Fletch’s Fortune

Twenty-two

4:30 P.M.

THE BIG I: ADVOCACY JOURNALISM—

RIGHT OR WRONG AND WHO SAYS SO?

Seminar

Conservatory

Fletch was kneeling, shoving his marvelous machine back under the bed, when he heard the glass door to the pool area slide open.

He dropped the edge of the bedspread to the floor.

He hadn’t realized the sliding glass door was unlocked.

He heard Crystal’s voice. “Now I’ve got the Fletch story to cap all Fletch stories! Tousle-headed Fletch kneeling by his bed, lisping, ‘Now I lay me down with sheep’!”

Crystal was in the doorway, her fat twice banded by a black bikini.

“I met a Methodist minister on the airplane the other day.” He stood up. “Twelve thousand meters up he taught me to sing ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee.’”

He had never seen so much restrained by so little before.

“I’m cold,” she said. “My room’s way the other side of the hotel. May I use your shower?”

“Of course.”

Her skin was beautiful. All of it.

Walking across the room her fat shook so it looked as if it would plop to the floor in handsful.

“That idiot, Stuart Poynton,” she said. “Had me standing waist-deep in the pool a half-hour, talking, trying to get me to do legwork for him.”

“Legwork?”

“On the Walter March murder. Someone told Poynton I’m unemployed.”

She left the bathroom door open.

“Did you agree?”

“I told him I’d work for Pravda first.”

“Why did you listen?”

Nude, she was adjusting the shower curtain. Even reaching up, her belly hung down.

“Find out if he knew anything. He had some big story about the desk clerk being afraid March was going to get him fired for being rude to Mrs. March, so he grabbed the desk scissors, let himself into March’s suite with the master key, and ventilated Walter March as he stood.”

Fletch said, “Where does Poynton get stupid stories like that?”

Crystal stepped into the tub, behind the shower curtain.

“Oh, well,” he said.

Fletch stripped and went into the bathroom.

He held the shower curtain aside and said, “Room for two of us in here? Watch where you step.”

Under the shower, Crystal’s body created the most remarkable cascade.

“Did you bring a sandwich?” she asked, “Anything to eat?”

“Young lady, if it’s the last thing I do—and it may be—I am going to teach you to not make disparaging remarks about yourself.”

“Nothing to eat, uh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, I’ve never gone for these high-protein diets.”

“Obviously. Repeat after me. I will never insult myself again.”

“‘I will never insult…’ yipes!”

When they fell sideways out of the tub, the shower curtain and the bar holding it came with them.

On the bathroom floor, they tried to unwrap themselves from the shower curtain. Part of it was under them, on the floor.

“Goddamn it,” he said. “You’re on my leg. My left leg!”

“I don’t feel a thing,” she said.

“I do! I do! Get off!”

“I can’t. The shower curtain.…”

“Jesus, will you get off my leg! Christ, I think you broke it.”

“What do you mean, I broke it? Men are supposed to take some responsibility for situations like this.”

“How can I take responsibility when I’m pinned to the floor?”

“You’re no good to me pinned to the floor.”

“Will you get off my damned leg?”

“Get the shower curtain off me!”

“How can I get the shower curtain off? I can’t move.”

The shower curtain was yanked, pulled, lifted off from the top.

Fredericka Arbuthnot stood there in tan culottes and a blouse, shower curtain in hand.

Fletch said, “Oh, hi, Freddie.”

“Nice to see you, Fletch. Finally.”

“Thanks.”

Crystal had rolled off him.

Freddie said, “You make a very noisy neighbor.”

She dropped the shower curtain, and left.

Fletch was sitting up, feeling up and down his left leg with his fingers.

Face down on the floor, Crystal said, “Did-I break it?”

“You didn’t break anything.”

“You really turn her on, you know?”

“Who?”

“Freddie.”

Fletch said, “A bush in the hand.…”