Fletch and the Widow Bradley (8 page)

“Who is Francine?”

“Thomas’ sister. She lives in New York. She and Thomas were always extremely close.”

“Mrs. Bradley, how do you explain the memos I saw from your husband?”

“If you saw such memos, Mister Fletcher, then they were
forgeries. Obviously, Charles Blaine forged them. What else am I to think? Once or twice, Charley has referred to Thomas as alive, in speaking to me. You know, referred to Thomas in the present tense. I thought his tongue was just slipping. Then, when I saw your article … Wednesday night … I figured it out. Charley must be having some sort of a nervous breakdown. Thursday morning I told Charley, as forcefully as I could, that Thomas is dead and has been dead for a year. Then I sent him and his wife away for a long vacation.”

“Mexico.”

“Is that where they went? Oh, yes, I think they’ve gone to Mexico before for their vacations. We’ll just have to see how he is when he comes back. If he really went so far as forgery … I don’t know. You don’t have any copies of those memos, do you, Mister Fletcher?”

“No.”

“Well. You see. I haven’t known what to do. It’s all been very difficult.”

“Do you intend to continue running the company, Mrs. Bradley?”

“No! Thank God.” She appeared horrified at the thought.

“Are you selling out?”

“No. That wouldn’t be fair to the children. No, Francine is coming West to take over the company, as soon as she can settle up her own business in New York. She’s much cleverer than I. As I said, she and Thomas were very much alike. It’s almost as if they had the same mind. She’s run businesses before.” Enid Bradley looked absently across the room. “She should be able to come West in a couple of months.”

Fletch said, “I guess I don’t know what to say.”

Enid said, “There is nothing to say. I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm. It’s just that the man you were talking to was temporarily deranged. How could you have known that? If you like, I’ll call your managing editor again. Tell him that you and I talked. Tell him about Charley, and how insanely fond he was of my husband …”

“Thank you, but it wouldn’t do any good. I’m famous in the business now for having quoted someone who wasn’t alive at the time. I’ll never live that down.”

“Mister Fletcher, is there anything I can do to help you? Reporters don’t make much money, I know, and now you’ve lost your job. I guess it’s partly our fault. I should have known Charley Blaine was going off the deep end.”

“That’s very nice of you, but no, thanks. It was nice of you to see me, under the circumstances.”

“This is all very distressing.”

Enid Bradley rose and showed Fletch to the door. Neither said another word.

“
C 
O L D  B E E R
,”   
F 
L E T C H
said. “If you’ve got any left.”

The barman at the Nineteenth Hole, the bar of the Southworth Country Club, looked Fletch in the face, obviously considered challenging him, then drew a beer and put it in front of Fletch.

“Thanks,” Fletch smiled. During a tournament weekend there were apt to be many strangers in and out of a golf club.

At the end of the bar near the windows overlooking the greens was a large and noisy group of men dressed casually. Two couples in the room, at tables, were dressed for dinner.

“Pebble Beach,” said one of the noisy men. “Nobody believes what I did at Pebble Beach. Even I don’t believe what I did at Pebble Beach!”

And they said this and they said that and they laughed at almost everything. Fletch sipped his beer.

His glass was nearly empty when one of the men turned to another, a heavily built man wearing bifocals, and said, “Alex, I thought you’d never really get over your bug-a-boo about approaching the seventh green.”

“Well,” Alex smiled. “I did. Just in time.”

Fletch picked up his beer, moved down the bar and, laughing with the men, looking interested at the next thing to be said, insinuated himself into the group. He nodded in appreciation at their slightly drunken inanities. He stood next to the man called Alex.

After many minutes, at a fairly quiet point in the conversation, Fletch said to the man, “You’re Alex Corcoran, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” the man said.

“Second place winner of not the biggest but surely the friendliest golf tournament in the U.S. of A.,” slurred one of the group.

“Congratulations,” Fletch said.

“It’s you young guys who beat me now,” Corcoran said. “And you don’t even go to bed at night to sleep.” He pulled on his gin and tonic. “I said, to sleep.”

“You and I met briefly before,” Fletch said. “What’s the name of that club over there …?” He pointed vaguely to the East.

“Euston.”

“Yeah. Euston.”

“Did I play you?”

“No, I wiped out in the first round. Watched you. We talked in the bar, later.”

