Fletch and the Widow Bradley

22

F L E T C H O P E N E D H I S apartment door to the corridor and found himself looking down at himself, his face streaked with grime and sweat, on the front page of the News-Tribune.

“Oh, no.”

MOTORIST PREVENTS BRIDGE SUICIDE ATTEMPT was the headline over the photograph.

Towel wrapped around his waist, he picked up the newspaper, closed the door, and sat down on the divan in his livingroom.

An observant passerby with a willingness to risk his life to save the life of another climbed out onto the superstructure of the Guilden Street Bridge after dark last night and talked a middle-aged female potential suicide victim back to safety.

“In this life we’re all in the same car together,” said Irwin Maurice Fletcher, 24.

Until Friday of last week, Fletcher was a member of the News-Tribune editorial staff.

Fletcher said his eye happened to be caught by the potential victim’s skirt fluttering in the breeze as he drove onto the bridge…

The telephone rang. Absently, still reading, Fletch picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Fletch? Janey. Frank wants to talk to you.”

“Frank who?”

“Hey, Fletch!” Frank Jaffe’s voice sounded too cheery for a Monday morning. “You made the front page.”

“Not the first time, Esteemed Managing Editor.”

“The News-Tribune gave you quite a spread.”

“I have it in my lap. Nice of you guys to report in the third paragraph you fired me last week. Really helps in the care and feeding of Irwin Maurice Fletcher.”

“Makes us look like shits, don’t it?”

“It do.”

“Had to report it. Journalistic honesty, you know?”

“You had to report it in the lead?”

“Yeah, well, I agree—that stinks. Some of the people around here are pretty burned off at you, in case I didn’t tell you before. One old desk man wondered aloud this morning why you didn’t let the woman jump so you could then interview her. After she drowned, that is.”

“I got the point, Frank.”

“Some of these guys have a truly vicious sense of humor.”

“Tell them if they don’t restrain themselves I won’t interview them after they’re dead.”

“I don’t suppose you want to hear the headline they really wanted to run.”

“I don’t suppose I do.”

“You might.”

“I doubt it.”

“I mean, with your irrepressible sense of humor?”

“Okay, Frank. Give it to me. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“The headline they wanted to run was GUILDEN STREET BRIDGE HERO FIRED BY THE NEWSPAPER YOU TRUST.”

“Too long for a headline. Why did you call, Frank? To congratulate me?”

“Hell, no. I’ve always known you could talk the bark off a tree. No big feat, talking a woman off a bridge. Not for you.”

“So why did you call?”

“It’s Monday morning. I’m in the office.”

“So?”

“You said I wouldn’t be. You cast aspersions at Clara Snow’s cooking.”

“You must have a goat’s stomach, Frank. I know you’ve got his horns.”

“Actually, I was thinking, Fletch.”

“I can smell the smoke.”

“You write pretty well.”

“When I have a chance.”

“You have the chance. I’m giving it to you. What I’m thinking is, this is a perfect opportunity for a first-hand account, you know? Big feature.”

“You mean, like, HOW I TALKED THE SUICIDE OFF THE BRIDGE BY I.M. FLETCHER?”

“You got it.”

“No, thanks, Frank.”

“Why not? You got something else to do today?”

“Yes. I have.”

“We’ll pay you. Guest writer’s rates.”

Guest writer’s rates were on the lower side of adequate.

“Gee, thanks, Frank. But I don’t work for you anymore, remember?”

“Might clean up your reputation a little.”

“Might sell you a few newspapers.”

“That, too.”

“Know what, Frank? You’re not a bad managing editor—even if you are burying that story about the Governor’s Press Secretary’s brother selling cars to the state police.”

“Know what, Fletch? You’re not a bad kid—even if you do interview dead people.”

“See you, Frank.”

“See you, Fletch.”

When Moxie came into the livingroom, she looked at the newspaper and said, “You’re not twenty-four.”

Still sitting on the divan, Fletch shook his head sadly. “Goes to show you. You should never believe everything you read in a newspaper.” He looked up at her, dressed only in his old, torn denim shirt. “Come on. Get dressed. I’ll drive you to the theater.”

“Where’s breakfast?” she asked.

“Same place that thousand dollar bill is, you stole from the wallet yesterday.”

She looked at him sharply. “Where’s that?”

He shrugged. “I wish I knew.”