Fletch’s Fortune

Fifteen

12:00 Cocktails

Bobby-Joe Hendricks Lounge

From TAPE

Station 17

Room 102 (Crystal Faoni)

“Hi, Bob? Is this Robert McConnell?

“This is Crystal Faoni… Crystal Faoni. We sat at the same table last night. I was the big one in the flower-print tent.…Yeah, isn’t she gorgeous? That’s Fredericka Arbuthnot. I’m the other one. The one twice the size people spend half the time looking at.…

“Say, I really dig you, Bob. I think you’re great. I read your stuff all the time.…

“Yeah, I read your piece this morning. On the murder of Walter March. You mentioned Fletcher, uh? Fletcher. We used to work together. On a newspaper in Chicago. You really put it to him, didn’t you… what was it you wrote? Something about Fletch’s already having figured prominently in two murder cases but never indicted … and he used to work for Walter March … ?

“Let me tell you something about Fletch.…

“Useful information? Why, sure, honey.…

“Just a funny story, really.…

“See, there was this guy in Chicago Fletch didn’t like much, a real badass named Upsie… a pimp running a whole string of girls in Chicago, real young kids, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen-year-olds, pickin’ ’em up at the bus station the minute they hit town, pilling them up, then shooting them up, putting them straight on the street sometimes the same damn’ night they hit town.

“As soon as the kids got to the point where they couldn’t stand up anymore, couldn’t even attract fleas—which was usually a few months, at most—like as not they’d be found overdosed in some alley or run over by a car. You know?

“A big, nasty business Upsie was running. This fast turnover in girls meant there was very little live evidence against him, ever. What’s more, he could pay off heavy, in all directions, up and down the fuzz ladder.…

“This was a very slippery badass.

“Fletch wanted the story. He wanted the details. He wanted the hard evidence.

“’Course he got no cooperation from the police.

“And the newspaper wasn’t cooperating, either. The editors, they said, you know, what’s one pimp? It isn’t worth the space to run the story. Typical.

“And Fletch wasn’t doing this precisely right, either.

“Every time he talked a girl into his confidence and began getting stuff he could use as evidence, he’d realize what he was doing, what he was asking them to do, in turning state’s evidence—allow themselves to be dragged through the newspapers and television and courts for months, if not years.

“Upsie had already badly damaged their lives in one way.

“Fletch saw himself badly damaging their lives in another way.

“These kids were so young, Bob.…

“Anyway, as soon as Fletch got the story from each girl, instead of using it, he found himself getting her to a social service agency, a hospital, or getting up the scratch to bus her home—whatever he thought would work.

“He did this six, eight times maybe.

“Well, Upsie got upset. He was pretty sure, I guess, Fletch wasn’t going to be able to print anything on him, ever, what with no police support, no newspaper support, and while Fletch kept sending his best sources of evidence home on a bus … but nevertheless, Fletch was hurting Upsie’s business by continually taking these girls away from Upsie before they were ready to be wiped.

“Get the point?

“So Upsie sends a couple of goons out, and they find Fletch, drag him out of his car—a real honey, a dark green Fiat convertible, I loved it—and while they hold him at a distance, arms behind his back, they put a fuse in the gas tank and light it and the car blows all over the block.

“The goons say, ‘Upsie’s upset. Next time the fuse goes up your ass, and it won’t be just gas at the other end.’

“So next night—it was a Saturday night—Fletch finds Upsie getting out of his pimpmobile and goes up to him as smooth as cream cheese, hand out to shake, and says, ‘Upsie, I apologize. Let me buy you a drink.’ Just like that. Upsie’s wary at first, but figures, hell, Fletch is aced, he’s aced other people easily enough, maybe it might be nice to have someone on the newspaper he has in his pocket, whatever.…

“Fletch takes him into the nearest dive, buys Upsie a drink, tries to explain he was just doing his job, but, what the hell, what did the newspaper care, he could end up dead on the sidewalk for all the newspaper cared.

“He had brought a little pill with him—something one of Upsie’s own girls had given him—and when Upsie was nice and relaxed and beginning to tell Fletch about his having been a nine-year-old newspaper boy on the South Side, Fletch slips the pill into Upsie’s gin.

“In a very few minutes, Upsie’s swaying, doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, begins to pass out, and Fletch, still as smooth as canned apple sauce, walks him out and puts Upsie in the passenger’s seat of the pimpmobile at the curb. See?

“He drives Upsie to this heavy, ornate Episcopal church Fletch knows about—knows how to get into that hour of Saturday night—and helps him into the church and sits him on the floor, where Upsie passes out.

“On the floor, Fletch strips Upsie of all his pimp finery.

“Then he places him spread-eagled on his back in the center aisle, bareass, badass naked, and ties his wrists and ankles to the last few pews—did I say spread-eagled?—in the dark.

