Fletch, Too

“Three rabbits.” Carr said to the waiter, “and I guess a beer for the lady.”

“Rabbit,” Barbara said softly. “Americans don’t eat rabbits.”

Carr had said they might as well have lunch.

After he ordered, Carr was interrupted by a man who came by the table. There was a brief introduction. The man and Carr talked about flying some glass specimen boxes to Kitale.

“This isn’t your father?” Barbara whispered.

“A friend of his. Another pilot. Name of Carr. First name unknown.”

“Where’s your father?”

“He doesn’t know. I think he’s rather embarrassed. He’s here as moral support, and the old man isn’t here at all. He’s trying to be very nice.”

The conversation about glass specimen boxes was ending.

“Peter Rabbit,” Barbara said. “Peter Cottontail. The Easter Bunny. ‘What’s up, Doc?’”

Carr said to Fletch, “My first name is Peter. People call me Carr.”

“Peter.”

“I can’t eat Peter Cottontail,” Barbara said.

Carr said, “What?” as does a man who suffers some permanent hearing disability.

“Where’s Fletch’s father?” Barbara said.

Carr looked at the entrance in obvious pain. “I wish I knew.”

“Isn’t there someplace you can call him?”

“This isn’t Europe,” Carr said. “The States. When a person goes missing here, it’s not likely he’s standing next to a phone.”

“I called my mother,” Barbara said to Fletch.

“What did you tell her?”

“I said, ‘I’m in Nairobi, Kenya, East Africa, on my honeymoon with Fletch darling, I am very well, and sorry if you were worried when I didn’t call you from Colorado.’”

“That’s the thing,” Carr said. “You can make a trans-world call from here easier than you can call across the street.”

“What did she say?”

“She thought I was joking. Then she said, ‘Is that boy you married ever where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be?’ Then she said, ‘There’s some trick to everything he does. You can’t live your life that way, Barbara.’”

Carr was trying to watch Fletch’s eyes through Fletch’s sunglasses.

Fletch put his sunglasses on the table.

“She said I should come home instantly and divorce you.”

“Are you going to?”

“I was going to have lunch first. But rabbit?”

“Don’t make a point in looking,” Carr said, “but there’s a man entering you mustn’t miss.”

The man went by the table like an aircraft carrier. He was six feet eight or nine inches tall and weighed nearly three hundred pounds. His head was a great, bald nose cone. He and Carr exchanged nods.

He sat at a table near the railing, back to the daylight, facing the entrance. He took a newspaper out and flattened it on the table.

Instantly, a waiter brought him a bottle of beer and a glass.

“He usually doesn’t show here until about four o’clock in the afternoon,” Carr said.

“Who is he?” Fletch asked.

Carr hesitated. The waiter was putting their plates in front of them. “His name is Dawes. Dan Dawes.”

“What does he do?”

Barbara examined her plate. “They don’t look like rabbits.”

“He teaches high school.”

“I’ll bet his students call him ‘Bwana.’ ”

“I daresay,” Carr said.

Barbara put her knife into what was on her plate. “Cheese.”

“Rarebit,” Fletch said.

“They’re cheese rabbits.” Barbara began to eat happily.

The waiter was gone.

“He shoots people,” Carr said. “At night. Almost always at night.”

Barbara choked.

“Bad people, of course. Villains. Some say he does it for the police. He kills people the police can’t get sufficient evidence against to bring to trial; people the police feel aren’t worth the expense of a trial, and jail, or hanging.”

“He just goes out and shoots people?”

“A blast from a .45 through the back of the head. Always very neat.”

Barbara’s eyes were bulging out of her head. “And he teaches school?”

“High school math.”

Barbara looked at Fletch. “Is he the man—”

“Shut up, he said kindly,” Fletch said.

As they ate, Fletch kept glancing at the huge man studying his newspaper. His bald head was as big as a boulder one would have to drive around.

Carr said, “You work for a newspaper?”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice. What particular abilities do you need for that?”

“Strong legs.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“A hell of an obituary.”

Eating with delicate manners, the man with the rough hands asked Barbara, “And you?”

“I’ve been working in a boutique. Selling jodhpurs.”

“Jodhpurs? My word, you Americans dress funny.”

As they were finishing eating, Carr said, “How do you two feel?”

“Hot,” Barbara said.

Fletch pulled at his sweater. “Hot.”

“It’s not hot, you know,” Carr said. “You’re at five thousand feet altitude.”

Fletch said, “The slopes are dry, though. Definitely you need snow.”

“I mean, how do you feel, jet lag and all?”

Barbara said, “Numb.”

“We’re determined to live through the day,” Fletch answered. “Otherwise, we’ll never adjust.”

Carr thought a moment. “Seeing your dad doesn’t appear to be appearing … How ought I say that? You write for a newspaper.”

“He’s not here,” Fletch said. “And it’s not news.”

“I have some private business this afternoon, out in Thika.” Suddenly there was even more red in Carr’s face. “You both seem open enough. I mean, you’re open to the fact that there is a language called Swahili, and you might pick up a few words.” Barbara was watching Carr closely, wondering what he was talking about. “Private business. An odd sort of appointment. Well,” he sighed. “Your dad seems to have missed this appointment, and I don’t mean to miss mine.” He scratched his ear. “With a witch doctor.”

“A witch doctor,” Fletch repeated.

“A witch doctor,” Barbara repeated.

“I have a problem.” Carr wasn’t looking at them. “I’m not having much luck with something. There’s a question I might as well ask.”

Barbara said to Fletch, “A witch doctor.”

“Sounds interesting,” Fletch said.

Carr looked at his watch. “No point your hanging around here for Fletch to show up. I mean, the other Fletch. You might as well come with me. Take a ride through the suburbs of Nairobi.”

“Are you sure we won’t be in the way?” Fletch asked.

Carr laughed. “No, I’m not. But what’s life without risk?”

Barbara said to Fletch, “I think if that other Fletch shows up, we don’t particularly want to be here. Right now.”

Carr skidded back in his chair. “I’ll get the Land-Rover. It will only take a minute. It’s over by the National Theater.”