Fletch’s Fortune

Thirty-eight

“FREDDIE!”

Her carry-on bag in hand, she was almost at the steps of the twelve-seater airplane.

“FREDDIE!”

His own suitcases banging against his knees, he ran across the airplane parking area.

“FREDDIE!”

Finally, she heard him, and turned to wait for him.

“Listen,” he said. Standing before her, he was huffing and puffing.

“Listen,” he said. “You’re Freddie Arbuthnot.”

“No,” she said. “I’m Ms. Blake.”

“I can explain,” he said.

In the late afternoon light, her eyes examined him through narrow slits.

“Uh…,” he said.

She waited.

He said, “…uh.”

And she waited.

“I mean, I can explain,” he said. “There is an explanation.”

The pilot, in a white short-sleeved shirt and sunglasses, was waiting by the steps for them to board.

“Uh…,” Fletch said. “This will take some time.”

“We don’t have any more time,” she said. “Together.”

“We do!” he said. “All you have to do is come to Italy with me. Tonight.”

“Irwin Fletcher, I have a job to do. I’m employed, you know?”

“A vacation? You could have a nice vacation. Cagna’s beautiful this time of year.”

“If I had the time, I’d stay here and polish up the Walter March story.”

“Polish it up?”

“So far I’ve only been able to phone in the leaders.”

“Leaders? What leaders do you have?”

“Oh, you know. Lydia March’s suicide. Her confession note. Junior’s murder. Joseph Molinaro.…”

“Oh,” he said. “Ow.”

As if thinking aloud, she said, “I’ll have to do the polishing in New York, before Saturday morning.”

“Then you could come to Italy,” he said. “Saturday.”

She said, “You know the Jack Burroughs trial starts Monday.”

“Jack Burroughs?”

“Fletcher, you know I won the Mulholland Award for my coverage of the Burroughs case last year.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “No, actually, I didn’t.”

“Fletcher, are you a journalist at all?”

“Off and on,” he said. “Off and on.”

“I’d think you’re a busboy,” she said quietly, “except busboys have to get along well with everybody.”

Five heads aboard the plane were looking at them through the windows.

“I have to be in Italy,” he said. “For about six weeks. Or, I should say, I have to be out of this country for six weeks, more or less.”

“Have a nice time.?

“Freddie.…”

“Irwin.…”

“There has to be some way I can explain,” he said.

She agreed. “There has to be.”

“It’s sort of difficult…”

Her eyes were still squinted against the sun.

“In fact, I think it’s sort of impossible to explain.…”

Freddie Arbuthnot’s chin-up smile was nice.

She said, “Buzz off, Fletcher.”

There were only two empty seats remaining aboard the plane, one in front (next to Sheldon Levi) which Freddie took, and one in back (next to Leona Hatch) which Fletch got.

Leona Hatch watched him closely while he took off his coat, sat down, and buckled his seat belt.

“I’ll swear I’ve met you before,” Leona Hatch said “Somewhere.…”

Five rows in front of him, Freddie’s golden head was already buried in a copy of Newsworld magazine.

Leona Hatch continued to stare at him.

“What’s your name?”

“Fletch.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Fletcher.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Irwin.”

“What?”

“Irwin. Irwin Fletcher. People call me Fletch.”