Fletch’s Fortune

Thirty

8:00-9:30 A.M. Breakfast

Main Dining Room

The pool was empty, and no one was around it except one man—a very thin man—sitting in a long chair, dressed in baggy, knee-length shorts, a vertically striped shirt open at the throat, and polished black loafers.

Next to his chair was a black attaché case.

Fletch had approached the hotel from the rear, still shirtless and sweaty.

While he was fitting his key into the lock of the sliding glass door, the man came and stood beside him.

He seemed peculiarly interested in seeing the key go into the lock.

“Good morning,” Fletch said.

“I.R.S.,” the man said.

Fletch slid the door open. “How do you spell that?”

“Internal Revenue Service.”

Fletch entered the cool, dark room, leaving the door open.

“Let’s see, now, you have something to do with taxes?”

“Something.”

He sat on a light chair, the attaché case on his knees.

Fletch threw his T-shirt on the bed, his room key on the bureau.

The man opened the attaché case and appeared ready to proceed.

Fletch said, “You haven’t asked me to identify myself.”

“Don’t need to,” the man said. “It appeared in a Washington newspaper you were here. I was sent down. The room clerk said you were in Room 79. You just let yourself in with the key to Room 79.”

Fletch said, “Oh. Well, you haven’t identified yourself.”

The man shook his head. “I.R.S.,” he said. “I.R.S.”

“But what do I call you?” Fletch asked. “I? I.R.? Mister S.?”

“You don’t need to call me anything,” I.R.S. said. “Just respond.”

“Ir.”

Fletch went to the phone and dialed Room 102.

“Calling your lawyer?” I.R.S. asked.

“Crystal?” Fletch said into the phone. “I need a couple of things.”

She said, “Have you had breakfast?”

Fletch said, “I forget.”

“You forget whether you’ve had breakfast?”

“I’m not talking about breakfast.”

“Was it that bad? I had the pancakes and sausages, myself. Maple syrup. I know I shouldn’t have had the blueberry muffins, but I did. It was a long night.”

“I know. And you may be eating for two now, right?”

“Fletch, will you ever forgive me?”

“We’ll see.”

“Good. Then let’s do it again.”

“I had some difficulty explaining to hotel management how the bar for the shower curtain got ripped out.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them I tried to do a chin-up.”

“They believed that?”

“No. But one has to start one’s lying somewhere.”

“Were they nasty about it?”

“They were perfectly nice about saying they would put it on my bill. Listen, I need a couple of things. And I have a guest.”

“Freddie Arbuthnot? No wonder you forgot breakfast.”

Fletch looked at I.R.S. The man was almost entirely Adam’s apple.

“Close.”

The man’s shoulders were little more than outriggers for his ears.

“Anything, Fletcher darling, love of my life. Ask me for anything.”

“I need one of those cassette tape recorders. You know, with a tape splicer? I need to splice some tape. Do you have one?”

“Mine doesn’t have a splicer. I’m very sure that Bob McConnell has one, though.”

“Bob?”

“Would you like me to call him for you?”

“No, thanks. I’ll call him myself.”

Crystal said, “I think he’s disposed to cooperate with you in any way he can.”

“Mentioning me in his piece has caused me a little bit of trouble.”

I.R.S. was flicking his pen against his thumbnail, impatiently.

“What’s the other thing, darling?”

“I finished my travel piece. Want to send it off. Do you have anything like a big envelope, a box, wrapping paper, string?”

“There’s a branch post office in the lobby.”

“Yeah.”

“They sell big mailers these days.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Big insulated envelopes, boxes, right up to the legal limit in size.”

“Yeah. I forgot.”

“Over the door there’s a sign saying ‘United States Post Office.’ ”

“Thank you, Crystal.”

“If you get lost in the lobby, just ask anyone.”

“Crystal? I’m going to say something very, very rotten to you.”

“What?”

“The dining room is still open for breakfast.”

“Rat”

Fletch hung up but continued standing by the bed. He needed a shower. He thought of jumping in the pool. He wanted to do both.

“If we might get down to the business at hand?” I.R.S. said.

“Oh, yeah. How the hell are ya?”

“Mister Fletcher, our records indicate you’ve never filed a tax return.”

“Gee.”

“Are our records accurate?”

“Sure.”

“Your various employers over the years—and, I must say, there is an impressive number of them—have withheld tax money from your income, so it’s not as if you’d paid no tax at all.”

“Good, good.”

“However, not filing returns is a crime.”

“Shucks.”

“As a matter of personal curiosity, may I ask why you have not filed returns?”

