Confess, Fletch

Eleven

“Look what some son of a bitch did to my truck!”

Fletch, dressed in jeans, sweater, and boots, led the manager of the auto body repair shop through the door.

Now that he knew he was to be followed, Fletch had unbolted the kitchen door and used the back stairs. Actually, the back alley had been a shortcut to the garage on River Street.

He drove the smeared van to the auto body shop feeling as conspicuous as a transvestite at a policemen’s ball.

The manager’s eyes read “FEED THE PEOPLE.” He shook his head slowly.

Hands in his back pockets he walked slowly around to the “ADJUST!” side.

The sun appeared between clouds.

“There’s more on the top, too,” Fletch said

Coming back, the manager stood on tiptoes and stretched his neck to see the top.

“Have to paint the whole thing.”

“Shit,” Fletch said.

“Little jerks,” the manager said. “‘Feed the people,’ but screw whoever owns this truck.”

“Yeah,” Fletch said. “Me.”

“You got insurance?‘

“Sure.”

“Want to check your coverage?”

“Got to have the truck,” Fletch said, “whether insurance covers it or not. Can’t use it this way.”

“What do you do?

“I’m a plumber,” Fletch said.

“Yeah. I guess not too many people would like that truck in their driveways. You might lose a few customers.”

“Lose ‘em all. Paint it. I’ll pay you and knock the insurance company up later myself.”

“Same blue?”

“Wouldn’t work, would it?”

“Naw. You’d be able to read the black right through it.”

“Better paint it black, then.”

“Sons of bitches. Even dark red wouldn’t work. Even dark green. Ought to have their asses whipped.”

“Paint it black.”

“You want it black?”

“No, I don’t want it black. If I wanted a black truck I would have bought a black truck.”

“You’ll look like a hearse.”

“Friggin‘ hearse.”

“You got the registration?”

“What for?”

“Got to take it into the Registry. Report the change in vehicle color.”

“Screw ‘em.”

“What?”

“Look.” Fletch laid on anger. “I’m the, victim of a crime. If the fuzz were doin‘ what they’re supposed to be doin’, instead of makin‘ us fill out papers all the time, my truck wouldn’t have been vandalized.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Let ‘em go screw, I’ll notify ’em when I’m good and ready.”

“You want it black, uh?”

“No. But it’s gonna be black.”

“When do you need it?”

“Right now. I’m late for work right now.”

“You can’t have the truck today. No way. Tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. If that’s the best you can do.”

“You goin‘ to go into the Registry?”

“I’m goin‘ to work. I’ll go into the Registry when I get damned good and ready.”

“Okay. I understand. We’ll paint the truck. You go to the Registry.”

“Damned kids,” Fletch said. “Weirdos.”

“If you get picked up, just don’t say where you got the truck painted.”

Fletch said, “Screw ‘em.”