Fletch Won

The author of twenty-five books, including nine Fletch novels and three Flynn mysteries. He has twice won the Mystery Writers of America’s prestigious Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Mystery Novel, and was the first author to win for both a novel and its sequel. He lives in Tennessee.

“Did I ask to see you?”

“No, Frank, I—”

“I want to see you anyway.” Frank Jaffe, The Editor, refolded the competing newspaper, the
Chronicle-Gazette
, and put it under his elbow on the desk. “I have some tough things to say to you.”

“Little ol’ me?”

“How would you like lifting a shovel eight hours a day, every day, five days a week, maybe half-days Saturdays?”

Fletch looked at his sneakers on the rug of Frank’s office. Through the top of his left sneaker he saw the knuckles of three toes. Only the smallest toe showed through the top of his right sneaker. “It’s not what I see for myself in the parade of life, Frank.”

“That’s what I see for you. In the parade of life, what do you see yourself suited for?”

“Journalism.”

“And what’s journalism, young Fletcher?”

“Developing the skill of ending sentences with prepositions? Especially questions?”

“Did I just do that?” Behind his thick lenses, Frank’s watery eyes moved across the top of his messy desk. “I just did that.”

“Frank, what I wanted to see you about—”

Frank opened a folder on his desk. “I’ve dug out your personnel file.” The folder was not thick. “You’re suited for journalism, or pick-and-shovel work. I wonder which it will be?”

“Why are you looking at my personnel file? You hired me months ago.”

“Three months ago. Do you remember why? I don’t.”

“Because I can be really good, Frank. I—”

“I think I had the idea this newspaper needed a breath of fresh air, young maverick who would shake things up a bit, see things differently, maybe, jerk people out of their ruts.”

“How can I do that, Frank, if you won’t give me a job?”

“I’ve given you a job. Lots of jobs.”

“Not a real job.”

“First, I put you on the copy desk.”

“Writing headlines is for poets, Frank.”

“And kept you there, over the growing protests of your co-workers, I might add—”

“I spilled orange soda on somebody’s terminal keyboard.”

“That’s not all you did.”

“I made it up to him. I bought him a pair of surgical gloves.”

“—until you wrote the headline G
OVERNOR
J
OKES ON
P
URPOSE
.”

“I thought that was news.”

“And somehow the headline appeared in two editions before being killed.”

“Sheer poetry, Frank. Not long-lived poetry, I admit, not deathless poetry, but—”

“So then I assigned you to writing obituaries.”

“You know I want to write sports, Frank. That’s why I came in to see you this morning.”

“Not the toughest job in the world, writing obituaries. You answer the phone, listen politely, sometimes you have to check a few facts.”

“I’m very good at checking facts.”

Frank held up a piece of paper. His hand quivered and his eyes shook as he read the first paragraph from it. “ ‘Ruth Mulholland died peacefully today, having accomplished nothing in her fifty-six years.’ Did you write that?”

“It was a fact, Frank. I checked.”

“Fletcher, one of the points in your writing obituaries is in our being able to print them.”

“I kept asking her sister,
What did she ever do?
The sister kept talking. But I was listening, you see. This person, Ruth Mulholland, never graduated from anywhere, never got married, never had a baby, never held a job, never even supported herself. I mean, in fifty-six years she never accomplished a damned thing. Finally, I asked the sister, Did she ever make anybody a sweater? Cook a pan of brownies for anybody? Or even for herself? The sister kept saying, No, no, in fact Ruthie never did a damned thing in her life. I said, Well, is that what I should print? And the sister said, Well, yes, I guess that’s the truth about Ruthie. I checked the facts, Frank. Ruthie never applied for Social Security, or a driver’s license; she didn’t even support her local beauty shop!”

“Fletcher—”

“What, there’s not supposed to be any truth in obituaries? When someone has won the Nobel Prize we
print that in an obituary. When someone accomplishes exactly nothing in life, why don’t we print that? Doing absolutely nothing is a statement, Frank, a response to life. It’s news, it’s interesting.”

