Fletch's Fortune (13 page)

Other journalists referred to Lewis Graham as “the
Reader’s Digest
of the air.”

It was questioned whether behind his grayness he had any personality he had not lifted from newsprint.

Lewis Graham said, “I didn’t know where to sit. I expect lunch is the same at all the tables.”

Crystal Faoni was still staring at Fletch after he sat down.

Freddie said, “A fairly even match, if I may say so. Six-four you; six-four me; seven-five us.”

“Me,” said Fletch.

“It was just your chauvinist pride.”

“Me,” said Fletch. “Me.”

“Not a clear victory. Your arms and legs are longer than mine.”

“The thing about tennis,” Lewis Graham said, “is that someone has to win, and someone has to lose.”

Crystal turned her stare at Lewis Graham.

They all stared at Lewis Graham.

“Tennis always provides a clear victory,” Lewis Graham said.

Fletch asked, “Did you read that somewhere?”

Crystal said to Fletch, “I ordered you both the chicken Divan and the chef’s salad.”

“Thank you for thinking of me,” Fletch said. “I don’t want both.”

“You want one of them?”

“Yes. I want one of them.”

“Then I’ll have the other one. Well, why should I embarrass myself by ordering two meals for myself—when I can embarrass you instead? You need a little embarrassing.”

“Why should you be embarrassed?”

“Oh, come off it, Fletch,” Crystal Faoni said. “Have you ever made love to a really fat girl?”

Graham shifted his elbows uncomfortably on the table.

“I’ll weigh the question,” Fletch said.

“As fat as I am?”

Fletch said, “It’s a heavy question.”

Lewis Graham cleared his throat and said, “You appear to be giving light answers.”

During the lunch (Fletch ate the salad; Crystal ate two Divans, which caused Lewis Graham to quip that all she needed more to entertain was a fireplace and a coffee table), the topic of Walter March’s murder arose, and, after listening awhile to Graham’s reporting what he had read in the morning newspapers, complete with two Old Testament references to the transitory nature of life, Crystal raised her large, beautiful head from the trough and said, “You know, I heard Walter March announce his retirement.”

“I didn’t know he had,” said Graham.

“He did.”

“So what?” Freddie asked. “He was over seventy.”

“It was more than five years ago.”

“Men look forward to their retirements with mixed feelings,” said Graham. “On the one hand, they desire
retirement in their weariness. On the other, they shirk from the loss of power, the vacuum, the … uh… retirement which is attendant upon uh…,” he said, “… retirement.”

Crystal, Freddie, and Fletch stared at Lewis Graham again.

“Was it a public announcement?” Fletch asked.

“Oh, yes,” Crystal answered. “A deliberate, official, public announcement. It was at the opening of the new newspaper plant in San Francisco. I was covering. There was a reception, you see, big names and gowns and things, so of course the darling editors sent a woman to write it all up. There were scads of those little hors d’oeuvres, you know, chicken livers wrapped in bacon, duck and goose pates, landing fields of herring in sour cream.…”

“Crystal,” Fletch said.

“What?”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, thanks. I’m having lunch.”

“Get on with the story, please.”

“Anyway, Walter March was to make one of those wowee, whizbang, look at our new plant, look at us, what an accomplishment speeches, and he did. But he also took the occasion to announce his retirement. He said he was sixty-five and he had instituted and enforced the retirement age of sixty-five throughout the company and although he understood better how people felt reaching sixty-five, being forced to retire, when he felt in the prime of his life, years of experience behind him, years of energy ahead of him, wasted, blah, blah, he was no exception to his own rules, he was retiring himself.”

“I guess, ultimately, he considered himself an exception to his own rules,” Freddie said.

“He always did,” said Lewis Graham.

“He even said he was having his boat brought around to San Diego and was looking forward to sailing the South Pacific with wife of umpty-ump years, Lydia. He painted quite a picture. Sailing off into the sunset, hand in hand with his childhood sweetheart, sitting on his poop or whatever it is yachts have.”

