Fletch Reflected (6 page)

“Okay.” Andy took a big breath and began reading. “Chester Radliegh, aged fifty eight, second son of Randolph and Melissa Radliegh, born in Lincoln, Massachusetts, to a well-off, established American family.”

“What does ‘established’ mean? Aren’t we all ‘established,’ one way or another?”

“Establishment. His family showed the
Mayflower
where to anchor, or something.”

“Ah! Native Americans!”

“His family always had been in either the ministry or banking.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Although he was a professor at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, his undergraduate, Master’s and Ph.D. in physics were from Harvard. Incidentally, as an undergraduate at Harvard he was a two-letter man, fencing and baseball. He taught at Harvard, then at Jesus College at Oxford before teaching at MIT.”

“So he’s a literate, athletic scientist.”

“A Renaissance man. Harvard. You know, he knows something about everything and everything about something.”

“And nothin’ about nothin’ much.”

“He invented the perfect mirror. How did he do that?” Andy asked.

“Somehow, he must have turned two negatives into a positive.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“The old-fashioned mirrors look weird now, don’t they?”

“They were standard for centuries.”

“Now they make your eyes cross.”

“We never know what we’re missing until someone sells it to us. Isn’t that the truth?”

“Anyway, he had enough private funds to patent the perfect mirror himself, manufacture and market it himself. Which is why he’s so rich.”

“How rich?”

“Billions.”

“Pretty rich.”

“He has factories and other business interests all over the world. He built this huge estate in Georgia where he keeps his family, his home office, laboratory, and spends most of his time. He’s known as a sort of restless art collector. He buys the world’s best works of art, then is apt to tire of them and sell them. I guess he analyzes them, absorbs them, or something, then feels he doesn’t need them anymore. At Vindemia he also is trying to develop a new breed of cattle, and, mule.”

“Mule?”

“Mule. He married Amalie Houston when he was twenty six, she twenty three.”

“Was she also academic?”

“She was a clerk at his father’s bank in Boston. Academic? No. A few years ago, when she was on the board of directors of a juvenile detention center, she made a speech recommending that all boys up to age eighteen who had been found guilty of violent acts be neutered.”

“Sexually neutered?”

“Castrated.”

“Why only those up to age eighteen?”

“Juvenile detention centers only keep boys until they’re eighteen. I guess she didn’t want to appear overreaching.”

“She’d spent too long amongst those mules. How about girls?”

“She stated that girls’ violence was necessary to protect themselves.”

“From boys who hadn’t been castrated yet.”

“Mrs. Radliegh claimed to have been misquoted.”

“Was she?”

“No. Since then, she’s held no public positions. Apparently, Radliegh is extremely conscious of his public image.”

“Too bad. Given a free hand, she could have accelerated the emasculation of the American male considerably.”

“It is not generally known, has never been published, but I understand she has been treated several times for acute depression, including electric shock therapy.”

“Oh.”

“It may just be a rumor, but I don’t think so. She is considered eccentric, but she appears at public functions always hanging on to her husband’s arm and smiling. She is known for saying wrong things. On a visit to the White House she is reported to have said to the President’s wife, ‘Really, my dear, you ought be paid for all that you do, or take to your bed.’”

“Was she invited back?”

“Of course. She’s Chester Radliegh’s wife. They have four children. The eldest, the daughter Amy, twenty nine, has been married three times, and has seven children.”

“Doesn’t sound like she’s much in favor of castration for anybody, does it? Does she live on the estate?”

“Yes, with all her kids. She’s not presently married. Next in line is Chester Junior, football All-American and Phi Beta Kappa.”

“Number 41,” Fletch said. “Chet Radliegh. I never connected him with the perfect mirror.”

“He is engaged to marry a girl named Shana Staufel. Bryn Mawr graduate who used to work for Radliegh Mirror in Europe as an interpreter. It is believed the old man is grooming young Chester for a congressional seat from their district in Georgia. A book has been written discussing the conflicts between the First and Fourteenth Amendments to
the United States Constitution, a book which is to be published under young Chester’s name.”

“Has he been to Law School?”

“Yes, but he flunked his first attempt to pass the bar exam.”