“Then he takes a thin wire and ties it up around Upsie’s balls—around his penis, you know?—and runs that straight and fairly taut to the huge brass doorknob of the heavy front door of the church. There’s a purple velvet drape around the door, and the door is solid oak.

“He ties the wire nice and tight to the doorknob.

“Then Fletch goes up to the altar and drags the bishop’s chair over so he can sit in it and see Upsie ’way down the center aisle, but Upsie can’t see him.

“By and by, Upsie wakes up and groans, obviously not feeling too well, and tries to roll over and finds he’s tied to something, all four points, and wakes up more, and tugs at the ropes, and then raises his head to look down at himself and finds he’s tied at his fifth point, too.

“He can’t see too well in the dark, probably well enough to see that he’s in a church, and he remains reasonably relaxed, still groggy from the liquor and the drug, probably curious about what’s happening to him, tied spread-eagled and naked, lying on a church floor.

“It’s dawn, and light comes into the church, all red and blue and yellow in streaks through the big stained-glass windows, and the wire begins to pick up the light and gleam, and Upsie has his head up all the time, now, as much as his neck muscles can stand it, trying to see where the wire leads.

“In a while there’s enough light in the church to start getting into the draped, recessed doorway, and shortly the big, brass doorknob begins to gleam—even Fletch can see it from the altar—and it’s clear even from where he’s sitting that the wire leads straight from Upsie’s balls to the doorknob of these doors which must weigh a ton.

“Upsie sees it too, of course, and begins to figure it out, begins tugging at his ropes, flexing one arm, and then the other, pulling each leg up against the ropes.

“He realizes there’s no way he’s going to get free, unless someone helps him.

“But he doesn’t get the real point of what’s happening to him—or what’s going to happen to him—until the church bells begin to ring, all over Chicago. It’s then he begins shouting, ‘Oh, no! Oh, God! Oh, no!’

“He remembers it’s Sunday morning and at some point, sooner or later, those heavy oak doors are going to be swung open by hundreds of joyous Christians, en masse, you might say, strong in their faith.

“It’s then that Upsie’s body fluids begin leaving him. In sheer terror, he pisses almost to the church door, like a skunk shooting at something he knows is going to destroy him. He’s lying in his own shit, just tons of it, pouring out of him.

“He’s sweating buckets and shaking and pulling at his ropes.

“He knows that when those heavy oak doors are swung open, he’s had it.

“Did I say he was yelling? He’s yelling and screaming, first the words, ‘Help me! Help me, someone!’ in this cavernous church with solid stone walls, and then he’s yelling every obscenity in the book, in furious anger, tugging at the ropes so hard his wrists and ankles burn through, bleeding, and then he begins to blubber, ‘I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve this,’ and, crying. He thinks about this awhile, and then begins twisting his head toward the altar, yelling, ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’

“Fletch picked the right church.

“This particular church didn’t have Sunday service until eleven in the morning.

“But a lot of other churches in town had services before then.

“And every time one of the other churches’ bells begins to ring, Upsie pulls harder on his ropes, the ropes tying him. He wears the ropes right down to his wrist and ankle bones.

“He even begins biting his left arm, through the muscle, thinking he would chew his arm off, I guess, until he realizes that would do no good: If he chewed off one arm, he still wouldn’t be able to untie the rest of himself. See?

“More and more church bells ring around town, calling their congregations to service, and Upsie is screaming more and more incomprehensively, very hoarse by now, convulsively tugging at his ropes, ever one more time, hoping something would give way, blood and shit all over himself, eyes bulging from his head.

“At ten-thirty—after hours of this—the church bells of that church begin to go off, and Upsie becomes even more frantic. He knows it’s only a few minutes now, at most, before that heavy oak door is swung open.

“He’s thrashing around the floor, as much as the ropes will let him, twisting and splashing in his own blood and shit.

“Even Fletch couldn’t hear him yelling over the sound of the church bells. He could just see his mouth open, jaws straining, tongue extended. Upsie’s eyes are rolling in his head, in terror.

“Then the big brass doorknob begins to turn, slowly, slowly.

“Upsie stiffens his body, tries to reach his hands down to his balls—of course they don’t reach—actually tries to pull away from the door.…

“Oh, by the way, will I see you at lunch, Bob? The menu said something about chicken Divan or salad of your choice. Knowing me, I expect I’ll have both.…

“What do you mean, ‘What happened’? I told you it’s a funny story. Fletch is a funny man.…

“You can’t figure out what happened?

“Jeez, Bob, you’re no better than Upsie.

“The church doors swung inward, Bob. Upsie couldn’t see that, because of the drapes.…

“Fletcher? Oh, he left through the sacristy door.

“Gee, Bob, I thought you knew Fletcher.…”