Fletch Won (10 page)

“You think he was associated with the mob?”

“A criminal lawyer—”

“Sure, he probably had mob clients. But the mob doesn’t make anybody rich but the mob. Despite what you read, the mob’s biggest problem is financial constipation. The riskiest thing they do, at least regarding their own safety, is dispersing money. In fact, it’s such a problem for them I don’t know why they bother making so much.”

“What’s your guess as to how much money Habeck had when he died this morning?”

“Just a guess?”

“Take your time.”

“Working hard all his life, paying his taxes reasonably well, giving little away, not making any big, stupid investments, not running through too many wives, which are a lot of big
if’s
I’d say he’d be pretty lucky to have five millions dollars of his own.”

“So,” Fletch said. “Sam wins the office pool.”

“Who’s Sam?”

“Oh,” Fletch said. “He drives one of the
News-Tribune
delivery trucks. The downtown run.”

Fletch gathered the selected copies from the Habeck
file. On top of the stack he put the volume Morton Rickmers had loaned him,
The Knife, The Blood
.

Then he hesitated a long moment before picking up the phone and dialing the number he had once thought belonged to a pizza-delivery establishment.

The voice that answered was young, female, strong, clear, healthy, and, friendly. “Ben Franklyn Friend Service. You want a friend?”

Putting thoughts of anchovies and pepperoni out of mind, Fletch said, “I just might.”

“Well, we’re an escort service. Available twenty-four hours a day. Your place or ours. But first, will you tell me who recommended you to Ben Franklyn?”

Fletch swallowed. “My father.”

The girl hesitated. “You have any problems, son?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Nice guy, your dad.”

“Yeah, he’s a good old guy.”

“Doesn’t want you to be alone in the big city, huh?”

“He doesn’t—uh—want me making friends—uh—I can’t get rid of. Uh.”

Suddenly, he had become very warm in the city room.

“I see. What’s your dad’s name?”

“Oh, I doubt he ever used your services himself. I mean, personally.”

“You’d be surprised. What’s his name, anyway?”

“Uh. Jaffe. Archibald Jaffe. Never mind about him. My name is Fletcher Jaffe. I’m the one who’s coming. I hope.”

“Okay, Fletcher. Why don’t you come to the service? We’ll check out your health.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Oh, we’re sure you are. By health, we mean just everything. We’re friends like you never had before. We take care of all of you. You do exercise, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, we want to check out your skin tone, your muscle tone, your diet. Exercise you through to sexual fulfillment. You’ve never had friends like us before.”

“I’m sure.”

“We take you all the way, my man, from simple stretches, through deep breathing, to ecstasy.”

“Ecstasy! Wow!”

“You don’t believe?”

“I’ve just never heard
ecstasy
used in a sentence before. I don’t think. I mean, not conversationally.”

“You’ve never called Ben Franklyn Friend Service before.”

“Not for anything without cheese.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You going to come right over?”

“Not right now. Someone’s waiting for me. How about tomorrow?”

“Sure. I guess we can fit you in.”

“Ha ha.”

“What time?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

“In the morning?”

“Right. I want to have my skin toned up.”

“Fletcher Jaffe. Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.

We’ll see you then. All of you. And you’ll see all of us.”

The phone clicked.

Fletch hung up.

And then did some deep breathing exercises.

“Wow!”

“These bugs are gettin’ to me.”

“Heck with the bugs. Listen to this.”

Sitting on the beach in her swimsuit, Barbara Ralton was scratching her elbow with one hand and her back with the other. “Fletch, the bugs really take over the beach when the sun gets this low.”

“Appropriate for what you’re about to hear. Listen.” His back propped against her beach bag, Fletch read:

Barbara, bugs on her, was no longer scratching. She said, “That’s sick.”

“Pretty sharp,” Fletch said.

In the red of the setting sun, she shuddered. “Punk.”

Fletch ran his fingernail along her calf. “But do you get the point?”

“A little lacking in metaphor,” she said.

“But consider the irony.”

“Weird!” She moved the book in Fletch’s hand to see the cover. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“It’s a poem by Tom Farliegh called
The Knife, The Blood.”

