Fletch and the Widow Bradley (23 page)

Before opening the front door, the small man said, “Work him over, Lester. Break his head. All the trouble he’s caused me. And four of these bills—” He tapped his wallet through his suit jacket. “—just aren’t the originals! It will cost me, you bet! You bastard!”

“Lester?” Fletch asked. “Did you hear the one about the nearsighted veternarian and the garden hose?”

Fletch’s observation had been correct: Lester had a fascination for ears. He beat on other parts of Fletch’s body as well, but most of those blows were merely intended to get Fletch’s forearms down from protecting his head. Lester hit Fletch’s left ear repeatedly, then his right ear repeatedly, then alternated between the left ear and the right ear.

The large man might have become bored with his task sooner, if Fletch had not landed a hard one on his nose, making it bleed.

The small man came back, stuck his head through the open front door, and said, “Lester, come on! I’ve got the elevator waiting.”

Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Lester left, closing the front door behind him.

From the floor, which was the only place Fletch had found he could retreat from Lester’s final enthusiasm for his job, Fletch heard the men, small and large, walk down the corridor. He heard the elevator door slide shut.

Fletch said, “Finders weepers.”

T 
H E   L O U D   R I N G I N G
in his head took on a slightly different tone, a harmony, once again, so Fletch reasoned the telephone was ringing. Still on the floor, still not breathing evenly, he pulled the telephone cord. It clattered to the floor in two pieces, but Fletch did not hear the clatter. He pulled the two pieces of the telephone to him.

“Hello?” he said into it.

“Oh, Fletch, you are home.”

“What about phone?”

“Why are you shouting?”

“Moxie?”

“Fletch, Rick has asked me to move into his pad with him.”

“Had with him? Had with who?”

“Stop shouting. It’s been damned difficult. I’ve been spending every damned day and night with him doing this play, and, you know, it’s not
Major Barbara
we’re rehearsing, I mean, Paul has been a complete nut about our getting the nude scenes right, and, frankly, Fletch, Rick is beautiful, and very nice, perfect timing, and how do you expect a girl to take the strain? You haven’t been here much, you know.”

“How’s Rick?”

“Fletch, are you deaf? Why are you breathing hard? Been exercising?”

“When are you coming home?”

“Will you come get me?”

“How could I forget you?”

“I lost the little yellow car that went beep-beep nicely. Parked it in front of the theater and it wasn’t there when I came out. I told the police about it, but they didn’t seem to much care.”

“I’ll come pick you up.”

“Well, listen, Fletch, are you going to be home from now on? I mean, no girl can take this kind of strain.”

“Train? Why take a train? What train? I’ll come get you. It will

take me a few minutes. I’m in the middle of a shower.”

“Oh. That’s why you’re shouting.”

“Hey, Moxie? I got my job back,”

“That’s wonderful.”

“What? Sure. Be right there. Just wait for me.”

Fletch hung up the phone, rolled over and sat up. The floor heaved. The walls wobbled. His eyes said they wanted to close. His stomach complained of having nothing to vomit.

He decided he should lie still a moment, on the rug, before washing off the blood, getting dressed, attempting to drive. He rolled over again, slowly, onto his stomach. He put his sore right cheekbone down gently on his sore right forearm.

And fell asleep.