Confess, Fletch

“America!” Fletch shouted.

It was at the worst possible moment that the telephone rang.

It was a cable. From Andy. Angela de Grassi.

“ARRIVING BOSTON SUNDAY SIX-THIRTY P.M. TWA FLIGHT 540. IS SYLVIA WITH YOU. MUCH LOVE.—ANDY.”

Fletch said, “Oh, shit.”

She never could keep herself to ten words or less.

He said, “Oh, Christ.”

He said, “What, in hell, am I doing?”

Sylvia said, “Come on, Flesh.

He said, “All right.”