Fletch, Too

miles? Lions, giraffes, everything. We could rent a car, if you don’t mind driving on the left side of the road.”

Striding along, shirtless, shoeless in dusty shorts, carrying a book in his left hand, Juma kept his happy eyes straight ahead. He did not survey the people on Lord Delamere’s Terrace.

Fletch and Barbara were too far back in the terrace to call out to him.

“Someone else said there’s a great restaurant called the Tamarind Great lobster. And a Chinese restaurant near here, called the Hong Kong. Less expensive. Best soup in the world.”

“You’ve been doing your homework.”

Fletch was just getting up to go after Juma, to say hello to him, when he saw Juma turn into the entrance of the Norfolk Hotel.

Putting the book in his back pocket, Juma bounced through the tables and chairs at them.

He sat down at their table.

“Are you happy to see me?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Fletch answered.

“Does that mean yes?”

“Of course. Were you looking for us?”

Juma’s eyebrows wrinkled.

“Have you spent all this time in Nairobi?” Barbara asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you like something to eat?” Barbara asked.

“I will have some toast,” Juma said, “to be polite.” Barbara handed him her plate of toast. “Also because I like buttered toast.”

“What have you been doing?” Fletch asked, attempting to make conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about your problem, Fletch.”

“What problem?”

“You see, my father is in jail, too.”

Barbara jumped.

“Very sad, very stupid.” Juma munched his toast. “You see, he was a driver for the government. The department of education. At the end of an eleven-hour day, very tired and hungry, he went into this bar where his brother, works, for some food. Someone reported seeing this government car parked outside this bar for forty-five minutes. For this, he was convicted and sentenced to jail for eighteen months.”

“Good God,” Barbara said.

Fletch felt the blood draining from his face. “Good God.”

“It is not proper for a government car to be seen parked outside a bar.”

“Eighteen months in jail?” Fletch asked.

Barbara was staring at Fletch.

“Also, he was fired. So my family has no money again. May I have more toast, please?” Juma took another slice.

Fletch cleared his throat. “Who said my father is in jail?”

“It is something you will have to accept, Fletch. I know you came all this way from America to see him. Have you seen him?”

Fletch felt a throbbing in his temples. “No.”

“That’s the problem,” Juma said. “They won’t let me see my father, either. Even now.”

“How do you know my father is in jail?”

“This man at the jail, the one who keeps me out, no matter what I say, says not permitting my father to see his son all this long time is part of the punishment, you see. For parking the government car outside the bar.”

Barbara said, “Poor Fletch.”

“So I asked this man if he would make an exception for you, because you came all this way to see your father, and he said, maybe, but not until after the trial.”

Fletch sat back in his chair. He exhaled deeply.

Barbara said, “Oh, dear.”

Juma asked Barbara, “How do you like Kenya?”

“Just great,” Fletch answered.

“We wananchi are very proud of Kenya. Everything is very scrupulous here. Do you see pictures of our president, Daniel arap Moi, just everywhere?”

“Just everywhere,” Barbara answered. “In every shop.”

“Although I admit it is difficult on a family when a father is sentenced to eighteen months in jail for parking a government car outside a bar.”

“I daresay,” Fletch said.

“So I have been thinking about your problem, Fletch.” Juma shrugged. “I do not have a solution.”

Barbara was still staring at Fletch. “Have you known about this?”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean, not really?”

“Not now, Barbara. Please. Not here.” Fletch felt he was being wrung out to dry.

“You did know about this. Flat tire, you said.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why is he in jail?”

“It must have happened yesterday.”

“There was some trouble at the Thorn Tree,” Juma said. “Everyone knew about it.”

“I didn’t,” Barbara said. “What’s the Thorn Tree?”

So filled was Fletch’s head and heart that he did not realize Carr was standing over them until Carr spoke.

“Irwin, I need a quiet word with you.”

“Ah. Good morning, Carr.”

“We’ve heard,” Barbara said.

Carr looked at her. “You’ve heard what?”

“Fletch’s father is in jail. Awaiting trial. No visitors.”

“I see.” Sitting down, Carr nodded hello at Juma. “He turned himself in yesterday. By far the wiser course.”

“Has he got a lawyer?” Fletch asked.

“Yes.”

Barbara asked, “What’s all this about?”

“Two nights ago,” Carr told her, “while we were eating at the Shade Hotel, there was some sort of a punch- up at the Thorn Tree Cafe. Such things didn’t used to be unusual, in the bad old days. Walter Fletcher may, or may not, have started it. Damage to the glassware was done. Much worse, in the eyes of the authorities, a few tourists were discommoded. Walter Fletcher may, or may not, have knocked an askari silly.”

“What’s an askari?” Barbara asked.

“A guard. The official status of this particular guard is not yet established.”

“You mean, there’s still some doubt as to whether he was a cop or a private watchman?” Fletch asked.

“Yes,” answered Carr. “Some private guards have police status. Some don’t. May I have some coffee?” Carr asked the waiter. “It makes a difference. Kenya is very strict about respect for its things and people official.”

“Eighteen months for parking a government car in front of a bar,” Fletch muttered. “It’s a wonder they didn’t send Dan Dawes to shoot Juma’s father!”

“Why can’t they find out?” Barbara asked.

“Because the askari is still moaning it up in the hospital, claiming this and that between bites of noodles. He says one of his wives has his employment papers, but he can’t remember which one.”

“Which wife?” Barbara asked.

“I guess a clip on the jaw causes one to forget which wife is which.” Carr sipped his hot coffee. “In any case, no one can see Walter Fletcher, except his lawyer, until after the trial. And the trial date is not set.”