Fletch’s Fortune

Seventeen

1:00 P.M. Lunch

Main Dining Room

Arriving late at lunch, Fletch put his hand out to Robert McConnell, who was already looking warily at him from his place at the round table, and said, “Bob, I apologize. Let me buy you a drink.”

Robert McConnell’s jaw dropped, his eyes bugged out, and he turned white.

Robert McConnell bolted from the table, and, from the room.

Crystal Faoni was staring at Fletch.

Fletch said to her, “What’s the matter with him? Just trying to apologize for accusing him of murder.…”

Freddie Arbuthnot looked clean and fresh after their tennis. Clearly she had sung her “Hoo, boy” song again.

Lewis Graham had taken one of the empty seats at the table, and Fletch shook hands with him, saying, “Slumming, eh?”

The man shook hands as would an eel—if eels were familiar with human social graces.

Lewis Graham was a television network’s answer to the newspaper editorial.

A gray man with a long face and narrow chin, who apparently confused looking distinguished and intellectual with looking sad and tired, every night for ninety polysyllabic seconds he machine-gunned his audience with informed, intellectual opinion on some event or situation of the day or the week, permitting the people of America to understand there were facts they didn’t have yet and probably wouldn’t be able to comprehend if they did have them, without his experience, and understandings they could never have, without his incisive intelligence.

Trouble was, his colleagues read the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Atlanta Constitution, the Los Angeles Times, Time, Newsweek, Foreign Affairs, and the Old Testament as well as he and could identify the sources of his facts, insights, and understandings, precisely, night after night.

Other journalists referred to Lewis Graham as “the Reader’s Digest of the air.”

It was questioned whether behind his grayness he had any personality he had not lifted from newsprint.

Lewis Graham said, “I didn’t know where to sit. I expect lunch is the same at all the tables.”

Crystal Faoni was still staring at Fletch after he sat down.

Freddie said, “A fairly even match, if I may say so. Six-four you; six-four me; seven-five us.”

“Me,” said Fletch.

“It was just your chauvinist pride.”

“Me,” said Fletch. “Me.”

“Not a clear victory. Your arms and legs are longer than mine.”

“The thing about tennis,” Lewis Graham said, “is that someone has to win, and someone has to lose.”

Crystal turned her stare at Lewis Graham.

They all stared at Lewis Graham.

“Tennis always provides a clear victory,” Lewis Graham said.

Fletch asked, “Did you read that somewhere?”

Crystal said to Fletch, “I ordered you both the chicken Divan and the chef’s salad.”

“Thank you for thinking of me,” Fletch said. “I don’t want both.”

“You want one of them?”

“Yes. I want one of them.”

“Then I’ll have the other one. Well, why should I embarrass myself by ordering two meals for myself—when I can embarrass you instead? You need a little embarrassing.”

“Why should you be embarrassed?”

“Oh, come off it, Fletch,” Crystal Faoni said. “Have you ever made love to a really fat girl?”

Graham shifted his elbows uncomfortably on the table.

“I’ll weigh the question,” Fletch said.

“As fat as I am?”

Fletch said, “It’s a heavy question.”

Lewis Graham cleared his throat and said, “You appear to be giving light answers.”

During the lunch (Fletch ate the salad; Crystal ate two Divans, which caused Lewis Graham to quip that all she needed more to entertain was a fireplace and a coffee table), the topic of Walter March’s murder arose, and, after listening awhile to Graham’s reporting what he had read in the morning newspapers, complete with two Old Testament references to the transitory nature of life, Crystal raised her large, beautiful head from the trough and said, “You know, I heard Walter March announce his retirement.”

“I didn’t know he had,” said Graham.

“He did.”

“So what?” Freddie asked. “He was over seventy.”

“It was more than five years ago.”

“Men look forward to their retirements with mixed feelings,” said Graham. “On the one hand, they desire retirement in their weariness. On the other, they shirk from the loss of power, the vacuum, the … uh… retirement which is attendant upon uh…,” he said, “… retirement.”

Crystal, Freddie, and Fletch stared at Lewis Graham again.

“Was it a public announcement?” Fletch asked.

“Oh, yes,” Crystal answered. “A deliberate, official, public announcement. It was at the opening of the new newspaper plant in San Francisco. I was covering. There was a reception, you see, big names and gowns and things, so of course the darling editors sent a woman to write it all up. There were scads of those little hors d’oeuvres, you know, chicken livers wrapped in bacon, duck and goose pates, landing fields of herring in sour cream.…”

“Crystal,” Fletch said.