“April’s always a busy month for me. You know. In the spring a young man’s fancy really shouldn’t have to turn to the Internal Revenue Service.”

“You could always apply for extensions.”

“Who has the time to do that?”

“Is there any political thinking behind your not paying taxes?”

“Oh, no. My motives are purely esthetic, if you want to know the truth.”

“Esthetic?”

“Yes. I’ve seen your tax forms. Visually, They’re ugly. In fact, very offensive. And their use of the English language is highly objectionable. Perverted.”

“Our tax forms are perverted?”

“Ugly and perverted. Just seeing them makes my stomach churn. I know you wallahs have tried to improve them but, if you don’t mind my saying so, They’re still really dreadful.”

I.R.S. blinked. His Adam’s apple went up and down like a thermometer in New England.

“Esthetics,” he muttered.

“Right.”

“All right, Mister Fletcher. We haven’t heard from you at all in more than two years. No returns. No applications for extensions.”

“Didn’t want to bother you.”

“Yet our sources indicate you have had an income during this period.”

“I’m still alive, thank you. Clearly, I am eating.”

“Mister Fletcher, you have money in Brazil, the Bahamas, Switzerland, and Italy.”

“You know about Switzerland?”

“Quite a lot of money. Where did you get it?”

“I ripped it off.”

“‘Ripped it off’?”

“‘Stole it’ seems such a harsh expression.”

“You say you stole it?”

“Well, you weren’t there at the time.”

“I certainly wasn’t.”

“Maybe you should have been.”

“Did you steal the money in this country?”

“Yup.”

“How did you get the money out of the country?”

“Flew it out. In a chartered jet.”

“My God. That’s terribly criminal.”

“Why does my not paying taxes and illegally exporting money bother you more than the fact I stole the money in the first place?”

“Really!”

Fletch said, “Just an observation.”

Fletch picked up the phone and dialed Room 82.

“Bob? This is your friend Fletcher.”

There was a long pause before Robert McConnell said, “Oh, yeah. Hi.”

“Crystal tells me you have a cassette tape recorder with a tape splicer attachment.”

“Uh. Yes.”

“Wonder if I might borrow it for a few hours?”

Robert McConnell was envisioning his sensitive parts tied to a cathedral door if he said no. Dear Crystal.

“Uh. Sure.”

“That’s great, Bob. You going to be in your room?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be by in a few minutes.” Fletch started to hang up, but then he said into the receiver, “Bob, I appreciate. Let me buy you a drink.”

The only response was a click.

I.R.S. said, “Mister Fletcher, I hope you realize what you’ve admitted here.”

“What’s that?”

“That you stole money, illegally exported it from the country, failed to report it as income to the Internal Revenue Service, and have never filed a federal tax return in your life.”

“Oh, that. Sure.”

“Are you insane?”

“Just esthetic. Those tax forms….”

“Mister Fletcher, you seem to be signing yourself up for a long stretch in prison.”

“Yeah. Okay. Make it somewhere South. I really don’t like cold weather. Even if I have to be indoors.”

There was a knock on his door.

“Have I answered your questions satisfactorily?” Fletch asked.

“For a start.” I.R.S. was returning things to his attaché case. “I can’t believe my ears.”

Fletch opened the door to a bellman.

“Telegrams, sir. Two of them.” He handed them over. “You weren’t in your room earlier, sir.”

“And sliding them under the door, you would have lost your tip. Right?”

The bellman smiled weakly.

“You’ve lost your tip anyway.”

Fletch closed the door before opening the first telegram:

GENERAL KILENDER ARRIVING HENDRICKS FOR BRONZE STAR PRESENTATION MID-AFTERNOON—LETTVTN.

I.R.S. was standing in his droopy drawers, attaché case firmly in hand, staring at Fletch incredulously.

He came toward the door.

The second telegram said:

BOAC FLIGHT 81 WASHINGTON AIRPORT TO LONDON NINE O’CLOCK TONIGHT RESERVATION YOUR NAME. WILL BE AT BOAC COUNTER SEVEN-THIRTY ON TO RECEIVE TAPES—FABENS AND EGGERS.

At the door, I.R.S. said, “Mister Fletcher, I must order you not to leave Hendricks, not to leave Virginia, and certainly not to leave the United States.”

Fletch opened the door for him.

“Wouldn’t think of it”

“You’ll be hearing from us shortly.”

“Always nice doing business with you.”

As I.R.S. walked down the corridor, Fletch waved good-bye at him—with the telegrams.