Fletch's Fortune (21 page)

Suddenly, Molinaro’s eyes opened, immediately looking alert and wary, even before shifting to focus on Fletch and Gillis.

“Good morning,” Fletch said. “Seems you took a nap before breakfast.”

Molinaro sat up on his elbows, and then reacted to pain in his head.

His wallet slipped off his chest onto the dry dirt of the road.

“Take it easy,” Fletch said. “You’ve already missed post time.”

Molinaro’s eyes glazed and he looked as if he were about to sink to the ground again.

Fletch put his hand behind Molinaro’s arm.

“Come on. You’ll feel better if you get up. Get the blood going again.”

He helped Molinaro stand, waited while he wiped the blood off his lips, examined it on his hand.

Molinaro looked sourly at Gillis.

Throwing off Fletch’s hand, Molinaro staggered the few steps to the back of the camper and sat on the sill of the open door.

“You have some bad habits,” Gillis said. “And I have a quick temper.”

“Your name Joseph Molinaro?” Fletch asked.

The man’s eyes moved slowly from Gillis to Fletch without losing any of their bitterness.

He said nothing.

“What relation are you to Walter March?” Gillis asked.

Still the man said nothing.

“Are you his son?” Fletch asked.

The man’s eyes lowered to the road, and then off into the scrub pine.

And he snorted.

Fists again on hips, Gillis looked expressionlessly at Fletch.

A mosquito was in the air near Fletch’s face. He caught it in his hand.

Gillis went to the side of the road and gathered up his horse’s reins and slowly returned to where he had been standing.

He said to Molinaro, “You are Walter March’s son. With that face you have to be. Did you murder him?”

Molinaro said, “Why would I murder him?”

“You tell us,” Gillis said.

“The son of a bitch is no good to me dead,” Molinaro said.

Gillis watched him with narrow eyes, saying nothing.

“What good was he to you alive?” Fletch asked.

Molinaro shrugged. “There was always hope.”

There was another silent moment while Molinaro rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands.

Finally, Fletch said, “Come on, Joe. We’re not out to get you.” He had considered telling Molinaro that Poynton had reported there would be a national advisory issued that morning saying the police wanted to question him. He had also considered advising Captain Andrew Neale of the whereabouts of Joseph Molinaro. “We’re not even looking for a story.”

Molinaro said, “Just nosy, uh?”

Joseph Molinaro had been in the vicinity of the crime at the time the crime was committed.

He had accosted Mrs. Leary in the parking lot Sunday morning, and Walter March had been murdered Monday morning.

Clearly, Joseph Molinaro was a close relative of Walter March.

Fletch said, “What good was Walter March to you alive?”

“I wrote three or four polite letters when I was fifteen, asking to see him. No answers.” Molinaro’s fingers
were touching his jaw, gently. “When I was nineteen, I took a year’s savings, working in a laundry, for Christ’s sake, went to New York, lived in a fleabag for as long as I could hold out, just to bug his secretary, asking for an appointment. First I gave my name, then I gave any name I could think of. He was always out of the country, out of the city, in conference.” He winced. “I had even bought a suit and tie so I’d have something to dress in, if he’d see me.”

“He was your father?” Gillis asked.

“So I’ve always heard.”

“Who told you? Who said so?” Gillis asked.

“My grandparents. They brought me up. In Florida.” Molinaro was looking at Gillis with more interest. “I never even saw your fist,” he said.

“You never do,” said Gillis. “You never see the knockout punch.”

“You used to box? I mean, professionally?”

Gillis said, “I used to play piano.”

Molinaro shook his head, as much as his head permitted him. “Fat old fart.”

“You want to not see my fist again?”

Molinaro stared at him.

“You’re Frank Gillis, the television guy.”

“I know that,” Frank Gillis said.

“I’ve seen you on television.”

“How come you roll your own?” Gillis asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“Just unusual. Ever work in the Southwest?”

