Fletch

25

“Good afternoon, sir.” The headwaiter recognized him, even dressed in a full suit. The man was wasted on a tennis pavilion. “Are you looking for the Underwoods?”

“Actually, I’m looking for Joan Stanwyk,” Fletch said.

“Mrs. Stanwyk is playing tennis, sir. Court three. There’s an empty table at the rail. Shall I have a screwdriver brought to you?”

“Thank you.”

Fletch sat at the round table for two. Along the rail were flower boxes. In the third court away from Fletch, Joan Stanwyk was playing singles with another woman.

“Your screwdriver, sir. Shall I charge this to the Underwoods?”

“Please.”

Half of court three was in the shade of the clubhouse. This made serving difficult half the time for both players. One would think Joan Collins Stanwyk could get a better court at the Racquets Club.

Half the people on the tennis pavilion were still dressed in tennis whites. The other half were dressed for the evening. It was five-twenty.

Joan Collins Stanwyk played tennis like a pro, but utterly without the flash of passion that made a champion. She was smooth, even, polished; a well-educated, well-experienced tennis player. It was difficult to get anything by her, or to outthink her, yet she didn’t seem to be deeply involved—paying attention. She was also without the sense of fun and of joy that a beginning tennis player has. She was competent, terrifically competent, and bored.

She won the set, walked to the net, shook hands with her opponent and smiled precisely as she would have if she had lost. They both collected sweaters and ambled up to the pavilion.

Fletch turned his chair to face the entrance.

She had to greet many people, using the same shake of the hand and smile as she used at the net. It was a moment before her eyes wandered along the rail and found Fletch.

He stood up.

She excused herself and came over immediately.

“Why, John. I thought you were in Milwaukee.”

“Montana,” Fletch said.

“Yes, of course. Montana.” She sat at the table.

“Just before leaving for the airport Saturday, my boss called and asked me to stay a few more days. Some customers to see.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I was busy seeing customers.” He was sitting at the table, finishing his drink. “Besides, I thought I would come by on Tuesday.”

“Why Tuesday?”

“Because you said Tuesday was the day your husband came home from the office at a reasonable hour.”

Beneath her tan, her cheeks turned red.

“I see.”

“Didn’t you say your husband has Tuesdays reserved for you?”

“You’re rather putting it to me, aren’t you, John?”

“I hope to.”

Joan Collins Stanwyk, keeping her eyes in his laughed. She had a lovely throat.

She said, “Well, now…”

He said, “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”

“You ask a great many more questions than you appear to ask, John. And what’s more, you listen to the answers. You must be very good at what you do.”

“What do I do?”

“Why, sell furniture, of course. Isn’t that what you said?”

“I’m really quite expert on beds.”

She said, “Would you believe that I have one?”

***

She had one, at the Racquets Club, a three-quarter-sized bed in a bright room overlooking the pool area. She said it was her “changing room”. It had a full bathroom and a closet full of tennis dresses, evening gowns, skirts, sneakers and shoes.

She had given him directions to the door on the corridor above the dining room.

By the time he arrived, she was out of the shower and wrapped in an oversized towel.

Joan Collins Stanwyk was more interested in making love than in playing tennis. But again, she was educated and experienced without the flash that makes champions. And she was without the playful joy of the beginner.

“It’s really remarkable, John.”

“Isn’t it?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What’s remarkable?”

“Your bone structure.”

“I have one.”

“One what?”

“One bone structure. I’m very attached to it.”

“I should think you would be.”

“Yes, yes.”

“But you never noticed.”

“Never noticed what?”

“Never in the showers in Texas, or whatever.”

“It’s been a long time since I took a shower in Texas.”

“Al’s bone structure.‘”

“Al’s bone structure? What about it?”

“It’s identical to yours.”

“My what?”

“Your bone structure.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the width of your shoulders, the length of your back, your arms, your hips, your legs are identical to Alan’s.”

“Your husband’s?”

“Yes. Didn’t you ever notice? You must have been in shower rooms with him in Texas, or something. The shape of your head—everything.”

“Really?”

“You two don’t look a bit alike. You’re blond and he’s dark. But actually you’re just alike.”

“Something only a wife would notice.”

“He weighs ten or twelve pounds more than you do, I’d say. But your bone structures are the same.”

“That’s very interesting.”

She rolled onto her elbows and forearms, looking closely at his mouth.

“Your teeth are perfect, too. Just like Alan’s.”

“They are?”

“I’ll bet you haven’t a cavity.”

“I haven’t.”

“Neither has he.”

“How very interesting.”

She said, “Now I bet you’re insulted.”

“Not a bit.”

“I don’t suppose it’s polite to compare you to my husband just after we’ve made love and made love.”

“I find it interesting.”

“You’re saying to yourself, ‘The only reason this broad was attracted to me is because I have the same bone structure as her husband.’ Is that right?”

“Yeah. Actually, I’m terribly hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’m going to cry.”

“Please don’t cry.”

“I’m dying of a broken heart.”

“Oh, don’t die. Not here.”

“Why ‘not here’?”

“Because if I had to have your body taken away, I’d be absolutely stuck trying to pronounce your last name. I’d be so embarrassed.”

“Is it embarrassing being in bed with a man whose last name you can’t pronounce?”

“It would be if he died and had to be taken away. I’d have to say at the door, ‘His name is John, an old friend of the family, don’t ask me his last name.’ What is your last name again, John?”

“Zamanawinkeraleski.‘’

“God, what a moniker. Zamanawink—say it again?”

“—eraleski. Zamanawinkeraleski.”

“You mean someone actually married you with a name like that?”

“Yup. And now there are three little Zamanawinkeraleskis.”

“What was her maiden name? I mean, your wife’s?”

“Fletcher.”

“That’s a nice name. Why would she give up a nice name like that to become a Zamabangi or whatever it is?”

“Zamanawinkeraleski. It’s more distinguished than Fletcher.”

“It’s so distinguished no one can say it. What is it, Polish?”

“Rumanian.”

“I didn’t know there was a difference.”

“Only Poles and Rumanians care about the difference.”

“What is the difference?”

“Between Poles and Rumanians? They make love differently.”

“Oh?”

“Twice I’ve made love Polish style. Now I’ll show you how a Rumanian would do it.”

“Polish style was all right.”

“But you haven’t seen the Rumanian style yet.”

“Why didn’t you make love Rumanian style in the first place?”

“I didn’t think you were ready for it.”

“I’m ready for it.” It was eight-thirty. In forty-eight hours Fletch was scheduled to murder her husband.