Fletch Won (2 page)

“You ran pictures of them today. On your sports pages. Coming and going. Front and back.”

Frank paled. “We did?”

“
You
did.”

“Jeez!” Frank grabbed the
News-Tribune
off the floor and turned to the sports pages. “We did.”

“There’s the story.”

“You mean, we’re the story.”

“Gave a call-girl service a nice big spread. Lots of free publicity. Have you heard from the archbishop yet? How about the district attorney? Any of your advertisers object?”

“Damn. Someone did this on purpose.”

“You need me on the sports pages, Frank.”

“Look at the caption. Oh, my God.
Physical beauty and stamina exemplified by employees of the Ben Franklyn Service Company who ran together yesterday in the city’s Sardinal Race. Group finished near end of race
… I can’t stand it.”

“They weren’t in any hurry.”

“Neither were you, apparently.”

“You were just telling me never to get ahead of my story.”

“Get up and come into the office early Monday morning …” Frank was tearing through the competing newspaper, the
Chronicle-Gazette
, on his desk, trying to find the sports pages. “… Have to waste the damned day firing people …”

“The
Gazette
didn’t run pictures of the call girls, Frank. Front or back. They just ran pictures of the winners. Jeez, they practice tired old journalism over there.”

Frank sat back in his chair. He looked like a boxer between rounds. “Why did I have to start off the week by seeing you?”

“Bring a little freshness to your life. A few laughs. Shake you up a bit. Make you see a few things differently, like a couple of photos on your sports pages.”

“You own a necktie?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s holding one end of my surfboard off the floor.”

“I suppose you’re serious. What’s holding up the other end?”

Fletch looked down at the top of his jeans. “A belt someone gave me.”

“I decided over the weekend to give you one more chance.” Frank looked at his watch.

“You’re going to try me out as a sportswriter!”

“No. After all, what companies do is expect youth, energy, and experience all from the same person. That’s not fair.”

“The police beat? Fine!”

“Thought we might try knocking a few of the rough edges off you.”

“City Hall? I can do it. Just give me a score card.”

“So I figure it’s experience, polish, you need. You do own a suit, don’t you?”

“The courts! Damn, you want me to cover the courts. I
know how the courts work, Frank. Remarkable how little they have to do with the law, you know? I—”

“Society.”

“Society?”

“Society. Seeing you’re so quick to identify deceased people who never accomplished a damned thing in their lives, and point out to the public first cousins who intend to marry each other, I think you might have a little talent for covering society.”

“You mean society, like in high society?”

“High society, low society, you know, lifestyles: all those features that cater to the anxieties of our middle-class readers.”

“Frank, I don’t believe in society.”

“That’s okay, Fletch. Society doesn’t believe in you, either.”

“I’d be no good at it.”

“You might be attractive, if you combed your hair.”

“Little old ladies slipping vodka into their tea?”

“Habeck. Donald Edwin Habeck.”

“Didn’t he once try out as goalie for the Red Wings?”

“If you read anything other than the sports pages, Fletcher, you’d know Donald Edwin Habeck is one of this neighborhood’s more sensational attorneys.”

“Is he on an exciting case?”

“Habeck called me last night and said he and his wife have decided, after much discussion, to give five million dollars to the art museum. You’re interested in art, aren’t you?”

“Not as poker chips.”

“He wants the story treated right, you know? With dignity. No invasion of their privacy, no intrusion into their personal lives.”

“Frank, would you mind if I sit down?”

“Help yourself. I forgot you ran slowly in a footrace yesterday.”

Fletch sat on the rug.

“Sit anywhere.”

“Thanks. La-di-da philanthropy.”

“Finish the verse and you may have a hit song.”

“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.”

“Did he do himself?” Fletch was looking over Biffs shoulder into the front seat of the Cadillac.

A man in his sixties was slumped over the armrest. His left leg hung out of the car. His shoe almost touched the ground.

Biff turned his head slowly to look at Fletch. His look said that plebeians were not supposed to initiate conversations with royalty.

“Or was he shot?”

Not answering, Biff Wilson stood up and turned. He waited for Fletch to move out of the way. Despite the heat, the strong sun in the parking lot, Biff wore a suit jacket and tie, although his shirt collar was loosened. Hair grew out of his ears.

Biff walked the few steps to the three policemen standing by the black-and-white police car. Only two of the police were in uniform.

“Do we know who found him yet?” Biff asked.

“Do
we
?” Fletch said to himself.

The younger uniformed officer was staring at Fletch.

Three cars were parked at odd angles around the blue Cadillac. One was the plainclothesman’s unmarked green sedan. The second was the black-and-white sedan, front door open, police radio crackling, red and blue roof lights rotating.

The third said N
EWS
-T
RIBUNE
on the sides and back. This was the car Biff Wilson used. Its front door was open, too. Radios crackled from its interior. And a blue light flashed from its roof as well.

The older man in uniform looked at his notebook. “Female employee of the
News-Tribune
named Pilar O’Brien.”

Biff let spit drop on the sidewalk between his shoes. “Never heard of her.”

“Suppose she’s a secretary.”

“And she called the cops?”

“She told the security guard at the gate.”

“And he called the cops?”

“No,” said the plainclothesman. “He called the news desk.”

Biffs smile glinted. “Everybody’s buckin’ for promotion.”

“Your photographers have already come and gone,” said the older uniform.

“They didn’t touch anything,” the youngest cop said. “I saw to that. Photographed him from the side and through the windshield. Took a few long shots. Didn’t touch the car or the victim.”