Fletch’s Fortune

Twenty-nine

Wednesday

The sun was up enough to have dissipated the dew and, after a long but gentle gallop, make Fletch hot enough to stop and pull off his T-shirt and wrap it around his saddle horn.

When he stopped to do so his eye caught the sun’s reflection off a windshield between trees, up the side of a hill, so he rode to a point well behind the vehicle and then up through scrub pine level to it, where he found an old timber road. He rode back along it.

Coming around a curve in the road, he stopped.

A camper was parked in the road.

Behind it, lying on his back, blood coming from his mouth, was the man he had been looking for, the man the masseuse, Mrs. Leary, had mentioned, the man in the blue jeans jacket, the man with the tight, curly gray hair.

He was obviously unconscious.

Over him, on one knee, going through a wallet, now looking up at Fletch apprehensively, was none other than Frank Gillis.

Fletch said, “Good morning.”

“Who are you?” Gillis asked.

“Name of Fletcher.”

Gillis returned to his investigation of the wallet. “You work here?”

“No.”

“What then? Staying at the hotel? Hendricks?”

“Yes.”

“You a journalist?” There was a touch of incredulity in Gillis’ voice.

“Off and on.” Fletch wiped some sweat off his stomach. “You’re Frank Gillis.”

“You got it first guess.”

For years, Frank Gillis had been traveling America finding and reporting those old, usually obscure stories of American history, character, odd incidents, individuals, which spoke of and to the hearts of the American people. During days when America had reason to doubt itself both abroad and at home, Gillis’ features were a tonic which made Americans feel better about themselves, even if only for a few minutes, and, probably, during the nation’s most trying days, did a lot, in their small way, to hold the nation together.

Fletch said, “And you just mugged somebody.”

Gillis stood up and dropped the wallet on the man’s chest.

“Yeah, but guess who,” he said. “Get down. Come here. Look at him.”

Gillis was a man in his fifties, with gentle, smiling eyes and a double chin.

Fletch got off his horse and, holding the reins, walked to where Gillis was standing.

He looked down at the man on the ground.

His was a much younger face than Fletch had expected—much, much younger than indicated by the gray hair.

“My God,” Fletch said.

“Right.”

“Walter March.”

Gillis was looking around at the tops of the trees, fists on his hips, still visibly provoked.

“Why’d you mug him?”

“I have a distinct dislike of people flicking lit cigarettes into my face.” He ran his hand over his cheek, left of his nose. “I only hit him once.”

“You know him?”

“Don’t care to. I stopped to ask for directions.” The great explorer of contemporary America smiled sheepishly. “I was lost. This guy was standing here behind the camper, rolling a cigarette. When I saw his face, I was astounded. I said, ‘My God, you’re the spitting image of…’ and a real rotten look, real pugnacious, came into his face, so I stopped, and he lit his cigarette, and he said, ‘Of who?’ and I said, ‘Old March, Walter March,’ and, flick, the cigarette went into my face and I’d hit him before I knew it.” He looked down at the much younger, inert man. “I only hit him once.”

“You hit good,” Fletch said. “Glad I don’t smoke.”

“No way to get a story,” Gillis said, rubbing his knuckles.

On the ground, the man’s head and then his left leg moved.

“What’s his name?” Fletch asked.

“Driver’s license says Molinaro. Joseph Molinaro. Florida license.”

The camper had Florida license plates.

“Golly,” said Fletch. “This guy’s only twenty-eight years old.”

Gillis looked at him sharply, and then said, “Young body. You’re probably right.”

Suddenly, Molinaro’s eyes opened, immediately looking alert and wary, even before shifting to focus on Fletch and Gillis.

“Good morning,” Fletch said. “Seems you took a nap before breakfast.”

Molinaro sat up on his elbows, and then reacted to pain in his head.

His wallet slipped off his chest onto the dry dirt of the road.

“Take it easy,” Fletch said. “You’ve already missed post time.”

Molinaro’s eyes glazed and he looked as if he were about to sink to the ground again.

Fletch put his hand behind Molinaro’s arm.

“Come on. You’ll feel better if you get up. Get the blood going again.”

He helped Molinaro stand, waited while he wiped the blood off his lips, examined it on his hand.

Molinaro looked sourly at Gillis.

Throwing off Fletch’s hand, Molinaro staggered the few steps to the back of the camper and sat on the sill of the open door.

“You have some bad habits,” Gillis said. “And I have a quick temper.”

“Your name Joseph Molinaro?” Fletch asked.

The man’s eyes moved slowly from Gillis to Fletch without losing any of their bitterness.

He said nothing.

“What relation are you to Walter March?” Gillis asked.

Still the man said nothing.

“Are you his son?” Fletch asked.

The man’s eyes lowered to the road, and then off into the scrub pine.

And he snorted.

Fists again on hips, Gillis looked expressionlessly at Fletch.

A mosquito was in the air near Fletch’s face. He caught it in his hand.

Gillis went to the side of the road and gathered up his horse’s reins and slowly returned to where he had been standing.

He said to Molinaro, “You are Walter March’s son. With that face you have to be. Did you murder him?”

Molinaro said, “Why would I murder him?”

“You tell us,” Gillis said.

“The son of a bitch is no good to me dead,” Molinaro said.

