Son of Fletch

“Yeah, but.”

“I will say that this printout I’m reading from looks like it might have had a deletion.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a big space between Moreno and Leary. It looks like something was deleted and the space wasn’t closed up. Probably just some kind of a human error.”

Fletch said, “Probably.”

“Regarding Ms. Crystal Faoni,” Andy said. He recited to Fletch her age, home address in Bloomington, Indiana, office address, the call letters and addresses of the five radio stations she owns around the state, the fact that she was never known to have married, has one son, John Faoni, who has graduated from Northwestern University, attended Boston University, currently is traveling in Greece; Ms. Faoni has no criminal record, a perfect credit record, and currently is spending time at a health spa in Wisconsin.

The sunlight glared on and through the windshield of the station wagon. Fletch closed his eyes. He left them closed.

Greece.

“I called her home,” Andy Cyst said. “Someone working for a cleaning service answered. Her office said she has gone to this health spa for two weeks. She is not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Her secretary said Ms. Faoni is concentrating on a weight-loss program which involves meditation. What meditation?” Andy asked. “Not thinking about hunger and food is called meditation now?”

“Omm,” Fletch said, eyes still closed. “Think yourself to a slimmer you.”

“She must be a shapely woman, to care this much about her weight.”

“She is shapely,” Fletch agreed.

“The secretary did not want to give me the name and number of the health spa, but I used my great charm, and won her over. She knew the staff at the health spa would block me anyway. They did. Ms. Faoni is not to be disturbed. She is concentrating. Meditating. Whatever.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s called Blythe Spirit.”

“No.”

“In a place called Forward, Wisconsin.”

“America,” Fletch said.

“About a hundred miles from Chicago.”

“Sounds like a story, Andy.”

“What?”

“An interesting feature story for GCN.” Fletch opened his eyes. “I might want a crew to go there with me.”

“Anything you say, Mister Fletcher. You’re GCN’s only consulting/contributing editor without a cable hookup.”

“It keeps me fresh.”

“Actually, I believe it does. Is there anything else you need for now?”

“Nothing you can do for me. Thanks, Andy.”

“A su ordenes, senor.”

FLETCH SAT A long moment, half in, half out of the car, dead telephone in hand.

Even though dressed just in cotton shorts and shirt, he was soaked with sweat. Always he had noticed builders in this area of the South never left trees, or any source of shade, in their parking lots. Trees are pretty, give shade, lessen the need for air-conditioning, but golly gee, take up as much as a square foot of ground space.

Instead of thinking about all that perplexed him, Fletch sat in the sun thinking of trees.

Slowly, he pressed Alston Chambers’s office number into the telephone’s panel.

The secretary put him right through.

“You guys are okay?” Fletch asked.

“The first so-called aftershock broke my whole shelf of Steuben glass,” Alston said. “Every piece of it. Including my best golf trophy.”

“Why would a Californian have Steuben glass on a shelf?” Fletch asked.

“Where was I supposed to put it?” Alston nearly shouted. “Between two mattresses on a gimbal table?”

“Sounds good.”

“Busted pipes. I had to shave with Apollonaris.”

“Sorry. Did it tickle?”

“This bouncin’ around out here is gettin’ tiresome, Fletch.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“People drive along looking at the tops of buildings and they run smack into each other. From one thing and another, there’s glass all over the streets out here.”

“There’s an idea.”

“What?”

“Go into the glass business.”

“Are you still in the smokehouse?”

“I wish I were. I’m in a very hot parking lot.”

“You and Carrie all right?”

“Fine.”

“Where’s your so-called son?”

“In Greece.”

“What?”

“Never mind. I’m hot and tired. Sun-dazed. Nothing makes any sense.”

“You didn’t make any sense last time you called, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a Crystal Faoni extant. And at the moment she is incommunicado at a place called Blathering Spooks or something in some place called Up-and-At-’Em, Wisconsin, or somewhere. I’ve got it right here.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got it, too. When I called you this morning, I couldn’t get through. Would you believe the telephone company has recorded its message notifying callers of your seismic disturbances?”

“But everything else you said was crazy. Only three men escaped from Tomaston Prison. Their names are Moreno, Leary, and Kriegel. No Faoni.”

“Alston, are you sure?”

“Fletch, I talked with the Attorney General of the state of Kentucky. I talked with the warden of Tomaston Prison. I talked with the Justice Department in Washington, D.C. No Faoni.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There never has been a Faoni.”

“What?”

“The federal penitentiary in Tomaston, Kentucky, did not, and never has had an inmate named Faoni.”

“John Fletcher—”

“Not John Fletcher Faoni, not Alexander Faoni, not Betty Boop Faoni. I have just checked the entire federal penal system. There never has been an inmate named John Fletcher Faoni.”

I’m being used, Fletch said to himself. I knew it. I am being involved in something…. But by whom? For what reason? This kid knows about me things only Crystal knows… our tumbling out of the shower… Kriegel recognized a physical similarity…. Carrie said we are similar…. John Fletcher Faoni has not been a prisoner…. He is in Greece…

Alston asked, “Are you fantasizing up a son in your dotage? A big one? One you don’t have to burp?”

Dragging two loaded shopping carts behind him, Jack was crossing the parking lot toward Fletch.

Heat waves from the noonday sun were rising from the pavement in the parking lot.