“Ruthie didn’t get her obituary printed, either.” Frank held up another shaking piece of paper. “So you were assigned to writing wedding announcements. That’s just a job of taking dictation. You don’t even have to be responsible for the main fact, the wedding, because it hasn’t taken place yet. Your very first announcement read, ‘Sarah and Roland Jameson, first cousins, are to be married Wednesday in a ceremony restricted to family.’ ”

“Crisp.”

“Crisp,” Frank agreed.

“Concise.”

“Concise.”

“To the point.”

“Absolutely to the point.”

“And,” Fletch said, “factual.”

“Took talent, to dig that story out.”

“Not much. When the mother of the bride called, I simply asked her why both the bride and groom had the same last name.”

“And she answered you without hesitation?”

“She hesitated.”

“She said they were first cousins?”

“She said their fathers were brothers.”

“And neither the bride nor the groom was adopted, right?”

“Frank, I checked. What do you think I am?”

“I think you’re an inexperienced journalist.”

“If the rules of journalism apply on political and crime and sports pages, why don’t they apply on obituaries and wedding-announcement pages? Newspapers are supposed to tell both sides of a story, right? Pah! Sundays we devote
pages and pages to wedding announcements. Why don’t we give equal space to divorce announcements?”

“Fletcher—”

“News is news, Frank.”

“You think that by writing obituaries and wedding announcements in this heavy-handed, factual way is how you’re going to get yourself assigned to the sports pages, is that it?”

“Truth is truth, Frank.”

“Someday, Fletcher, may you be a victim of someone like yourself.” Through his pupils dipped in clam juice, Frank looked at Fletcher. “You’re getting married Saturday?”

“Yes. Next Saturday.”

“Why?”

“Barbara has the day open.”

“Unless the purpose is to have children,” Frank said slowly, “marriage is a legal institution guaranteeing only that you get screwed by lawyers.”

“You don’t believe in true love?”

“True Love ran at Saratoga Saturday. Made a strong start, faded fast, and ended at the back of the pack. I suppose you expect time off, for a honeymoon?”

“Barbara’s rather counting on it. That’s another thing I wanted to see you about.”

“You haven’t worked here a year yet. In fact, some say you haven’t worked here at all yet!”

“Yeah, but, Frank, how many times in life do you have a honeymoon?”

“Don’t ask. Why are you so sunburned?”

“I ran in the Sardinal Race yesterday.”

“Your hair looks like it hasn’t crossed the finish line yet.”

Fletch smiled. “There’s a story there.”

“In your hair? I’d believe anything is in your hair.”

“In the race. Do you know about the Ben Franklyn Friend Service?”

“Guess I don’t.”

“Basically, it’s a company specializing in health and prostitution.”

“What?”

“You call them and this sultry voice answers, saying, ‘Ben Franklyn Friend Service. You want a friend?’ Only sometimes she slurs a little, and it sounds more like, ‘You want to, friend?’ ”

“You call them often?”

“The guys on the desk played a joke on me one night. They told me to phone out for pizzas and that was the number they gave me. The girl on the phone was trying to set up an appointment for me, and I kept asking if she had anchovies and pepperoni. I guess she thought I was a pervert. You ought to call them sometime.”

“I need a friend.”

“So I looked into ’em. Big business. Beautiful girls. All of ’em in great physical condition. They’re made to work out, you know?”

“What’s the story?”

“They were running yesterday. In the race. All of ’em. A flotilla of call girls. About twelve of them, all together. Running through the city streets. Downtown. Wearing T-shirts that read in front, Y
OU WANT A FRIEND
?, and in back, B
EN
F
RANKLYN
. They all made it to the finish, too.”

“So what’s the story? Don’t tell me. I’ve got it.” Frank put his hands to his forehead. “S
TREETWALKERS
J
OG
—”

“Joggle.”

“CALL GIRLS COME RUNNING?”

“Consider their leg muscles, Frank.”

“I’m all excited.”

“They were advertising their business, Frank.”

“So where did you finish in this race?”

“Right behind them. I was following a story, you might say.”

“Faithful to the last.”

“You’re not getting the point.”

“I’m not?”

“These call girls were using a city-run health and sports event to advertise their service.”

“So a few prostitutes ran in the city footrace yesterday. Why shouldn’t they? Not against the law. They wore T-shirts advertising their services. Gave thrills to a few dirty old men leg-watchers standing on the curbs. So where’s the story?”