Fletch and the Widow Bradley

2

“H E L L O, J A N E. F R A N K wants to talk to me?”

“Who is this?”

“Gone two days and you don’t recognize my voice.”

“Oh, hullo, Fletch. How are things up north?”

“Real excitin’. Would you believe I was in a place last night that featured a bald nude dancer?”

“Female or male?”

“What’s exciting about a naked bald male?”

“I don’t see what baldness has to do with it,” Jane said.

“Where’s Frank?”

“He didn’t mention anything to me about wanting to talk to you.”

“The message was waiting for me in the portable terminal this morning. Call Managing Editor Frank Jaffe immediately. Most urgent.”

“Oh, you know, everything becomes ‘most urgent’ with him after a few drinks.”

“That’s why he’s a good managing editor.”

“I’ll see if he remembers why he wanted you,” Jane giggled.

On hold, Fletch was obliged to listen to nine bars of The Blue Danube Waltz. A telephone innovation. The business side of the newspaper thought it real classy. The reporters thought it for the birds. Maybe it soothes someone calling up to order advertising space, but someone calls newsside with a hot story, like The State House is burning down or The Governor just ran away with the Senator’s wife and he finds himself dancing a four-square in a telephone booth. It’s hard to report temporary sensations and minor perfidies after having just heard violins work through The Theme from Doctor Zhivago.

“Hello, Fletch, where are you?” growled Frank Jaffe. Years of treating himself to whiskey had seared the managing editor’s vocal chords.

“Good morning, esteemed leader. I’m in the accountant’s office at the Park Worth Hotel.”

“What’re you doing there?”

“Filed from here last night. Incredible front-page story on the race track opening a new club-house. You mean it wasn’t the first thing you read this morning?”

“Oh, yeah. It was on page 39.”

“Can’t make caviar from pig’s feet.”

“Jeez, you didn’t stay at the Park Worth, did you?”

“No. Just stopped by to give away twenty-five thousand bucks.”

“That’s good. Only the publisher gets to stay at the Park Worth. Even he doesn’t.”

“Your message said I should call you. Urgent, you said.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Fletch waited. Frank Jaffe said nothing.

“Hello, Frank? You want me to pick up another story while I’m up here? What is it?”

Frank exhaled. “I guess the lead of this story is—you’re fired.”

Fletch said nothing. He inhaled. Then he said, “What else is new? How’s the family?”

“Goofed. You goofed, Fletcher. You goofed big.”

“How did I do that?”

“God knows. I don’t.”

“What did I do?”

“You quoted somebody who’s been dead two years.”

“I did not.”

“Tom Bradley.”

“Yeah. The Chairman of Wagnall-Phipps.”

“Been dead two years.”

“That’s nuts. First of all, Frank, I didn’t quote Bradley directly—I never spoke to him.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I quoted memos from him.”

“Recent memos?”

“Recent. Very recent. I dated them in my story.”

“Dead men don’t send memos, Fletch.”

“Who says he’s dead?”

“The executive officers of Wagnall-Phipps. The guy’s wife. You make the Tribune look pretty foolish, Fletch. Unreliable, you know?”

Fletch realized he was sitting in the office chair. He didn’t remember sitting down.

“Frank, there’s got to be some explanation.”

“There is. You took a short-cut. You took a big short-cut, Fletcher. Young guys in the newspaper business sometimes do that. This time you got caught.”

“Frank, I quoted recent, dated memos initialed ‘T.B.’ I had them in my hands.”

“Must have been some other ‘T.B.’ Anyway, you did this sloppy, casual story about Wagnall-Phipps, Incorporated, referring throughout to Tom Bradley as the corporation’s top dog, quoting him throughout, and he’s been dead two years. Frankly, Fletcher, I find this very embarrassing. How is the public supposed to believe our weather reports if we do a thing like that? I mean I know you’re not a business reporter, Fletch. You never should have been assigned this story. But a good reporter should be able to cover anything.”

Fletch put the wallet on the desk and rubbed his left hand on his thigh, removing the sweat.

“Let’s talk about it as a suspension, Fletch. You’ve done some good work. You’re young yet.”

“How long a suspension?”

“Three months?” The managing editor sounded like he was trying the idea out on Fletch.

“Three months. Frank, I can’t survive three months. I’ve got alimony to pay. Car payments. I haven’t got a dime.”

“Maybe you should go get another job. Maybe suspension isn’t such a good idea. I haven’t heard from the publisher yet. He probably won’t like the idea of just suspending you.”

“Jeez, Frank. This is terrible.”

“Sure is. Everyone around here is laughing at you. It’s going to be hard to live a story like this down.”

“Frank. I feel innocent. You know what I mean?”

“Joan of Arc you’re not.”

“At least give me a chance to check my sources.”

“Like who?” Frank Jaffe chuckled. “Saint Peter? You get him on the line, I want to know.”

“Okay, Frank. Am I suspended, or fired or what?”

“Let me try out suspension and see how it flies. The publisher’s in Santa Fe with his wife. The financial editor wants your head on a plate. You’re probably fired. Call me next week.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

“Hey, Fletch, want me to send you your pay-check? Janey can stick it in the mail to you.”

“No, thanks.”

“I just thought coming into the office would be sort of embarrassing for you.”

“No, thanks. I’ll come in.”

“No one ever said you’re short of guts, Fletch. Well, if you do come in to the office, wear your football helmet and your steel jockstrap.”