Confess, Fletch

Thirty-three

“Hi, babe.”

In the single bed, he had rolled onto his side.

Light was pouring through the open drapes.

Eyes open, staring at him, her head faced him on the pillow.

The white sheet over her upper arm perfected her smooth, tanned shoulder, neck, throat

His right hand went along her left breast, under her arm, down her side. She pulled her right leg up, to touch his.

“Nice to feel you again,” he said.

She must have entered through the bathroom from the other guest room.

He flicked her lips with his tongue.

Then his left arm went under her and found the small of her back and brought her closer to him.

“Where were you last night?” she asked.

“When?”

“Two o’clock. Three o’clock. You weren’t in bed.”

“I went out for a walk,” he said “After that heavy dinner.”

In fact, between two and three in the morning, he had switched the license plates of the rented car and the black truck.

“‘After that heavy dinner,’” she said.

She giggled.

“Did you use my bed in Cagna?” he asked.

“Of course. Our bed.”

He said, “I’m hungry.”

She put on a slightly perplexed face.

She said, “This is your apartment.”

“Yes.”

“How come Sylvia’s in the master bedroom and you and I are in a single bed in a guest room?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I guess it’s like the Latin-American expression, ‘I lost the battle of the street.’”

“Was there a revolution?”

“There must have been. I guess I was an absentee government.”

“What does that mean?”

“I wasn’t here a couple of nights.”

“Where were you?”

“I was working.”

“Working?”

“At a newspaper. An old boy I worked with in Chicago works for a paper here now. He was short-handed and asked me to come in. Charlestown was burning down again.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why not?”

“Why should you?”

“I liked it. Anyhow, Jack had let me spend some time at the newspaper looking up Horan.”

“Jack?”

“Jack Saunders.”

“I doubt it would take two nights for Charlestown to burn down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I would expect your friend to solve his staff problems by the second night.”

“I don’t get you.”

“You said you were gone two nights.”

“Did I say that?”

“Where were you the other night?”

“What other night?‘

“You were only gone one night?”

“Ah…”

“If you were only gone one night, how come Sylvia the master bedroom?”

“Um…”

“How come she has it, anyway.”

“Who? Sylvia?”

“Were you sleeping with Sylvia?”

“Who, me?”

“You see, Fletch?”

“See what?”

“Don’t give me a hard time.”

“Did I give you a hard time?”

“About Bart.”

“Oh, yeah, Bart the Woman Slayer.”

“He needed help, Fletch.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You know why his wife left him?”

“I heard rumors.”

“Then this girl he wanted to take to Cagna finally refused to go.”

“I know. I found her body. She should have gone.”

“Bart never killed anybody.”

“Andy, one of three people killed Ruth Fryer. I know I didn’t, and Bart tops the list of the other two candidates.”

“Tell me about Sylvia.”

“Sylvia who?”

“Come on.”

“You must have misunderstood something.”

“I did not. You’ve never lost a battle of the street in your life.”

“I haven’t know many Sylvias.”

“What happened?”

“I was raped.”

“That’s nice.”

“Not bad.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me. I think you’ve figured out she wants the paintings as much as you do.”

“She’s not going to get them, is she?”

“I know what she has to offer. What do you have to offer?”

“You know what I have to offer.”

“You’re skinnier than she is.”

“You like that. Skinny.”

“Did I say that?”

“Once or twice.”

“Was I telling the truth?”

“One never knows.”

“We’re doing an awful lot of talking. For two friends who haven’t seen each other in almost a week.”

“I’m not used to making deals in bed.”

“Oh. Then feel sorry for me.”

“Why should I feel sorry for you?”

“I was raped. I need to got my sexual confidence back.”

“You have it back. I can feel it.”

“See how much good you’ve done already?”