“Yeah,” Molinaro said. “On a dude ranch, in Colorado. And one day I read Walter March owned a Denver newspaper. So I gave up my job and went to Denver and spent every day, all day, outside that newspaper building. Finally, one night, seven o’clock, he came out. Three men with him. I ran up to him. Two of the men
blocked me off, big bruisers, the third opened the car door. And off went Walter March.”

“Did he see you?” Fletch asked “Did he see your face?”

“He looked at me before he got into the car. And he looked at me again through the car window as he was being driven off. Three, four years ago. Son of a bitch.”

“You know, Joe,” Gillis said. “You’re not too good at taking a hint.”

“What’s so wrong with having an illegitimate son?” Molinaro’s voice rose. “Jesus! What was ever wrong with it? Even in the Dark Ages, you could say hello to your illegitimate son!”

Standing in the sunlight on a timber road a few kilometers behind Hendricks Plantation, Fletch found himself thinking of Crystal Faoni.
I didn’t act contrite enough.… He fired a great many people on moral grounds… I’d be pleased to be accused.…

“Your father was sort of screwed up,” Fletch said.

Molinaro squinted up at him. “You knew him?”

“I worked for him once. Maybe I spent five minutes in total with him.” Fletch said, “Your five minutes, I guess.”

Molinaro continued to look at Fletch.

Gillis asked, “You came to Virginia in hopes of seeing him?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you know he was here?”

“President of the American Journalism Alliance. The convention. Read about it in the papers. The
Miami Herald.”

“What made you think he’d be any gladder to see you this time than he was last time?”

“Older,” Molinaro said. “Mellower. There was always hope.”

“Why didn’t you register at the hotel?” Gillis asked. “Why hide up here in the woods?”

“You kidding? You recognized me. I planned to stay pretty clear of the hotel. Until I absolutely knew I could get through to him.”

“Did you contact him at all?” Fletch asked.

“On the radio, Monday night, I heard he’d been murdered. First I knew he’d actually arrived here. I’d been noseying around. Hadn’t been able to find out anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gillis said. “So why are you still here?”

There was hatred for Gillis on Molinaro’s face. “There’s a memorial service. This morning. You bastard.”

Gillis said, “I’m not the bastard.”

He got on his horse and settled her down.

“Hey, Joe,” Gillis said. “I’m sorry I said that.” The hatred in Molinaro’s face did not diminish. “I mean, I’m really sorry.”

Fletch said, “Joe. Who was your mother?”

Molinaro gave Fletch the hatred full-face.

And didn’t answer.

Fletch stared into the younger, unlined face of Walter March.

He stared into the unmasked hatred.

Having known, slightly, the smooth, controlled, diplomatic mask of Walter March, Fletch was seeing the face now as it probably really was.

Probably as the murderer of Walter March had seen him.

“Joe.” Fletch mounted his horse. “Your father was really screwed up. Morally. He made his own laws, and
most of ’em stank. Whatever you wanted from your father, I suspect you’re better off without.”

Sullenly, bitterly, still sitting on the doorsill of the camper, Joseph Molinaro said, “Is that your eulogy?”

“Yeah,” Fletch said. “I guess it is.”

The pool was empty, and no one was around it except one man—a very thin man—sitting in a long chair, dressed in baggy, knee-length shorts, a vertically striped shirt open at the throat, and polished black loafers.

Next to his chair was a black attaché case.

Fletch had approached the hotel from the rear, still shirtless and sweaty.

While he was fitting his key into the lock of the sliding glass door, the man came and stood beside him.

He seemed peculiarly interested in seeing the key go into the lock.

“Good morning,” Fletch said.

“I.R.S.,” the man said.

Fletch slid the door open. “How do you spell that?”

“Internal Revenue Service.”

Fletch entered the cool, dark room, leaving the door open.

“Let’s see, now, you have something to do with taxes?”

“Something.”

