Fletch Won

“I see someone’s arse sticking up from the bushes!” Definitely, that was Frank Jaffe’s voice. No other voice was that gravelly. “And on that arse is written ‘Ben Franklyn Friend Service’!”

In the dark, in the bushes in front of the News-Tribune, momentarily Fletch wondered if he went all the way in his imitation of an ostrich and stuck his head into the ground he would disappear entirely from view.

Instead, he stood up and turned around. He had not realized he had moved so far into the building’s security lights.

“’Evening, Frank. Time you’d gone home.”

“Oh, it’s you!” Frank Jaffe exclaimed in mock surprise. “Don’t you think we’ve given that particular institution of physical excess enough free advertising this week?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then why are you in front of the News-Tribune building waving a flag at passing traffic advertising their services?”

The manila envelope and the pencil Fletch had taken from his car were on the ground behind the bushes.

“That’s not really what I’m doing, Frank.”

“What else are you doing?”

“I’m looking for a gun, Frank.”

“You’re looking for your gum?”

“Okay.”

“How could you drop your gum way over there in the bushes?”

Fletch held up his index finger. “Don’t you feel that wind?”

“You were trying to throw up in the bushes,” Frank accused.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were trying to catch a buggerer?”

“Frank…”

“Besides advertising their services across your arse, have you penetrated any deeper into the whorehouse story?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that, Frank.”

“Clearly you’ve exposed yourself. Are we going to expose them?”

“Frank, I think the story is going to take a little longer than we originally thought.”

“Ah,” said Frank. “Really getting involved, are you, boy?”

“Something unpredictable has happened … a setback….”

“Discovered you really dig this assignment, that it?

Getting your bones ground at office expense, who wouldn’t? Ah, Fletch, I wish all the employees at the News-Tribune threw themselves into their work as enthusiastically as you do! I knew you’d like this assignment, once you got into it!”

“I threw myself into it, all right, Frank—”

“That’s my boy!”

“Trouble is, you see, this girl, Cindy—”

“Now, I’ll bet, even you’re asking yourself why you’re getting married Saturday!”

“Well, you see, Barbara—”

“Carry on, Fletcher, whatever you’re doing. But, please! The publisher and I would both appreciate it if, in keeping your chin up, you keep your arse down!”

“All right, Frank.”

“Good night, Fletch.”

“Good night, Frank.”