Alex Corcoran laughed. “Pardon me for not remembering.”

“We talked about Wagnall-Phipps. You work for Wagnall-Phipps, right?”

“No!” said a golfer. “He doesn’t work for Wagnall-Phipps. He’s the president!”

“He doesn’t work at all,” said another.

Fletch nodded. “Yeah, I thought we talked about Wagnall-Phipps.”

“Been with W-P seven years,” Corcoran said. “Didn’t become president, though, until the company suddenly decided to get out of the ski house business.”

Everyone laughed.

“Jerry was really screwed by that.” A golfer shook his head. “Jeez. Business entertaining. Suddenly it becomes illegal, or un-American or something.”

“Depends on who you entertain.”

“Depends on who you bribe.”

Everything was funny to these golfers after the tournament.

“Alex, what happened to Jerry?”

“He’s gone skiing,” one of them joked.

“Yeah. Retired to Aspen.”

“The ex-president of Wagnall-Phipps,” said the current president, “is living in Mexico on a pension bigger than my salary.”

“Really?” marveled one of the men. “The wages of sin.”

“Pretty big pension,” Alex said. “The scandal did him no harm. Wish I could work up a good scandal myself. Then I’d never have to go to the office.”

“You hardly ever go now, Alex.”

“You can’t sell our crap from behind a desk,” Alex said. “You gotta get out there and dazzle by foot-work!” The big man shuffled his feet in a boxer’s step. None of his drink spilled.

“Thomas Bradley,” Fletch said. “Your boss. Didn’t he die?”

All the men guffawed.

“Depends on which paper you read,” one of them said. “Another round of drinks, Mike,” he said to the bartender. “What for you?”
he asked, looking into Fletch’s glass. “I don’t know your name.”

“Mike,” Fletch said. “Mike Smith.”

“And a beer for Mike, Mike.”

“Mike Smith? You were on the U. at Berkeley golf team, weren’t you?”

“Is Thomas Bradley dead or not?” Fletch asked.

“Everywhere but in the
News-Tribune
.”

Fletch looked confused.

“Yes,” Alex Corcoran said in a more serious tone. “He died. About a year ago. Did you know him?”

“I knew his sister,” Fletch said. “In New York. Francine.”

“Oh, yeah?” Corcoran’s face expressed great interest.

“Well, met her once,” Fletch said. “At a party, you know?”

“What’s she like?” Alex asked.

“You mean you’ve never met her?”

“No. She’s coming out to take over the company, and I’ve never met her. Tom used to say she was brilliant. Never came West, as far as I know.”

“How did Tom die?” Fletch asked.

“Went to France for some medical treatments and didn’t survive them, is what I understand.”

“France?”

“Never knew he was as sick as he was. He used to be moody, and act down-in-the-dumps once in a while. Jeez, I didn’t know the guy was fatally ill—dyin’!”

“But you did know he was sick?”

“No. Not really. The only comment I made about it to my wife was that he seemed to be getting smaller. Don’t ask me what I mean, because I don’t know. I guess his shoulders got thinner. He must have lost weight. He wasn’t very big to begin with. Poor ol’ Tom. Here’s to you, Tom.” Alex raised his glass and tipped it like a censer before drinking.

“Nice trophy,” Fletch said, nodding to it on the bar.

“Say, so you know his sister, Francine Bradley, eh?” Alex Corcoran said.

“Well, as I said, I only met her once.”

“Enid says she’s a real clever business woman, that this Francine and Tom used to talk all the time. Some of Tom’s best ideas came from Francine, Enid said.”

“I guess she’s pretty clever,” Fletch said.

“Tom left it in his Will that Francine was to take over operation of the company—if she was willing and able. Tell you—what’s
your name?”

“Mike.”

“I’ll tell you, Mike, I’ll welcome her with open arms.”

“You will? Company not running so well?”

“Well, you know, a company needs a head—someone to make the people-decisions, give it a direction. I’m president, by the grace of Tom Bradley, but I’m not good that way. What I’m very good at is selling things to people. That’s all I can do; that’s all I want to do. I mean, really, my wife says I could sell snowballs to Siberians. Long-range corporate planning, the day-to-day stuff—I’m not good that way. Enid tries, but, you know …”

“Enid is Tom’s wife?”