He sat on a light chair, the attaché case on his knees.

Fletch threw his T-shirt on the bed, his room key on the bureau.

The man opened the attaché case and appeared ready to proceed.

Fletch said, “You haven’t asked me to identify myself.”

“Don’t need to,” the man said. “It appeared in a Washington newspaper you were here. I was sent down. The room clerk said you were in Room 79. You just let yourself in with the key to Room 79.”

Fletch said, “Oh. Well, you haven’t identified yourself.”

The man shook his head. “I.R.S.,” he said. “I.R.S.”

“But what do I call you?” Fletch asked. “I? I.R.? Mister S.?”

“You don’t need to call me anything,” I.R.S. said. “Just respond.”

“Ir.”

Fletch went to the phone and dialed Room 102.

“Calling your lawyer?” I.R.S. asked.

“Crystal?” Fletch said into the phone. “I need a couple of things.”

She said, “Have you had breakfast?”

Fletch said, “I forget.”

“You forget whether you’ve had breakfast?”

“I’m not talking about breakfast.”

“Was it that bad? I had the pancakes and sausages, myself. Maple syrup. I know I shouldn’t have had the blueberry muffins, but I did. It was a long night.”

“I know. And you may be eating for two now, right?”

“Fletch, will you ever forgive me?”

“We’ll see.”

“Good. Then let’s do it again.”

“I had some difficulty explaining to hotel management how the bar for the shower curtain got ripped out.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them I tried to do a chin-up.”

“They believed that?”

“No. But one has to start one’s lying somewhere.”

“Were they nasty about it?”

“They were perfectly nice about saying they would put it on my bill. Listen, I need a couple of things. And I have a guest.”

“Freddie Arbuthnot? No wonder you forgot breakfast.”

Fletch looked at I.R.S. The man was almost entirely Adam’s apple.

“Close.”

The man’s shoulders were little more than outriggers for his ears.

“Anything, Fletcher darling, love of my life. Ask me for anything.”

“I need one of those cassette tape recorders. You know, with a tape splicer? I need to splice some tape. Do you have one?”

“Mine doesn’t have a splicer. I’m very sure that Bob McConnell has one, though.”

“Bob?”

“Would you like me to call him for you?”

“No, thanks. I’ll call him myself.”

Crystal said, “I think he’s disposed to cooperate with you in any way he can.”

“Mentioning me in his piece has caused me a little bit of trouble.”

I.R.S. was flicking his pen against his thumbnail, impatiently.

“What’s the other thing, darling?”

“I finished my travel piece. Want to send it off. Do you have anything like a big envelope, a box, wrapping paper, string?”

“There’s a branch post office in the lobby.”

“Yeah.”

“They sell big mailers these days.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Big insulated envelopes, boxes, right up to the legal limit in size.”

“Yeah. I forgot.”

“Over the door there’s a sign saying ‘United States Post Office.’ ”

“Thank you, Crystal.”

“If you get lost in the lobby, just ask anyone.”

“Crystal? I’m going to say something very, very rotten to you.”

“What?”

“The dining room is still open for breakfast.”

“Rat”

Fletch hung up but continued standing by the bed. He needed a shower. He thought of jumping in the pool. He wanted to do both.

“If we might get down to the business at hand?” I.R.S. said.

“Oh, yeah. How the hell are ya?”

“Mister Fletcher, our records indicate you’ve never filed a tax return.”

“Gee.”

“Are our records accurate?”

“Sure.”

“Your various employers over the years—and, I must say, there is an impressive number of them—have withheld tax money from your income, so it’s not as if you’d paid no tax at all.”

“Good, good.”

“However, not filing returns is a crime.”

“Shucks.”

“As a matter of personal curiosity, may I ask why you have not filed returns?”

“April’s always a busy month for me. You know. In the spring a young man’s fancy really shouldn’t have to turn to the Internal Revenue Service.”

“You could always apply for extensions.”