“He owned a big catamaran, didn’t he?” Freddie asked.

“A trimaran,” said Lewis Graham. “Three hulls. I chartered it once.”

“You did?” Fletch said.

“A few years ago. The
Lydia.
I used to consider Walter March sort of a friend.”

“What happened?” Fletch said. “Boat spring a leak?”

Lewis Graham shrugged.

“I don’t see anything unusual in this,” Freddie Arbuthnot said. “Lots of people get cold feet when it comes time to retire.”

Fletch said, “Did he say when he was going to retire, Crystal? I mean, did he give any definite time?”

“In six months. The new plant was opened in December, and I clearly remember his saying he and Lydia were westward-hoing in June.”

“He was definite?”

“Definite. I reported it. We all did. It’s in the files. ‘
WALTER MARCH ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT
’. And he said the greatest joy of his life was that he was leaving March Newspapers in good hands.”

“Whose?” Freddie asked.

Crystal said, “Guess.”

“The little bastard,” Lewis Graham said. “Junior.”

“I saw him this morning,” Crystal said. “In the elevator. Boy, does he look awful. Dead eyes staring out of a white face. You’d think he’d died, instead of his father.”

“Understandable,” said Fletch.

“Junior looked like he was going somewhere to lie down quietly in a coffin,” Crystal said. “Everyone in the elevator was silent.”

“So,” Fletch said, “why didn’t Walter March retire when he said he was going to? Is that the question?”

“Because,” Lewis Graham said, “the bastard wanted to be President of the American Journalism Alliance. That’s the simple reason. He wanted it badly. I can tell you how badly he wanted it.”

Graham saw the three of them staring at him again, realized how forcefully he had spoken, and relaxed in his chair.

He said, “I’m just saying he wanted to cap his career with the presidency of the A.J.A. He spoke to me about it years ago. He was canvassing for support, eight, ten years ago.”

“Did you offer him your support?” Fletch asked.

“Of course I did. Then. He had a few years to go before retirement, and I had a whole decade. Then.”

The waiter was pouring the coffee.

“Two or three times,” Lewis Graham continued, “he got his name placed in nomination. I never did. And he never won.” Graham pushed the coffee cup away from him. “Until last year. Both our names were placed in nomination.”

“I see,” Fletch said.

“Well,” Graham said, “I don’t have the advantage Walter March had—I don’t own my own network.” Graham looked a little abashed. “I have to retire the first of this year. There’s no way I can hang on.”

Crystal said, “And the A.J.A. bylaws say our officers have to be working journalists.”

“Right,” Graham said with surprising bitterness. “Not retired journalists.”

“Is that why you stopped considering Walter March
a friend?” asked Freddie. “Because you opposed each other in an election?”

“Oh, no,” said Graham. “I’m an old man, now, with much experience. Especially political. There are very few things in the course of elections I haven’t seen. I’ve witnessed some very dirty campaigns, in my time.” Graham deferred to the younger people at the table. “I guess we all have. One just never expects to be the victim of such a campaign.”

A bellman was having Fletch pointed out to him by the headwaiter.

Graham said, “I guess you all know Walter March kept a whole barnyard full of private detectives?”

Crystal, Freddie, Fletch said nothing.

Graham sat back in his chair.

“End of story,” he said.

The bellman was standing next to Fletch’s chair.

“Telephone, Mister Fletcher,” he said. “Would you come with me?”

Fletch put down his napkin and rose from his seat.

“I wouldn’t bother you, sir,” the bellman said, “except they said it’s the Pentagon calling.”

“One moment, sir. Major Lettvin calling.”

Fletch had been led to a wall phone down the corridor from the entrance to the dining room.

Leaving the dining room, he had seen (and ignored) Don Gibbs.

Through the plate glass window at the end of the corridor, a couple of meters away, he could see the midday sunlight shimmering on the car tops in the parking lot.

“How do,” the Major said. “Do I have the honor of addressing Irwin Maurice Fletcher?”

