Fletch’s Fortune

Twenty-one

From TAPE

Station 8

Suite 8 (Oscar Perlman)

“… Yeah.”

“May I say, Mister Perlman, how much my wife enjoys your columns.”

“Fuck your wife.”

“Sir?” Captain Neale said.

“Fuck your wife. It’s always, ‘My wife likes your columns.’” Clearly, Oscar Perlman was talking through a well-chewed cigar. “Everytime I do anything, a book, a play, it’s always, ‘My wife likes it.’ I go to a party and try to get the topic of conversation off me and my work, because I know what to expect all ready. I say, ‘What did you think of Nureyev last night at the National Theater?’ ‘My wife liked it.’ Always, ‘My wife liked it.’ You saw the latest Bergman? ‘My wife liked it.’ What about Neil Diamond’s latest record—isn’t it somethin’ else? ‘My wife liked it.’ You read the new Joe Gores novel? ‘My wife.…’ What about King Lear these days? ‘My wife says it’s chauvinistic. The father expects something.’ Always, ‘My wife liked it, didn’t like it.’ What are American men, a bunch of cultural shits? Always what the wife likes. The men don’t have eyes, ears, and a brain? What’sa matter with you? You can’t say you like my column? It’s feminine to like my column? Will your chest suck up your hair and push it out your asshole if you say you like something other than hockey, boxing, and other nose-endangering sports?”

“Mister Perlman, I am just a normal veteran.…”

“You do fuck your wife, don’t you?”

“I have never met such a bunch of strange, eccentric, maybe sick people.…”

“Does she say she likes it?”

“Mister Perlman.…”

“Do you believe everything your wife says? Who should believe everything his wife says anyway? Why don’t you say you enjoy my column? I work just for wives? Fred Waring worked for wives. And look at him. He invented Mixmasters. No, he invented Waring blenders. Maybe there’s a man who’s pleased to have everybody come up to him saying, ‘My wife likes your work.’ He sold plenty of Waring blenders. Jesus Christ, why don’t you just shut up and sit down.

“I have a terrible feeling I’ve just blown a column on you,” Oscar Perlman said. “So already you owe me seventeen thousand dollars. Relax. You want a cigar? Play cards? A little up and down? I don’t drink, but there’s plenty stuff around.

“Christ. I just blew a column. How’s your wife? I’m supposed to be here enjoying. I’m not. I lost twelve hundred bucks last night. These little shits from Dallas. St. Louis. Oof. Twelve hundred bucks. What? You don’t want a drink? These cards are dirty. They took twelve hundred from me.”

“Mister Perlman, any time you’re ready to answer some questions.…”

“Shoot. So old Walter March got it up-the. Never was up-the more deserved. Everybody else ’round here is writing about it. To me, it isn’t funny yet. Make it funny for me. I’ll appreciate.”

“Mister Perlman!”

“Don’t shout at me, you backwater, egg-sucking cop. You’ve cost me a column already. You were a veteran?”

“Listen. I know you journalists are in the business of asking questions. I’m in the business of asking questions. I’m going to ask the questions. Is that clear?”

“Jesus. He’s getting hysterical. You don’t play cards at all? You should. Very relaxing.”

“Mister Perlman, you used to work for Walter March?”

“Years ago. I worked on one of his newspapers. Twenty-five years ago. Most of the people here at this convention worked for March, one time or another. Why ask me?”

“I’m asking the questions.”

“That’s not a question.”

“You first wrote your humorous column on his newspaper?”

“You say it’s humorous? Thank you.”

“You first developed your column on his newspaper.”

“That’s not a question, either, but the answer is yes.”

“Then you took the column you had developed on one of March’s newspapers—the one in Washington—and sold it to a national syndicate?”

“International. Wives all over the world like my column.”

“Why did you walk out on Walter March and sell your column to another syndicate?”

“I’m supposed to starve because the man didn’t have a sense of humor? Even his wife didn’t have a sense of humor. He refused to syndicate my column even through his own newspaper chain. I gave him enough time. Two, three years.”

“Is it true he helped you develop your column?”

“Is it true trees grow upside down? ‘It’s true,’ the dairy maid said, ‘if you’re always lying on your back.’ He allowed the column to run. Irregularly. Usually cut in half. On the obituary page. From his encouragement, I could have had a free funeral, I was so big with the local undertakers.”

“And after you went with the syndicate, he sued you, is that true?”

“He didn’t win the suit. You can’t sue talent.”

“But he did sue you.”

“You can’t sue talent and win. He was laughed out of court. The judge’s wife had a sense of humor.”

“And then, what?”

Oscar Perlman repeated, “And then, what?”

“Mrs. March says the antagonism between you two has kept up all these years.”

“Old Lydia’s fingering me, uh? That lady’s got sharp nails.”

“Has the antagonism between you kept up all these years?”

“How could it? We’ve had nothing to do with each other. He’s been running his newspapers; I’ve been writing my column.”

“Someone told me March never gave up trying to force you to run your column in his newspapers.”

“Who told you that?”

“Well, actually, Stuart Poynton.”

“Nice guy. Did he get my name right?”

“I was wondering about that. He kept calling you ‘Oscar Worldman.’”

“Sounds about right.”

“Did you change your name?”

“No. Poynton did. He changes everybody’s name. He’s a walking justice of the peace.”

“Please answer the question, Mister Perlman.”

“Did March continue to want my column to run in his newspapers? Well, in most areas, as things worked out, my column ran in newspapers competing with his, I attract a few readers. Yes, I guess the matter would continue to be of some importance to him.”

“What was the nature of Walter March’s, let’s say, effort to get your column back in the March Newspapers.”

“You tell me.”

“Mister Perlman.…”

“No one’s pinned anything on me since I was a baby. That’s an old line, I’m ashamed to say.”

“Are you aware that Walter March kept a large number of private detectives on his payroll?”

“Who told you that?”

“You journalists are mighty particular about pinning down the sources of every statement, aren’t you?”

“Who told you?”

“Rolly Wisham, for one.”

“Rolly? Nice kid”

“Were you aware of Mister March’s private detectives, Mister Perlman?”

“If they were any good as private detectives I wouldn’t be aware of them, would I?”

“Did Walter March ever try to blackmail you?”

“How? There’s absolutely nothing in my life I could be blackmailed about. My life is as clean as a Minnesota kitchen.”

There was a pause.

Stretched out on his bed, Fletch had closed his eyes.

Finally, Captain Neale said, “Where were you Monday morning at eight o’clock?”

“In my bedroom. Sleeping.”

“You were in the corridor, outside the March’s suite.”

“I was not.”

“You were seen there.”

“I couldn’t have been.”

“Mister Perlman, Mrs. March has given us a very detailed description of running through the open door of her suite, seeing you in the corridor, walking away, lighting a cigar, running toward you for help, recognizing you, then running past you to bang on the door of the Williams’ suite.”

“She was upset. She could have seen green zebras at that point.”

“You don’t remember seeing Lydia March at eight o’clock Monday morning?”

“Not even in my dreams. Captain Neale, we played poker until five-thirty in the morning. I slept until eleven, eleven-thirty.”

“Is there anyone here you know of Mrs. March could confuse with you?”

“Robert Redford didn’t come to this convention.”

“You’re willing to swear you were not in the corridor outside the March’s suite about eight o’clock Monday morning?”

“Lydia March would be a totally unreliable witness about what or whom she saw at that moment in time.”

“Is that what you’re relying on, Mister Perlman?”

“You want to know who killed Walter March? I’ll tell you who killed Walter March. Stuart Poynton killed Walter March. He was trying to kill Lewis Graham, only he got the names and room numbers mixed up.”