“Yeah. Nice lady. Once in a while she has a good idea, but, you know … long-range planning. Listen, anything Tom Bradley decided to do with his company is all right with me. He could have left it to his horse, and I’d say, sure, fine, good idea.”

“Tom rides?”

Alex looked at him. “A figure of speech. Don’t you know your Roman history?”

“Oh.”

“As a matter of fact, Tom did ride. Kept a horse out in the valley, somewhere. Rode on Sundays, some week-day mornings. Yeah, he liked riding. He’d go alone, I guess.”

“Sounds like you were fond of him.”

“Listen.” Alex’s eyes became a little wet. “Fond of him … I loved that guy. He was a real gentleman. Except for his stupid, raunchy jokes everybody had always heard before. That’s what was so funny about them. He was one hell of a nice man. People like that shouldn’t die so young. When you consider all the shits who live a lot older—like me!”

“Gotta split.” Fletch put his beer glass on the bar, and held out his hand to Alex Corcoran. “Nice talking with you. Sorry about Tom Bradley.”

“Yeah, yeah. I gotta go too. My wife will be lookin’ for me.” Two of the other golfers in the group had left. Alex Corcoran picked his trophy up off the bar. “Come here, you little darlin’.” He kissed it. “Where the hell would a man be, if it weren’t for golf?”

“Home with the wife,” said one of the other golfers.

And they all laughed.

F 
L E T C H   D R O V E   H O M E
in the dark, but the lights in his apartment were on and Moxie came to the door as soon as she heard his key in the lock. She was wearing an apron and nothing else.

“Gee,” Fletch said. ‘Just like a wife.”

“Not like wife.” With her fingers Moxie held the edges of the apron’s skirt away from her skin and curtsied, as a geisha might. “Like Moxie Mooney.”

He kissed her. “Your ex-wife called,” she said. He kissed her again. “Tom Jeffries called. Wants you to call him back.” He kissed her again.

“What did good ol’ Linda want?”

“Oh, we talked a long time. She told me what a male nymphomaniac you are, how unreliable you are, how funny you are. She told me about the time you called her from the office and said you were on your way home and then went to Hawaii.”

“There was a story in Hawaii.”

“She said the meatloaf got cold. How cruel you were to her cat. I believe she loves you.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I told her I believe you still love her.”

“Thanks a heap. I love paying her alimony.”

“Oh, she said you haven’t. Paid her any alimony, that is. I told her I didn’t understand that, as you have scads of money, have just ordered a sixty-foot motor cruiser, and anytime she needs money she’s to come to you, alimony be damned.”

“Terrific. What else did you do for me?”

“Told her you’d just given me a diamond tiara and a mink coat.”

“I’m sure she believed you.”

“I don’t think so, somehow. Go telephone what’s-his-name. He’s the guy with the broken back, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll run you a bath.”

“Why don’t we—?”

She put her hand against his shoulder and pushed. “Yucky, dirty, smelly boy. If I’m going to give my all for you, least you might do is remove the outer layer of pollution.”

“But, but—”

“Lots of evening left.”

She turned her back on him and hopped into the bathroom.

‘Tom? Fletch. How’s life at ground level?”

“Never, never, Fletch, have I known there were so many ants in the world. All day I spend in the patio watching ants.”

From the livingroom, Fletch could hear the bath water running. “You don’t see many ants when you’re hang-gliding I guess.”

“Actually, ants are sort of interesting. Just like people, only more so.”

“The Darwin of the patio.”

“Listen, I called you not only because I’m bored out of my mind but also to tell you a funny story. Cheer you up. A story under the heading
Incompetent People Who Do Not Get Fired From The News-Tribune
—”

“There are some?”

“Jack Carradine called this morning, after you left. About Clara Snow.”

“What’s she done now?”

“You know she’s been assigned to the State House, just as if she were a real reporter?”

“Yes.”

“Well, while assigned to the State House she failed to report that the Governor’s press-secretary’s brother owns a car dealership which, if you can believe it, has been selling cars to the state police.”

“Clara didn’t report that?”

“She put her nose up in the air, looked all haughty, you know, as only she can, and said she felt the matter was too personal.”

“To whom?”

“A private matter, she said. Having to do with family life. Not in the public interest to report. Then she said the state police have to buy their cars from somewhere. Can you believe that?”