Gillis watched him with narrow eyes, saying nothing.

“What good was he to you alive?” Fletch asked.

Molinaro shrugged. “There was always hope.”

There was another silent moment while Molinaro rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands.

Finally, Fletch said, “Come on, Joe. We’re not out to get you.” He had considered telling Molinaro that Poynton had reported there would be a national advisory issued that morning saying the police wanted to question him. He had also considered advising Captain Andrew Neale of the whereabouts of Joseph Molinaro. “We’re not even looking for a story.”

Molinaro said, “Just nosy, uh?”

Joseph Molinaro had been in the vicinity of the crime at the time the crime was committed.

He had accosted Mrs. Leary in the parking lot Sunday morning, and Walter March had been murdered Monday morning.

Clearly, Joseph Molinaro was a close relative of Walter March.

Fletch said, “What good was Walter March to you alive?”

“I wrote three or four polite letters when I was fifteen, asking to see him. No answers.” Molinaro’s fingers were touching his jaw, gently. “When I was nineteen, I took a year’s savings, working in a laundry, for Christ’s sake, went to New York, lived in a fleabag for as long as I could hold out, just to bug his secretary, asking for an appointment. First I gave my name, then I gave any name I could think of. He was always out of the country, out of the city, in conference.” He winced. “I had even bought a suit and tie so I’d have something to dress in, if he’d see me.”

“He was your father?” Gillis asked.

“So I’ve always heard.”

“Who told you? Who said so?” Gillis asked.

“My grandparents. They brought me up. In Florida.” Molinaro was looking at Gillis with more interest. “I never even saw your fist,” he said.

“You never do,” said Gillis. “You never see the knockout punch.”

“You used to box? I mean, professionally?”

Gillis said, “I used to play piano.”

Molinaro shook his head, as much as his head permitted him. “Fat old fart.”

“You want to not see my fist again?”

Molinaro stared at him.

“You’re Frank Gillis, the television guy.”

“I know that,” Frank Gillis said.

“I’ve seen you on television.”

“How come you roll your own?” Gillis asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“Just unusual. Ever work in the Southwest?”

“Yeah,” Molinaro said. “On a dude ranch, in Colorado. And one day I read Walter March owned a Denver newspaper. So I gave up my job and went to Denver and spent every day, all day, outside that newspaper building. Finally, one night, seven o’clock, he came out. Three men with him. I ran up to him. Two of the men blocked me off, big bruisers, the third opened the car door. And off went Walter March.”

“Did he see you?” Fletch asked “Did he see your face?”

“He looked at me before he got into the car. And he looked at me again through the car window as he was being driven off. Three, four years ago. Son of a bitch.”

“You know, Joe,” Gillis said. “You’re not too good at taking a hint.”

“What’s so wrong with having an illegitimate son?” Molinaro’s voice rose. “Jesus! What was ever wrong with it? Even in the Dark Ages, you could say hello to your illegitimate son!”

Standing in the sunlight on a timber road a few kilometers behind Hendricks Plantation, Fletch found himself thinking of Crystal Faoni. I didn’t act contrite enough.… He fired a great many people on moral grounds… I’d be pleased to be accused.…

“Your father was sort of screwed up,” Fletch said.

Molinaro squinted up at him. “You knew him?”

“I worked for him once. Maybe I spent five minutes in total with him.” Fletch said, “Your five minutes, I guess.”

Molinaro continued to look at Fletch.

Gillis asked, “You came to Virginia in hopes of seeing him?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you know he was here?”

“President of the American Journalism Alliance. The convention. Read about it in the papers. The Miami Herald.”

“What made you think he’d be any gladder to see you this time than he was last time?”

“Older,” Molinaro said. “Mellower. There was always hope.”

“Why didn’t you register at the hotel?” Gillis asked. “Why hide up here in the woods?”

“You kidding? You recognized me. I planned to stay pretty clear of the hotel. Until I absolutely knew I could get through to him.”

“Did you contact him at all?” Fletch asked.

“On the radio, Monday night, I heard he’d been murdered. First I knew he’d actually arrived here. I’d been noseying around. Hadn’t been able to find out anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gillis said. “So why are you still here?”

There was hatred for Gillis on Molinaro’s face. “There’s a memorial service. This morning. You bastard.”

Gillis said, “I’m not the bastard.”

He got on his horse and settled her down.

“Hey, Joe,” Gillis said. “I’m sorry I said that.” The hatred in Molinaro’s face did not diminish. “I mean, I’m really sorry.”

Fletch said, “Joe. Who was your mother?”

Molinaro gave Fletch the hatred full-face.

And didn’t answer.

Fletch stared into the younger, unlined face of Walter March.

He stared into the unmasked hatred.

Having known, slightly, the smooth, controlled, diplomatic mask of Walter March, Fletch was seeing the face now as it probably really was.

Probably as the murderer of Walter March had seen him.

“Joe.” Fletch mounted his horse. “Your father was really screwed up. Morally. He made his own laws, and most of ’em stank. Whatever you wanted from your father, I suspect you’re better off without.”

Sullenly, bitterly, still sitting on the doorsill of the camper, Joseph Molinaro said, “Is that your eulogy?”

“Yeah,” Fletch said. “I guess it is.”