The drawl was thicker than Mississippi mud.

“Right,” said Fletch.

“Veteran of the United States Marine Corps?”

“Yes.”

“Serial Number 1893983?”

“It was. I retired it. Anyone can use it now.”

“Well, sir, some sharp-eyed old boy here in one of our clerical departments, reading about that murder in the newspaper, you know, what’s his name? where you at?”

The drawl was so steeped in courtesy everything sounded like a question.

After a moment, Fletch said, “Walter March.”

“Walter March. Say, you’re right in the middle of things again, aren’t ya?”

Fletch said, “Middle of lunch, actually.”

“Anyway, this here sharp-eyed old boy—he’s from Tennessee—I suspect he was pretty well-known around home for shooting off hens’ teeth at a hundred meters—well, anyway, reading this story in the newspaper about Walter March’s murder, he spotted your name?”

Again, it sounded like a question.

Fletch said, “Yes.”

“Say, you aren’t a suspect or anything in this murder, are ya?”

“No.”

“What I mean to say is, you’re not implicated in this here murder in any way, are ya?”

“I wasn’t even here when it was committed. I was flying over the Atlantic. I was coming from Italy.”

“Well, the way this story is written, it makes you wonder. Why do journalists do things like this? Ask me, take all the journalists in the world, put ’em in a pot, and all you’ve got is fishbait.” Major Lettvin paused. “Oops. Sorry. You’re a journalist, aren’t ya? I forgot that for a moment. Sportswriters I don’t mind so much.”

“I’m not a sportswriter.”

“Well, he recognized your name—how many Irwin Maurice Fletchers can there be?” (Fletch restrained himself from saying, “I don’t know.”) “And checked against our files here at the P-gon, and, sure enough, there you were. Serial Number 1893983. That you?”

“Major, do you have a point? This is long distance. You never can tell. A taxpayer might be listening in.”

“That’s right.” The Major chuckled. “That’s right.”

There was a long silence.

“Major?”

“Point is, we’ve been lookin’ for ya, high and low, these many years.”

“Why?”

“Says here we owe you a Bronze Star. Did you know that?”

“I heard a rumor.”

“Well, if you knew it, how come you’ve never arranged to get decorated?”

“I.…”

“Seems to me, if a fella wins a Bronze Star he ought to get it pinned to his chest. These things are important.”

“Major, it’s nice of you to call.…”

“No problem, no problem. Just doin’ my duty. We got so many people here at the P-gon, everybody doin’ each other’s lazying, it’s a sheer pleasure to have something to do—you know what I mean?—to separate breakfast from supper.”

There was a man ambling across the parking lot, hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

“You going to be there a few days, Mister Fletcher?”

“Where?”

“Wherever you are. Hendricks Plantation, Hendricks, Virginia.”

“Yes.”

The man in the parking lot wore a blue jeans jacket.

“Well, I figure what I’ll do is dig up a general somewhere—believe me, that’s not difficult around the P-gon—we’ve got more generals in one coffee shop than Napoleon had in his whole army—we could decorate the Statue of Liberty with ’em, and you’d never see the paint peel—and move his ass down to Hendricks, Virginia.…”

“General? I mean, Major?”

The man in the parking lot also had tight, curly gray hair.

“I figure a presentation ceremony, in front of all those journalists—decorating one of their own, so to speak, with a Bronze Star.…”

The man who had accosted Mrs. Leary in the parking lot.

“Major? I’ve got to go.”

“The Marine Corps could use some good press, these days, you know.…”

“Major. I’ve got to go. An emergency. My pants are on fire. Call me back.”

Fletch hung up, turned around, and headed down the corridor at high speed.

He found a fire door with EXIT written over it, pushed through it, and ran down the stairs.

He entered the parking area slowly, trying not to make it too obvious he was looking for someone.

No one else was in the parking lot.

The man had been walking toward the back of the area.

Fletch went to the white rail fence and walked along it, looking down the slope to his right.