Fletch Won

“You have a hickey on your neck,” Barbara said to Fletch.

The waiter had brought a third chair to the table, heard with relief they wanted nothing more than the bill, and gone away.

“A passion mark,” Barbara added, looking closely at him from under the shade of the umbrella. “It wasn’t there when you left me this morning.”

Fletch fingered the mark on his neck. “I, uh…”

Cindy’s eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.

“And that’s not the way you were dressed when you left this morning.” Barbara put her hand on his rolled T-shirt and jeans on the table. “How come you’re in shorts?”

Fletch folded his arms across his chest.

“What does your T-shirt say?” Barbara leaned forward and moved his arms. “ ‘You want a friend?’ What does that mean?” She reached into his lap. “Your shorts say the same thing.”

“They do,” Fletch admitted with dignity.

“Did you get a bargain?” Barbara asked.

Fletch croaked, “How do you two know each other?”

“We’re old friends from school,” Barbara said easily.

“You are? Old friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Good friends?”

“I’ve mentioned Cindy to you. She’s been advising me on the wedding.”

Fletch said: “Ah!”

“Fletch!” Cindy yelled. She hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. “You’re that Fletch!”

Accusingly, Fletch asked Barbara, “And why aren’t you wearing jodhpurs?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Cindy laughed.

“I change for lunch,” Barbara answered. “I hate the beastly things.”

“This is the Fletch you’re marrying on Saturday?”

“In the flesh.” Barbara put her hand on his thigh. “Fletch, you’re awfully hot. You’re sweating. Your face is red. You all right?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” said Cindy.

“Oh, my God,” said Fletch.

“But how do you two know each other?” Barbara asked.

“Ho, ho, ho,” said Cindy.

“I, uh, we…” said Fletch.

“Is there something funny?” Barbara asked.

“Not really,” said Fletch.

“Ho, ho, ho,” said Cindy.

“After we’re married,” Barbara said, “I have the small hope Fletch comes home at night dressed something like the way he goes out in the morning.”

“Ho, ho, ho.” Cindy was choking with laughter.

“Barbara,” Fletch said slowly and seriously, “Cindy and I met in the course of business.”

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” laughed Cindy.

The secretary and the older man at the nearby table were frowning at this disturbance.

“The course of business?” Barbara asked.

“The course of business!” Cindy laughed.

“In the course of business,” Fletch affirmed. “Now, Barbara darling, if you’d just—”

“Barbara darling!” yelled Cindy.

Not understanding Cindy’s raucous good humor, Barbara said to Fletch, “Oh, by the way. I just heard on the car radio that someone has confessed to murdering Donald Habeck.”

Fletch snapped forward in his chair. “What?”

“A man named Childers, I think. Went to the police this morning and confessed to killing Donald Habeck. A client of Habeck’s—”

“I remember,” said Fletch. “The trial ended two or three months ago. He was accused of murdering his brother.”

“Well, this morning he admitted murdering Habeck.”

“But he was acquitted. I mean, of murdering his brother.”

“So you needn’t trouble your little head about the murder of Donald Habeck anymore. You can go back to doing the job you’re assigned to do.”

“Yeah,” Fletch said grimly. “Thanks.”

“We can get married Saturday, we can have a honeymoon, and maybe you’ll even have a job when we get back.”

“That’s right.” Cindy had stopped laughing. She was looking at Fletch with new eyes. “You’re a reporter!”

Fletch sighed. “Right.”

“For the Chronicle-Gazette,” said Cindy.

“For the News-Tribune.” Fletch looked a dagger at Barbara.

“What’s going on?” Barbara asked.

“Cool,” said Cindy. “That explains everything!”

Fletch said, “I’m afraid it does.”

“Have you written anything for the newspaper I might have read?” Cindy asked.

“Sunday,” Fletch said. “Did you read ‘Sports Freaks at End of Line’?”

“Yeah,” Cindy said. “Sure I did. The lead piece in the sports section. Real good. Did you write that?”

Fletch said, “Just the headline.”

“Oh.”

“What were you doing?” Barbara grinned gamely, as if asking to be let in on a joke she might have already ruined. “Being undercover?”

“Thanks for asking,” Fletch said.

Cindy began laughing again. She clapped her hands. “Super!”

“ ‘Super,’ ” Fletch quoted grimly.

The waiter gave the bill to Fletch. “Serving you, sir,” said the waiter, “is an affliction I’d hate to have become an addiction.”

Fletch stared at him.

Cindy took the bill. “No. This is on the company, remember?” She laughed out loud again. “You might say, it’s on the house!”

“Anyway, Cindy,” Barbara said. “We’re going to be married on a bluff, overlooking the ocean. Did I tell you that? The weather’s supposed to be nice Saturday.”

Cindy was paying the bill in cash. “Remember, we’re having dinner with my mother tonight,” Barbara said uncertainly to Fletch.

“Tonight for dinner,” Fletch said somberly, “I’m having my head on a plate.”

“Cindy,” Barbara said. “Around the corner there’s a sports shop. There’s this great-looking skiing suit in the window. You know, for our honeymoon. Want to walk over with me and see how I look in it?”

“Sure,” Cindy said. She left the waiter a generous tip.

The two women stood up from the table.

Fletch remained, elbow on the table, chin on his hand.

“See you, Fletch,” Barbara said.

Fletch didn’t answer.

Cindy said happily, “See you, Fletch! At the wedding! Saturday!”

After Cindy had gone a few paces, she turned around, again doubled over in laughter. “Fletch!” she called. “You’re being married on a bluff!”