Fletch Won

“Frank, you want me, I.M. Fletcher, to do an arm’s length, hands off, veddy, veddy polite story about some for-God’s-sake society couple who are giving five million pieces of tissue paper to the art museum?”

“Polite, yes. Why not polite? Here are a couple of people doing something nice for the world, sharing their wealth. Curb your need to report Mrs. Habeck slips vodka into her tea. Time you learned how to be polite. By the way, I can’t see you over the edge of the desk.”

“I disappeared.”

“Well, you’d better reappear. You’re meeting with Habeck in the publisher’s office at ten o’clock. Pity your necktie and belt are holding up your surfboard.”

“God! Any story which starts with the reporter meeting the subject in the publisher’s office isn’t worth getting up for.”

“See? You’re improving as a journalist already. You just ended a sentence with a preposition.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Fletch, I’m pretty sure you’d be just as attractive working a pick and shovel in the city streets. You wouldn’t have to wear a necktie, belt, or comb your hair. I can arrange to have you leave here Friday and you and Lucy can take as long a honeymoon as you can afford.”

“Might make a nice weekend. And her name’s Barbara.”

“I thought so. Sunday bliss with Barbara. Tuesday with blisters.”

“Frank, why don’t you let Habeck write the story himself? He’s paying five million dollars for the privilege.”

Hamm Starbuck stuck his head around the office door. He looked at Fletch sitting cross-legged on the rug.

“It’s that kind of morning, is it?”

“So far,” Frank answered. “Floored one. After glancing at certain photos on the sports page, I see I have a few more to floor today.”

“Frank, were you expecting Donald Habeck?”

“Not me. John’s expecting him. He should be sent to the publisher’s office.”

“He’ll never make it.”

“He telephoned?”

“No. He’s dead in the parking lot.”

Frank asked, “What do you mean?”

“In a dark blue Cadillac Seville. Bullet hole in his temple.”

Fletch sprang off the floor without using his hands. “My story!”

“Guess we should call the police.”

“Get the photographers down there first,” Frank said.

“Already done that.”

“Also Biff Wilson. Has he reported in yet?”

“I radioed him. He’s on the freeway.”

“Biff Wilson!” Fletch said. “Frank, you gave this story to me.”

“I haven’t given you anything, Fletcher.”

“Habeck, Donald Edwin. Was I supposed to interview him at ten o’clock?”

“Fletcher, do me a favor.”

“Anything, Frank.”

“Get lost. Report to Ann McGarrahan in Society.”

“Maybe there’s a necktie in my car.”

“I just made a career decision,” Frank said to his desk.

“What’s that, Frank?”

“I’m not coming into the office early Monday mornings anymore.”

“Habeck, Harrison and Haller. Good morning.”

“Hello, H cubed?”

“Habeck, Harrison and Haller. May I help you?”

“Mr. Chambers, please.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Would you repeat that name?”

“Mr. Chambers.” Looking across the city room of the News-Tribune, no one could guess that someone had just been shot to death in the parking lot of that building, and that everyone there knew it. Did everyone know it? Absolutely. In a newspaper office, unlike most other companies, the process of rumor becoming gossip becoming fact becoming substantiated, reliable news was professionally accelerated. It happened with the speed of a rocket. Assimilation of news happened just as fast. Journalists are interested in the stories they are working on; some have a mental filing cabinet, some a wastebasket into which they drop all other news. “Alston Chambers, please. He’s somewhere down in your stacks, I expect. An intern lawyer, a trainee, whatever you call him. A veteran and a gentleman.”

“Oh, yes, sir. A. Chambers.”

“Probably drifting around your corridors, without a place to wrinkle his trousers.”

“One moment, sir.” A line was ringing. The telephone operator had to add, “Excuse me, sir, for not recognizing the name. Mr. Chambers does not have clients.”

“Chambers speaking.”

“Sounds sepulchral.”

“Must be Fletcher.”

“Must be.”

“Hope you’ve called me for lunch. I gotta get out of this place.”

“In fact, I have. One o’clock at Manolo’s?”

“You want to discuss your wedding. You want my advice as to how to get out of it. Does Barbara still have it scheduled for Saturday?”

“No, no, yes. Can’t talk right now, Alston. Just want to give you the news.”

“Barbara’s told you she’s pregnant?”

“Habeck, Harrison and Haller. That the law firm you work for?”

“You know it. Bad pay and all the shit I can take.”

“Donald Edwin Habeck?”

“One of the senior partners in this den of legal inequity.”

“Donald Edwin Habeck won’t be in today. Thought I’d call in for him.”

“I don’t get it. Why not? What’s the joke?”

“He’s been shot to death.”

“This is a joke?”

“Not from his point of view.”

“Where, when?”

“At the News-Tribune. A few minutes ago. I gotta go.”

“I wonder if he left a will.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Lawyers are famous for not writing wills for themselves.”

“Alston, I’d appreciate it at lunch if you’d talk to me about Habeck. Tell me what you know.”

“You on the story?”

“I think so.”

“Does anyone else think so?”

“I’m on it until I’m ordered off it.”

“Fletch, you’re getting married Saturday. This is no time to flirt with unemployment.”

“See you at one o’clock at Manolo’s.”