Fletch, Too

“So,” Barbara said.

“So,” Fletch said.

They had ordered breakfast on the Lord Delamere Terrace.

“Here we are in Nairobi.”

“So we are.”

“Having a honeymoon at last.”

“And a night’s sleep.” Across Harry Thuku Road, Nairobi University was awake with students coming and going in the bright sunlight.

“A nice, long night. Ten hours to sleep, and five hours to eat and play.”

“That much?”

“By my clock.”

“I feel like a new man.” Fletch began to look through The Standard. “Except my ears are still clogged and my nose is still runny.”

“This morning I’m glad I married you.” Under the table, Barbara’s leg went against his.

“Likewise.”

“I was afraid that thing on your stomach would hurt.”

“It doesn’t. It never did. Just looks ugly.”

“I don’t know. I think it looks sort of erotic.”

“One is apt to think well of one’s own work.”

“I didn’t do that to you.”

“Oh.”

“I know I didn’t. You must have bumped into something.”

“Okay.”

“It looks sort of like a codpiece pulled aside. A jockstrap or something, you know?”

“Maybe you ought to go into the business of Designer Bruises.”

“Is that why hitting boxers below the belt is considered a no-no?”

“Their trainers haven’t your sense of what’s sexy, I guess.”

“I didn’t know men are so sensitive there.”

“If you cut us, do we not bleed?”

Their fruit was served.

“There’s nothing in this morning’s newspaper about the murder at the airport,” Fletch said after the waiter left.

“Did you tell Carr about it?”

“Yes.” The mashed rhubarb was sweetened exactly right.

“What did he say about it?”

“He agrees I have a problem. A ‘box of rocks.’”

“Did he understand why you didn’t come forward?”

“Oh, yes. I can’t spend my life in Kenya reviewing their suspects, one by one.”

“Are you just going to forget about the murder?”

“I can’t. Suppose they decide to hang the wrong sack?”

“Can’t you just leave a description with the police?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Middle-aged white man with brown hair and a moustache. Kenya probably has more men fitting that description than they have zebras. They’d have me flying halfway around the world and back again every week. Which I can’t afford. Which Kenya probably can’t afford. So I suspect they’d ask me to stay here, in voices sweet or stern. Which I also can’t afford. Carr had no suggestions.”

“Speaking of afford …” Barbara cleared her throat.

“I’ve already thought of it.”

“Your father doesn’t seem to be Nairobi’s greeter, official or unofficial. This is the third day we’ve been here, and no Fletcher senior has showed up pulling a welcome wagon.”

“I’ve noticed. There was a message from him, however. While we were out at Thika.”

“Yes. Saying he’d be back.”

“He must have had a flat tire.”

“I think you’d better check with the hotel desk, to make sure our bills are being paid.”

“I thought we’d have breakfast first.”

“I doubt we’ll get much of our money back from the ski lodge in Colorado. We don’t deserve much back.”

“They must be used to canceled honeymoons.”

All sorts of interesting traffic was going by on Harry Thuku Road. Besides the cars, taxis, trucks usual to any city, there were safari guards painted in zebra stripes, Land-Rovers with spare wheels plastered all over their bodies, Jeeps which looked like they had been rolled down mountains sideways and a few vehicles which looked distinctly homemade.

“So what will we do today?” Barbara asked. “Presuming we don’t have to find a cheaper hotel.”

Their eggs, bacon, and toast were served.

“I suppose I could go looking for my father. He must be here, somewhere. I am ‘mildly curious.’”

“A lady at the pool yesterday told me about seeing some wonderful dancers, what did she call them? Bomas. The Bomas Harambee Dancers. Something like that. About ten kilometers from here. She said they tell this wonderful story in dance about an evil spirit who takes over a young girl while she and her husband are traveling, asleep in the bush. So the young husband goes and hires a witch doctor to rid his wife of the evil spirit. The doctor comes and traces the evil spirit away from the girl. But every time he gets close to the spirit, the spirit scares the followers of the witch doctor and runs away. The whole story is told in dance. I might like to see that this afternoon.”

Fletch was watching Juma striding down the street toward them.

“And would you believe there’s a game park just outside Nairobi that’s something like forty-seven square miles? Lions, giraffes, everything. We could rent a car, if you don’t mind driving on the left side of the road.”

Striding along, shirtless, shoeless in dusty shorts, carrying a book in his left hand, Juma kept his happy eyes straight ahead. He did not survey the people on Lord Delamere’s Terrace.

