Fletch

9

RESERVED CAPTAIN PRECINCT THREE

Fletch parked there.

He went straight to the bull room.

“Lupo’s in back,” the sergeant at the typewriter said. “Beating the shit out of a customer.”

“I’d hate to interrupt him. Someone might read the customer his rights.”

“Oh, they’ve been read to him already. Lupo’s interpretation of the Supreme Court ruling has been read to him.”

“How does Lupo’s interpretation go?”

“You’ve never heard it? It’s really funny. I can’t remember all of it. He rattles it off. Something like: ‘You have the right to scream, to bleed, to go unconscious and call an attorney when we get done with you; visible injuries, including missing teeth, will be reported, when questioned, as having occurred before we picked you up, et cetera, et cetera.’ It scares the shit out of people.”

“I bet.”

The sergeant picked up a phone.

“Lupo? Mr. I.M. Fletcher of the News-Tribune is here.” The sergeant slid the heavy I.B.M. carriage to three-quarters across the page, punched one key, returned and tabbed once. “Okay.”

He hung up and smiled happily at Fletch. “Lupo said he made a bust Wednesday especially for you. Three dimes’ worth for twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars?”

“He says it’s Acapulco Gold. You should be so lucky. It was a bust on advertising executives.”

“I pity the poor bastards.”

“You don’t need three bags full to convict. It’s in the second left-hand drawer of his desk.”

Fletch took the plastic bag from the second left-hand drawer of the first desk in the third row from the windows. “Thanks very much.”

“The money, Lupo said.”

“Do you accept credit cards?”

“Cash. It’s for the Police Athletic Fund. Believe me, with his new chick, he needs an athletic fund.”

“I believe you. Beating up people all day in the questioning room is a tough way to make a living.”

“It’s hard work.”

“Sweaty.”

Fletch dropped two tens on the sergeant’s desk. “We’re going to try it on you, one day, I.M. Fletcher. Find out what the hell the initials I.M. stand for.”

“Oh, no,” Fletch said. “That’s a secret that will go with me to my grave.”

“We’ll find out.”

“Never. Only my mother knew, and I murdered her to keep her quiet.”

Fletch sat in the sergeant’s side chair.

“Seeing Lupo isn’t here at the moment, and can’t be disturbed,” Fletch said slowly, “I wonder if you would give me a quick reading on a name.”

“What name?” The sergeant put his hand on the phone. “Stanwyk. W-Y-K. Alan. One ‘I.’”

“You looking for anything in particular?”

“Just a computer inquiry. A read-out.”

“Okay.” The sergeant dialed a short number on his phone and spelled the name slowly. He waited absently a moment and then listened, making notes on his pad. He hung up within three minutes.

“Stanwyk, Alan,” he said, “has a six-month-old unpaid parking ticket in Los Angeles. Eleven years ago, Air Force Lieutenant Alan Stanwyk, while flying a training craft, buzzed a house in San Antonio, Texas. Complaint was transferred to Air Force, which reprimanded said Stanwyk, Alan.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I’m surprised, too. I seem to recognize the name from somewhere. He must be a criminal. The only names I ever see are the names of baddies.”

“You might have seen it in the sports pages,” Fletch said, getting up.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. He tried out for Oakland once.”

***

Fletch went home.

His apartment was on the seventh floor of a building that had everything but design.

His apartment—a living room, a bedroom, bath and kitchenette— was impeccably neat. On the wall over the divan was a blow-up of a multiple cartes-de-visite by Andre Adolphe Eugene Disderi.

In the bathroom, he dropped his clothes in the laundry hamper and showered. The night before, after being away from his apartment for weeks, he had spent forty-five minutes in the shower.

Naked, he added the day’s mail to the stack that had been waiting for him the night before on the coffee table. Sitting on the divan, he rolled himself a joint from the bag supplied by Police Detective Herbert Lupo.

A half hour later he picked up the stack of mail, unopened, and dropped it into the wastebasket beside the desk in his bedroom. They were all bills.

The phone rang.

Fletch shoulder-rolled onto the bed and answered it.

“Fletch?”

“My God. If it isn’t my own dear, sweet wifey, Linda Haines Fletcher.”

“How are you, Fletch?”

“Slightly stoned.”

“That’s good.”

“I’ve already paid you today ”

“I know. Mr. Gillett called and told me you had given him a great big check.”

“Mr. Gillett? Of that distinguished law firm, Jackass, Asshole and Gillett?”

“Thank you, Fletch. I mean, for the money.”

“Why do you call Gillett ‘Mr.’? His pants don’t even have pockets.”

“I know. Isn’t he awful?”

“I never thought you’d leave me for a homosexual divorce lawyer.”

“We’re just friends.”

“I’m sure you are. So why are you calling me?”

Linda paused. “I miss you, Fletch.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s been weeks since we’ve been together. Thirteen weeks.”

“The cat must have decomposed by now.”

“You shouldn’t have thrown the cat through the window.”

“Anyhow, I bought you lunch more recently than that. You think I’m made of money?”

“Together. I mean together.”

“Oh.”

“I love you, Fletch. You don’t get over that in a minute.”

“No. You don’t.”

“I mean, we had some beautiful times together. Real beautiful times.”

“You know, around here now you can’t even smell the cat.”

“Remember the time we just headed off in your old Volvo and we lived in it a whole week? We didn’t bring clothes, money, anything?”

“Credit cards. We brought credit cards.”

“Do you still have the old Volvo?”

“No. An MG.”

“Oh? What color is it?”

“It’s called ‘enviable green.’ ”

“I’ve been trying to get you on the phone.”

“Even before you got your check?”

“Yes. Have you been away?”

“Yes. I’ve been working on a story.”

“You’ve been gone a long time.”

“It’s a long story.”

“What’s it about?”

“Migrant workers’ labor dispute.”

“That doesn’t sound very interesting.”

“It isn’t.”

“You must be losing your tan.”

“No. I’ve been staying at a motel with a swimming pool. Are you working, Linda? Last time we talked, you were looking for a job.”

“I worked for a while in a boutique.”

“What happened?”

“What happened to the job?”

“Yeah.”

“I quit”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. The owner wanted to make love to somebody else for a while.”

“Oh.”

“Fletch?”

“I’m still here. Where you left me.”

“I mean. I wonder. I mean, the divorce has gone through and all. We couldn’t spoil anything by being together.”

“Couldn’t spoil anything?”

“You know, spoil the divorce. If we had been together while the divorce was going through, you know, it might not have gone through.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Now our getting together wouldn’t spoil anything.”

“You want to get together?”

“I mean, it’s Friday night, and I miss you, Fletch. Fletch?”

“Sure.”

“Can we spend the night together?”

“Sure.”

“I can be there in about an hour.”

“Great. You still have a key?”

“Yes.”

“I have to go out for a few minutes. There’s no food in the house. I have to get some beer and some sandwich stuff.”

“Okay.”

“So if I’m not here when you get here, just come in and wait. I’ll be back.”

“All right.”

“I won’t be long,” he said.

“You’d better be.”

“Very funny. Don’t bring your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat. See you soon, Fletch. Right after I shower.”

“Yeah. Be sure and take a shower first.”

“I’ll see you in an hour.”

After hanging up, Fletch went to the bureau, put on a fresh pair of jeans, a fresh T-shirt, grabbed his pot from the coffee table, his wallet and keys from the bookcase, turned out the lights, checked to make sure the door was locked, went down in the elevator to the garage, got into his car, and drove the hour and a half back to The Beach.