“So the book will be published as soon as he passes the bar?”

“It is whispered in the halls of Congress that the present incumbent of that particular congressional seat in Georgia has been offered an awful lot of money to retire. The source of this money is unknown.”

“Smoke and mirrors,” Fletch said.

“Young Chester is twenty five. Next in line is daughter Alixis, aged twenty three. After flunking out of Ol’ Miss, where she was a cheerleader, Allied films produced a musical called
Feint at Heart
as a starring vehicle for her. Ever heard of it?”

“No.”

“It didn’t do well. It cost thirty two million to produce and had a limited release one weekend last April. The kindest thing written about it was that it was ‘old fashioned.’ One reviewer wrote of her, I have it here, ‘This is the ultimate, we hope, movie about the girl-next-door who should have stayed there—next door.’”

“Nasty, nasty. Some of these reviewers will say anything to be quoted.”

“And then there’s Duncan, aged twenty one. He just graduated from Vanderbilt University at the bottom of his class. He likes racing cars, playing at being a mechanic. It is said he is to be a candidate for a Master’s degree in Business Administration next fall, but no one seems to know where.”

“The old man wants him to be able to take over and run the shop.”

“On the other hand, he’s paid his entrance fee to several car races throughout next year. He races something called
‘The Mirror Car,’ of which several versions have been made.”

“Has he ever won a race?”

“Yes. One. In Utah. A five thousand dollar purse.”

“That should pay expenses.”

“At least for the nitrogas.”

“It sounds as if they’re all having fun.”

“Does it?”

“Spending money anyway.”

“Mister Fletcher, is there a story here, on Radliegh, his family, something?”

“You’re wondering why I asked you to do this research, Andy.”

“I mean, you’re nowhere near Georgia.”

“Keep your research on tap. One never knows.”

“By the way, Mister Fletcher, that kid who worked with you on that story about The Tribe? Jack Faoni?”

“What about him?”

“He left here a couple of days ago.”

“Where do you suppose he went?”

“He said he was going to North Carolina for lunch.”

Smiling, Fletch asked, “What’s so perplexing about that? Everyone gets hungry.”

“He didn’t even have a car.”

“Well, Andy,” Fletch said. “Some lunches are worth going out of your way for. Thanks for your work, my good man. I’ll practice ’Git Along Little Dogies’ so I can sing it for you next time. In the key of Lee Marvin.”

He switched off the phone.

On her bed in the back of the van, Crystal asked, “Isn’t Vindemia where you said Jack was going?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“Visiting the girl young Chester Radliegh intends to marry, I guess.”

“Sounds risky.”

“He has his guitar,” Fletch said. “‘Music soothes the savage beast.’”

“Radliegh,” Crystal said after the van had gone another ten miles. “First he creates the perfect mirror, then he tries to create the perfect image. The first was scientifically possible—”

“And the second,” Fletch said, “is a goose’s chase.”

“I
’m as old as water, and just as weak.”

The very old woman in the sunbonnet had only glanced up at Jack as he came along the shady side of the swimming pool. She was on her knees on the lawn removing the very few weeds from the azalea border. She dug into the soil with bare fingers. She had no gardening tools. At first he thought she was talking to the plants.

“Plants; weeds,” she continued muttering at the soil: “Just like children.” She pinched a dead leaf off an azalea. “Nurture some plants beautifully, give them everything they want and need, and some of them just curl up ugly. Beat some weeds to death and they just keep popping up, growing, proliferating. If we had genuine respect for character, we’d cultivate weeds and send the plants to mulch.” She sat back on her heels and looked up at where Jack stood, looking down at her. “Hello.”

“Hello, Ma’am.”

“Are you a weed, or a plant?”

Jack said, “I think I’m a weed.”

“That’s good. You look strong and resilient enough to be a weed, that you do. You’re new here. I’m Mrs. Houston.”

“Sorry, Ma’am. I don’t recognize your name.”

“Mother of Amalie Radliegh, Mrs. Radliegh. Grandmother to most of the big brats around here, great-grandmother to most of the little brats. I call the little brats, Amy’s brats, ‘The Sudden Seven.’ I looked away for a moment and there they were.”