Fletch and Barbara were too far back in the terrace to call out to him.

“Someone else said there’s a great restaurant called the Tamarind Great lobster. And a Chinese restaurant near here, called the Hong Kong. Less expensive. Best soup in the world.”

“You’ve been doing your homework.”

Fletch was just getting up to go after Juma, to say hello to him, when he saw Juma turn into the entrance of the Norfolk Hotel.

Putting the book in his back pocket, Juma bounced through the tables and chairs at them.

He sat down at their table.

“Are you happy to see me?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Fletch answered.

“Does that mean yes?”

“Of course. Were you looking for us?”

Juma’s eyebrows wrinkled.

“Have you spent all this time in Nairobi?” Barbara asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you like something to eat?” Barbara asked.

“I will have some toast,” Juma said, “to be polite.” Barbara handed him her plate of toast. “Also because I like buttered toast.”

“What have you been doing?” Fletch asked, attempting to make conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about your problem, Fletch.”

“What problem?”

“You see, my father is in jail, too.”

Barbara jumped.

“Very sad, very stupid.” Juma munched his toast. “You see, he was a driver for the government. The department of education. At the end of an eleven-hour day, very tired and hungry, he went into this bar where his brother, works, for some food. Someone reported seeing this government car parked outside this bar for forty-five minutes. For this, he was convicted and sentenced to jail for eighteen months.”

“Good God,” Barbara said.

Fletch felt the blood draining from his face. “Good God.”

“It is not proper for a government car to be seen parked outside a bar.”

“Eighteen months in jail?” Fletch asked.

Barbara was staring at Fletch.

“Also, he was fired. So my family has no money again. May I have more toast, please?” Juma took another slice.

Fletch cleared his throat. “Who said my father is in jail?”

“It is something you will have to accept, Fletch. I know you came all this way from America to see him. Have you seen him?”

Fletch felt a throbbing in his temples. “No.”

“That’s the problem,” Juma said. “They won’t let me see my father, either. Even now.”

“How do you know my father is in jail?”

“This man at the jail, the one who keeps me out, no matter what I say, says not permitting my father to see his son all this long time is part of the punishment, you see. For parking the government car outside the bar.”

Barbara said, “Poor Fletch.”

“So I asked this man if he would make an exception for you, because you came all this way to see your father, and he said, maybe, but not until after the trial.”

Fletch sat back in his chair. He exhaled deeply.

Barbara said, “Oh, dear.”

Juma asked Barbara, “How do you like Kenya?”

“Just great,” Fletch answered.

“We wananchi are very proud of Kenya. Everything is very scrupulous here. Do you see pictures of our president, Daniel arap Moi, just everywhere?”

“Just everywhere,” Barbara answered. “In every shop.”

“Although I admit it is difficult on a family when a father is sentenced to eighteen months in jail for parking a government car outside a bar.”

“I daresay,” Fletch said.

“So I have been thinking about your problem, Fletch.” Juma shrugged. “I do not have a solution.”

Barbara was still staring at Fletch. “Have you known about this?”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean, not really?”

“Not now, Barbara. Please. Not here.” Fletch felt he was being wrung out to dry.

“You did know about this. Flat tire, you said.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why is he in jail?”

“It must have happened yesterday.”

“There was some trouble at the Thorn Tree,” Juma said. “Everyone knew about it.”

“I didn’t,” Barbara said. “What’s the Thorn Tree?”

So filled was Fletch’s head and heart that he did not realize Carr was standing over them until Carr spoke.

“Irwin, I need a quiet word with you.”

“Ah. Good morning, Carr.”

“We’ve heard,” Barbara said.

Carr looked at her. “You’ve heard what?”

“Fletch’s father is in jail. Awaiting trial. No visitors.”

“I see.” Sitting down, Carr nodded hello at Juma. “He turned himself in yesterday. By far the wiser course.”

“Has he got a lawyer?” Fletch asked.

“Yes.”

Barbara asked, “What’s all this about?”

“Two nights ago,” Carr told her, “while we were eating at the Shade Hotel, there was some sort of a punch-up at the Thorn Tree Cafe. Such things didn’t used to be unusual, in the bad old days. Walter Fletcher may, or may not, have started it. Damage to the glassware was done. Much worse, in the eyes of the authorities, a few tourists were discommoded. Walter Fletcher may, or may not, have knocked an askari silly.”

