Confess, Fletch

It was a somewhat better moment the next time the telephone rang.

Fletch said, “Hello?”

“Are you drunk?”

It was Jack Saunders. Fletch could hear the city room clatter behind him.

“No.”

“Were you asleep?”

“No.”

“What are you doing?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“I’ve got it. Are you about through?”

“Buzz off, will you, Jack?”

“Wait a minute, Fletch. I’m stuck.”

“So am I ”

“Really stuck. Will you listen a minute?”

“No.”

“Fires are breaking out all over Charlestown. A torch is at work. I haven’t got the rewrite man I need.”

“So?”

“One is drunk and ready for the tank. The other is pregnant and just left for the hospital to have a baby. Nothing I can do about it. I can’t find the day guy. His wife says he’s at a ballgame somewhere. I’m three short on the desk, two with vacations and one with the flu. The guy I’ve got on rewrite now is a kid; he’s not good enough for a big-story like this.”

“Sounds like very poor organization, Jack.”

“Jeez, who’d think all hell would break loose on an October Saturday night?”

“I would.”

“Can you come in?”

“For rewrite?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I can’t handle it myself, Fletch. I’ve got to remake the whole paper.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten minutes to nine.”

“What time do you go to bed?”

“We’ll front-page big cuts for the first edition which goes at ten-twenty.”

“Jack, I’m a murder suspect.”

“Ralph Locke isn’t.”

“I don’t know the city.”

“You know how to put words together.”

“I’m rusty.”

“Please, Fletch? Old times’ sake? I can’t talk much longer.”

Fletch looked through the dark at Sylvia, now on his side of the bed.

“I’ll be right there. Bastard.”