“What?”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, thanks. I’m having lunch.”

“Get on with the story, please.”

“Anyway, Walter March was to make one of those wowee, whizbang, look at our new plant, look at us, what an accomplishment speeches, and he did. But he also took the occasion to announce his retirement. He said he was sixty-five and he had instituted and enforced the retirement age of sixty-five throughout the company and although he understood better how people felt reaching sixty-five, being forced to retire, when he felt in the prime of his life, years of experience behind him, years of energy ahead of him, wasted, blah, blah, he was no exception to his own rules, he was retiring himself.”

“I guess, ultimately, he considered himself an exception to his own rules,” Freddie said.

“He always did,” said Lewis Graham.

“He even said he was having his boat brought around to San Diego and was looking forward to sailing the South Pacific with wife of umpty-ump years, Lydia. He painted quite a picture. Sailing off into the sunset, hand in hand with his childhood sweetheart, sitting on his poop or whatever it is yachts have.”

“He owned a big catamaran, didn’t he?” Freddie asked.

“A trimaran,” said Lewis Graham. “Three hulls. I chartered it once.”

“You did?” Fletch said.

“A few years ago. The Lydia. I used to consider Walter March sort of a friend.”

“What happened?” Fletch said. “Boat spring a leak?”

Lewis Graham shrugged.

“I don’t see anything unusual in this,” Freddie Arbuthnot said. “Lots of people get cold feet when it comes time to retire.”

Fletch said, “Did he say when he was going to retire, Crystal? I mean, did he give any definite time?”

“In six months. The new plant was opened in December, and I clearly remember his saying he and Lydia were westward-hoing in June.”

“He was definite?”

“Definite. I reported it. We all did. It’s in the files. ‘WALTER MARCH ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT’. And he said the greatest joy of his life was that he was leaving March Newspapers in good hands.”

“Whose?” Freddie asked.

Crystal said, “Guess.”

“The little bastard,” Lewis Graham said. “Junior.”

“I saw him this morning,” Crystal said. “In the elevator. Boy, does he look awful. Dead eyes staring out of a white face. You’d think he’d died, instead of his father.”

“Understandable,” said Fletch.

“Junior looked like he was going somewhere to lie down quietly in a coffin,” Crystal said. “Everyone in the elevator was silent.”

“So,” Fletch said, “why didn’t Walter March retire when he said he was going to? Is that the question?”

“Because,” Lewis Graham said, “the bastard wanted to be President of the American Journalism Alliance. That’s the simple reason. He wanted it badly. I can tell you how badly he wanted it.”

Graham saw the three of them staring at him again, realized how forcefully he had spoken, and relaxed in his chair.

He said, “I’m just saying he wanted to cap his career with the presidency of the A.J.A. He spoke to me about it years ago. He was canvassing for support, eight, ten years ago.”

“Did you offer him your support?” Fletch asked.

“Of course I did. Then. He had a few years to go before retirement, and I had a whole decade. Then.”

The waiter was pouring the coffee.

“Two or three times,” Lewis Graham continued, “he got his name placed in nomination. I never did. And he never won.” Graham pushed the coffee cup away from him. “Until last year. Both our names were placed in nomination.”

“I see,” Fletch said.

“Well,” Graham said, “I don’t have the advantage Walter March had—I don’t own my own network.” Graham looked a little abashed. “I have to retire the first of this year. There’s no way I can hang on.”

Crystal said, “And the A.J.A. bylaws say our officers have to be working journalists.”

“Right,” Graham said with surprising bitterness. “Not retired journalists.”

“Is that why you stopped considering Walter March a friend?” asked Freddie. “Because you opposed each other in an election?”

“Oh, no,” said Graham. “I’m an old man, now, with much experience. Especially political. There are very few things in the course of elections I haven’t seen. I’ve witnessed some very dirty campaigns, in my time.” Graham deferred to the younger people at the table. “I guess we all have. One just never expects to be the victim of such a campaign.”

A bellman was having Fletch pointed out to him by the headwaiter.

Graham said, “I guess you all know Walter March kept a whole barnyard full of private detectives?”

Crystal, Freddie, Fletch said nothing.

Graham sat back in his chair.

“End of story,” he said.

The bellman was standing next to Fletch’s chair.

“Telephone, Mister Fletcher,” he said. “Would you come with me?”

Fletch put down his napkin and rose from his seat.

“I wouldn’t bother you, sir,” the bellman said, “except they said it’s the Pentagon calling.”