“What’s an askari?” Barbara asked.

“A guard. The official status of this particular guard is not yet established.”

“You mean, there’s still some doubt as to whether he was a cop or a private watchman?” Fletch asked.

“Yes,” answered Carr. “Some private guards have police status. Some don’t. May I have some coffee?” Carr asked the waiter. “It makes a difference. Kenya is very strict about respect for its things and people official.”

“Eighteen months for parking a government car in front of a bar,” Fletch muttered. “It’s a wonder they didn’t send Dan Dawes to shoot Juma’s father!”

“Why can’t they find out?” Barbara asked.

“Because the askari is still moaning it up in the hospital, claiming this and that between bites of noodles. He says one of his wives has his employment papers, but he can’t remember which one.”

“Which wife?” Barbara asked.

“I guess a clip on the jaw causes one to forget which wife is which.” Carr sipped his hot coffee. “In any case, no one can see Walter Fletcher, except his lawyer, until after the trial. And the trial date is not set.”

Juma said, “It will be nice to get away from here.”

Carr gave him a sharp look.

“What can we do for him?” Fletch asked.

“There’s a mosque down the street.” Carr sipped more of his coffee. “Be sure and take off your shoes. There’s a sign on the main gate saying, Do Not Encourage Beggars.”

“Oh, dear,” Barbara said. “Poor Fletch.”

“We shouldn’t have gone to Thika with you,” Fletch said. “Because my father didn’t show up when he was supposed to, I acted snotty. I wasn’t here when he did show up.”

“Water over the dam,” Carr said.

“Well, there isn’t that much water in Africa,” Fletch said.

“Walter’s over the dam,” Barbara said.

“Which brings up the next point,” Carr said.

“There’s nothing I can do for him?” Fletch asked.

“No.”

“I can’t see him?”

“No.”

“Shit!”

“Today I’m flying down to my digs,” Carr said. “Get some work done on them. I thought I’d stop by first, bring you up to date on affairs Walter Fletcher, and ask if you’d like to come with me.”

“To your digs?” Fletch asked.

“Oh,” Barbara said. “Now we go looking for a lost Roman city.”

“It’s not a very grand camp. You’ll be living under canvas. And it’s hot there.” Carr looked at the wall of the Norfolk Hotel. “But it would be cheaper for you than staying at this palace of eternal delights. And it might be interesting for you. See something of the real Kenya.”

Fletch sighed. He looked at Barbara.

“Bomas Harambee,” Barbara said.

“What?” Carr said. “That’s right. Let’s pull together for our own sakes. You might even help me root through the jungle. No telling what we might find.”

Fletch, too, looked at the wall of the hotel. “Barbara? I want you to be precisely clear as to what you want to do.”

Barbara sat up in her chair. She swallowed. Carr, Juma, and Fletch were watching her. She swallowed again. “How can I agree to something when I don’t know what I’m agreeing to?”

“Rather nasty living,” Carr said. “In tents, at the edge of the jungle. No telephones, electricity, or ice cream parlors. What we’re doing is hacking our way through the jungle, either side of a river. Digging holes, here and there, seeing if they turn up anything vaguely ancient Roman. Still, Sheila likes it.”

Barbara was staring at Fletch.

“Barbara?” Fletch asked. “Would you like to go home?”

“It is our honeymoon,” she said.

“One of the all-time great ones,” Fletch said.

“Sheila could use a bit of company,” Carr said.

“I don’t see how we can go home,” Barbara said. “We came all this way to meet your father.”

“True,” Fletch said. “But his absence here is just as real as his absence is in the States.”

“But now you know he exists,” Barbara said.

“True.”

“And probably you’ll never be able to come back.”

“Probably not.”

“And there is this other matter …” Barbara looked at Carr. “… no one knows what to do about.”

Carr said nothing.

Barbara said, “Why are you leaving it to me?”

Fletch sighed.

“Is it something you want to do?” Barbara asked.

“I don’t know any more than you do.”

“Nice time,” Juma said.

Everyone looked at Juma.

Carr then looked at his watch. “It’s getting nigh onto checkout time. If you’re checking out, that is.”

Barbara said, “Okay.”

Fletch said to Carr, “I’m afraid we’re not being very gracious about your kind invitation.”

Carr grinned. “Didn’t I show you a nice time at Lake Turkana?”