Confess, Fletch

Sixteen

“I guess it’s a pretty good job,” Fletch said. “I can’t read the shit through the paint.”

“It’s a nice job if you like hearses,” the manager said. “What will a black truck do for your plumbing business?”

“I don’t know,” Fletch said. “Might improve it.”

“Neighbors will think you’re carrying out a body.”

Friday morning was cool and cloudy again.

The manager said, “Did you get down to the Registry?”

Fletch said, “I brought cash for you.”

“I’ll get the bill.”

Fletch paid him off and took the keys to his black panel truck.

“Okay, fella,” the manager said. “You get stopped in that truck and the registration don’t match, don’t say where you got it painted.”

“I’ll get to the Registry tomorrow,” Fletch said. “Saturday.”

When he was getting into the truck, the manager said, “Don’t suppose you got a spare minute?”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Leak. In the men’s room.”

“No, thanks,” said Fletch. “Don’t need to.”