“Maybe they’re weeds,” Jack offered.

“That would be nice. But I doubt it. Here at Vindemia
she has them each bedded in rich nutrients and waters them daily, here at the pool. Weeds don’t need as much as they have.”

“Weeds can stand some good treatment, too,” Jack said.

“I’m not so sure.”

“I’ve had some,” he said. “I’m still a weed.”

“Looks like you’ve had some good nutrients, anyway.” The old lady’s blue eyes were looking at Jack as if she would know him in a minute. “What’s your name?”

“Jack.”

“Are you quick and nimble?”

“For a weed.”

“Yes. I believe you are. Now I’m not supposed to be messing up the garden this way, I know that. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“But one has to do something. One can’t just sit around all day and night being waited on hand and foot. At least I can’t. One loses touch with oneself if one doesn’t do work of some kind, some time. Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose I would.”

“I don’t even want to go to heaven,” Mrs. Houston said as she dug her fingers into the soil, “unless they have some work for me to do there.”

“Is Vindemia pretty close to heaven?” Jack asked.

“All these people here dragging themselves from swimming pool to tennis court to gymnasium to the stables worrying about their figures, their skin tone, the shine of their hair. Do you know they don’t even saddle their own horses?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“And do you think they’re happy? Not a bit of it. Not one of them. You never heard such a chorus of complaining, weeping. I say to them, ‘Make your own bed, get your own breakfast, saddle your own horse, clean your own car, go start a garden of your own: you’ll feel better.’ What do they
complain about? That they’re not allowed to be themselves.” Mrs. Houston raised a soil-encrusted index finger to Jack. “I suspect they don’t know who themselves are. Everything Chester asks them to do, expects them to do, they think is unfair. They think doing their duty is unfair! You know what my daughter says?”

“I’ve never met the lady.”

“She asks, ‘Why do I have to talk to the cook once a week? Why do I ever have to talk to the housekeeper? Why do I have to be at Chester’s elbow every time he entertains all those boring people?’ Can you believe that? I say, ‘Because it’s your job, daughter.’ She says, ‘But sometimes I don’t feel like being nice to people. It can be inconvenient.’ I tried to tell her that everything in life costs. Being Chester Radliegh’s wife, living here, costs. She’s got to pay the price, whatever it is, just like everybody else on this earth. She’s got to do her duty. Extending herself to people important to him is little enough to pay for all she has.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Houston,” Jack said. “I’m expected at Doctor Radliegh’s secretary’s office in a few minutes.”

“You don’t know the cost of things until you’ve had to work for everything you’ve ever had, as I did. When my husband died from overwork and hopelessness, I worked as a hotel maid from six in the morning until three, and after that in the hotel laundry to raise Amalie, send her through secretarial school. That was my duty, and I did it. My grandchildren just think all this is natural.” Mrs. Houston’s wave of her arm took in all Vindemia. “It just fell from the sky, as free as the sunlight and rain. They complain about their father, what he expects of them. I say, ‘What if you were born in the slums? What if you were hungry every day? Would you complain as much then?’ They say, ‘It didn’t happen.’”

The clock in the peak of the pool cabana’s roof read twenty two minutes past twelve. He was due at the secretary’s
office at twelve thirty and he still didn’t know where it was.

“Let me tell you,” Mrs. Houston said to Jack, or the azaleas. “Chester is a sainted man. Out of his own genius and hard work he has created all this, given them everything they could want, and how do they thank him? They never have a smile for him, a kind word, not a lick of appreciation or respect. I’d like to see one of them do ten percent of what he’s done. No, they think he’s some kind of a hard taskmaster just because he expects them to behave decently and do their duty. I tell you.”

“Doctor Radliegh must expect a lot from himself,” Jack said.

“He does indeed.”

“Maybe too much from them?”

“He expects something from them.”

“I must go,” Jack said. “I don’t want to be fired on my first day of work.”

Mrs. Houston said, “Here I am, hiding behind a hedge, digging around in a garden that doesn’t need digging. The garden doesn’t need digging, but I need the work of digging. I’ll be damned if I let myself become a petunia like the rest of them. You won’t tell on me?”