed’?”
She winked at him. “You got it, babe.”
There was only one proper-looking gentleman with a drink in front of his face, eyes on the front door of the hotel, when Fletch appeared on Lord Delamere’s Terrace in ski boots, powder-blue ski pants, red sweater (sleeves rolled up), and sunglasses. At least there was only one proper-looking gentleman with drink in front of his face, eyes on the front door of the hotel, who gulped at the sight.
Others glanced and continued chatting.
That man began to rise, so Fletch went over to him.
The man held out his hand. “I’m Carr. The four-door model.”
Shaking hands, Fletch said, “My father not here yet?”
“Can’t think what happened to him.” The man sat down again. His beer glass was half empty. It was a round table, with four chairs. Fletch sat across from him. Carr said, “You’re a dazzler. Absolutely a dazzler. Is that what they wear in America these days?”
“When they’re skiing.”
At a table near them sat two paunchy men in short safari suits, balding, florid-faced, wearing competitive handlebar moustaches. At another table sat a woman in black, with a black picture hat. The man with her was in a double-breasted blue blazer, white shirt, and red tie. His hair was brilliantined. Jammed around another table were six students, male and female, black and white, jabbering excitedly, dressed in cutoffs and T-shirts. Two businessmen, briefcases on the floor beside them, talked earnestly at another table. Their white shirt cuffs and collars were between the perfectly matching blackness of their skins and suits. Many tables away three women sat together in brilliantly colored saris. Almost everyone else on the terrace was dressed in long or short khakis.
Carr asked, “Do you play guitar?”
“No,” Fletch answered. “No talents.”
Carr himself was dressed in khaki shorts, long khaki stockings, a short-sleeved khaki shirt. He was a solidly built middle-aged man with big knees, big forearms, big chest, and not too much gut. His hair was thinning, sandy. Even though his skin was deeply tanned, there was a light sunburn on top of it, and a few freckles on top of the burn. His hands were large, strong, heavily callused. His eyes were perhaps the clearest Fletch had ever seen.
“How do you like the Norfolk?” Carr asked.
“It seems authentic,” Fletch said. “Perhaps the most authentic place I’ve ever been.”
Carr chuckled. “I expect it is. In the old days, you know, the cowboys would come in so dusty and thirsty they’d ride their horses straight into the bar. The bar used to be through there in those days.” He pointed to a blocked-off door. “Now that’s a posh dining room. They’d be so dehydrated half a drink would make them looped, and they’d start shootin’ the place up.” He chuckled again. “I’ve been thrown out of here more times than I can recall.”
“I bet.” Fletch doubted it.
“Red, white, and blue.”
Fletch looked down at his powder-blue pants and red sweater. “What’s white?”
“You are.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
A young waiter said to Fletch, “
“
“
“
“Good God!” Carr said. “You speak swahili?”
“Why not?” Fletch checked his watch. “I’ve been here two and a half hours.”