“That’s poetry? Not exactly ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…’ ”

“I guess it’s called the Poetry of Violence. Tom Farliegh is its inventor, or chief current practitioner, or something.”

“Where did you get it, a motorcyclists’ convention?”

“Tom Farliegh may or may not be Donald Habeck’s son-in-law.”

“For a son-in-law I’d rather Attila the Hun.”

Fletch rolled onto his stomach. “It is sentimental, of course.”

“I prefer Browning.”

“At least he gives flesh and a knife their values.”

“Oh, yeah. He does that. And why, Irwin, are you
carrying around a book of poetry by Habeck’s son-in-law the night that Habeck is murdered?”

Even facing away from the sun, Fletch squinted. “Don’t you find it interesting?”

“Fascinating!” she said falsely. “Is the whole book like that?”

“I’ll read you another.” He reached for it in the sand.

“Not before supper, thank you.” She stood up. “Flies and satanic poems. Did you bring anything for supper?”

“Yeah,” Fletch answered. “There are some pretzels in the car.”

“Great. I could tell you stopped somewhere on your way home. You arrived in nothing but swimming trunks.”

“I know how to prepare pretzels.”

“Come on. I brought lamb chops. I’ll show you how to prepare them.”

“I’m going to jump in the ocean.” Fletch began to get up slowly. “Wash the sand off.”

“You can tell me all about your new assignment,” Barbara said, beach bag under her arm like a football. “The one that has nothing to do with people getting bullets in the head.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Fletch said absently.

“So what’s your assignment?” At the stove, Barbara wore an apron over her swimsuit.

Fletch munched a pretzel. “Research on Ben Franklyn.”

Dark outside, light inside the beach house, the huge plate-glass windows reflected them.

“Somehow Ben Franklin doesn’t strike me as news.”

Fletch found the brown paper bag in which Barbara had brought the chops, potatoes, peas, and milk. In it, he put Donald Habeck’s suit, shirt, tie, drawers, socks, and shoes. “Got some string?”

“Look in that drawer.” She pointed with the potato masher. “What’s new about Ben Franklin?”

“Healthy sort of man. Very contemporary.” Fletch tied the string around the package. “Inventive. Diplomatic.
Always liked the ladies. A businessman, too. He was a good businessman, wasn’t he?”

“How burned do you like your chops?”

“If you’re asking, stop cooking.” He tossed the package on the floor near the front door.

Sitting at the table, Barbara said, “I’m calling your mother.”

“What did I do now?”

“You’re getting married Saturday. Don’t you think Jessica ought to hear from me, her daughter-in-law-to-be?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Give her the opportunity to come to the wedding, you know? Make her feel really welcome.”

“I wrote her. Don’t know if she can afford to come. She’s a poor writer, you know. I should say, she’s a writer, and she’s poor. And if we pay her way from Seattle, we won’t be able to afford a honeymoon.”

“Still, her son’s getting married.”

“Naked?” Fletch asked. “Do you still mean for us to get married naked?”

“No.” Barbara scooped mashed potato into her mouth. “I haven’t been able to get rid of that eight pounds.”

“Ah,” smiled Fletch. “So you do have something to hide.”

“I’ll ask you once more about your father.”

“What about him?”

She asked, “What about him?”

“He died in childbirth.” Fletch shrugged. “That’s what mother always said.”

“Modern American marriage.” Barbara sighed and looked at their reflection in the window.

“Yeah,” Fletch said, “what’s it for?”

“What do you mean, ‘What’s it for?’?”

“Alston asked me at lunch if I was sure I want to get married. That was just after I asked him to be my best man.”

“Alston works for Habeck’s law firm, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he happy there?”

“Not very.”

“What did you answer?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Lawyers are always asking difficult questions. That’s their job. Makes ’em feel superior, I think. Helps them create the illusion they’re worth their fees.”

“Frank Jaffe said something or other about the only point in getting married is if you intend to have children.”

“He’s right. Almost.”

“Do we intend to have children?”

“Sure.” Barbara’s eyes glanced over the rough wooden floor of the beach house. “We have to have money, first. You’re not earning much. In fact, you’re not in a very high-paid profession. I’m not in a profession at all. Kids cost a lot.”

“Someone mentioned that today, too.”

“What did you do, go around today developing a brief against marriage?”