Confess, Fletch

The second call came before Fletch put the frying pan onto the burner.

“Is this really the hot-shot journalistic-wizard, cogent writer non pareil, the great I. M., the one And only, now-you-see-him, now-you-don’t Irwin Maurice Fletcher?”

“Jack!” The voice of his old boss, his city editor when he worked in Chicago, Jack Saunders, was too familiar to Fletch ever to confuse with any other voice in the world. For more than a year he had had to listen to that voice, on and off the telephone, for hours at a time. “Where are you?”

“So you’ve been passing yourself off as Peter Fletcher, eh? I just found an identity-correction advisory from the Boston Police Department on my desk.”

“In Chicago?”

“No, sir. Right here in Beantown. You are talking, to the night city editor of the Boston Star.”

“You left the Post?

“If I had realized that murder story involved the great I. M. Fletcher I never would have put it on page seven.”

“Page five.”

“I would have run it front page with photos linking you and the murdered girl indelibly in the public mind.”

“Thanks a lot. So I do know someone in Boston.”

“What?”

“How come you left the Post?”

“Boston offered more money. Of course, they didn’t tell me it costs a lot more to live here in Boston, Taxachusetts. And after you left the Post, Fletch, the old place wasn’t the same. All the fun went out of it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You made me look real good. Hey, you went a job?”

“Not at the moment. How are Daphne and the kids?”

“Still Daphne and the kids—face powder and peanut butter. Why do you think I work nights?”

Fletch had never known why Jack had remained married. He didn’t even like to look at his wife. He considered his kids a big noise.

“Hey, Fletch, they going to indict you?”

“Probably. Who’s this Flynn character?”

“You got Frank Flynn? You’re in luck. That’s, why you’re not in the slammer already.”

“I know.”

“They call him Reluctant Flynn. He’s very slow to make an arrest. But he’s never made a mistake. If he arrests you, boy, you know you’ve had it.”

“What’s some b.g. on him?”

“Don’t have much. He showed up here in Boston about a year and a half ago, which is very unusual. Cops hardly ever change cities, as you know. I don’t even know where he came from. He bas the rank of Inspector. Family man. Musical. He plays the violin or something.”

“He’s good, uh?”

“Cracked about a dozen major cases since he’s been here. He’s even reopened cases people never expected solved. If you’re guilty, he’ll get you. By the way, are, you guilty?”

“Thanks for asking.”

“Free for lunch?”

“When?”

“I was thinking I better get you tomorrow. Visiting people in prisons depresses the hell out of me.”

“Working nights you probably want a late lunch, right?”

“About two o’clock. Can you make it?”

“Sure.”

“If you have necktie, we can go to Locke-Ober’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“You’ll never find it. It’s in an alley. Just ask the taxi driver for Locke-Ober’s. Want me to spell it?”

“I’ve got it.”

“There are two dining rooms, Fletch. Upstairs and downstairs. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Okay.”

“Stay loose, kid. Please don’t knock anyone else off without calling the Star first. We’ve got: the best photographers in town.”

“Bye, Jack.”