Son of Fletch (5 page)

“Didn’t want to bother you. Besides, I wasn’t supposed to leave Kentucky, State of.”

“You escaped from a maximum-security federal penitentiary after only five weeks?”

“I didn’t like it there,” Jack said. “Noisy. Food could have been better. I’d read all the books in the library.”

“You know karate?”

“A type of.” Again, Jack looked at Fletch in surprise. “Ah! You were outside, weren’t you? You watched me lead my ‘traveling companions’ to the gully.”

“What’s the name of the big one you disciplined with your foot and the side of your hand?”

“Leary. He’s crazy.”

“And which is Kriegel?”

“The short, bald guy, with eyeglasses. His name is Kris Kriegel, with a K Would you believe that? How did you follow me?” Jack looked at Fletch’s sneakers, the cuffs of his jeans. “You’re not wet.”

In a more conversational tone, Fletch asked, “Where is Crystal?”

“Generally, or at the moment?”

“Generally. And at the moment.”

“Indiana.”

“Is she working as a journalist?”

“Sort of. No.” Jack sat forward. “She owns five radio stations.”

“Good for her.”

“She calls them her money machines. We live, lived outside Bloomington.” He poured himself more milk. “At the moment, she’s on her semiannual sojourn on a fat farm. She locks herself up for two weeks twice a year.
Incommunicado
. Concentrates on losing weight. She has to. If she doesn’t, she can’t walk …” Fletch saw an exasperation based on love in Jack’s face. “Her legs will crack under her. Her veins … her heart…”

Jack had eaten every bit of food from the tray.

“You want more food?” Fletch asked.

Quickly, Jack sat back. “No. No, thanks. Maybe later.”

Fletch sat at the desk. “How did you know where I live?”

“We see your name in the newspapers once in a while. Ever since you wrote the book
Pinto: The Biography of Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior
. That was a big success, wasn’t it?”

Fletch asked. “Did you read it?”

“Yeah.”

Fletch waited for Jack to say more. After a moment of silence, Fletch said, “I guess it’s been praised enough.”

“Big book,” Jack said.

Fletch said, “It took a while.”

Jack took a deep breath. “Where do you get off writing a book concerning Native Americans—
Indians
—white man?”

Fletch said, “Where did Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior, get off painting Native Americans—
Indians
—sculpting them? He was a ‘white man,’ too.”

“Exactly. He painted and sculpted them as part of their horses. You said so yourself. In your book. You wrote, Tharp stretched and lit the naked muscles of the Indian riders exactly as he did the muscles of the horses on which they rode.’ Right?”

“Right.”

“‘He painted the women, rounded, with babies on their backs, in the same configurations as the earth mounds behind them.’”

“So,” Fletch said. “You read the book.”

“I read the book.”

“You giving me an argument about my work?”

“I’m giving you an argument.”

“Okay.” Fletch sighed. “Where did a Harvard-educated, Jewish American male get off writing, composing
West Side Story
about urban Puerto Rican youngsters, based on a play about youngsters in Verona, Italy, called
Romeo and Juliet
written by a white, male Englishman named William Shakespeare, who had never been to Italy?”

Jack grinned. “I guess you’re familiar with this argument.”

“Yeah. I’ve confronted it, once or twice. I have been surprised to perceive the prejudice against my work, in one or two quarters.”

“What’s the answer?”

“In the first place, it never occurred to me. I know what I am. And I know what I am not. At least unlike some, I know I cannot
be
someone else, truly see and feel from someone else’s experience and heart. Nevertheless, I have always believed in empathy, in the broad commonality of being human. Admittedly, we cannot understand. But we can try. Too, although Native Americans had and have a great art, Tharp’s representation of them, and the cowboys, the steam locomotives, the horses, the buffalo, were representations the Indians and the settlers were not about to do themselves. Tharp memorialized them, with empathy and love. Without his works, we would know less, understand less. And I tried to memorialize Tharp and his works with empathy and love.”

“You’re lecturing.”

“You asked a question. I answered it.”

“You believe in straight lines, don’t you?”

“Nature does not love the straight line,” Fletch said. “Man is compelled to it.”

“‘Man’?”

“Broadly speaking.”

“Is that a pun?”

“I think I’ve just learned not to feed you.”

Jack folded his arms across his chest. “My mother tried to write a book once. She only did about eighty pages. Half of it was about you. Half of it was about me. She loves to tell stories about you.”

“She used to beat people over their heads with stories about me.”

“Any of them true?”

“Not really.”

“How about the time you were in Brazil and the people there took you for the ghost of someone murdered even before you were born, and you had no choice but to solve the murder of yourself?”

“Crystal told you that story?”

“What about it?”

“A ghost story.”

“My mother loved you. She still does. She loved you sexually as well, you know.”

“I guess I didn’t understand that.”

“You married a royal princess? I saw that in the newspapers, too.”

“I was married to a princess, yes.”

“She was murdered.”

“Assassinated.”

“Why?”

“Middle Europe. Politics. Ethnicity.”

“Is ethnicity politics?”

“Oh, yes. In our coming together and our moving apart. Just politics. Always just a few people seeking power for themselves.”

“Were you with her when … your wife … was assassinated?”

“I was in the car behind her. Annie Maggie never thought about politics. She thought about cooking. She thought about the various kinds of fruits, and cheeses, and sauces, new potatoes and cutlets.”

“Was she fat?”

“No.”

“And you’re alone here now, on the farm?”

“I was going to apologize to you for all my questions,” Fletch said.

“Oh, I knew you know how to ask questions.”

“You were expecting my questions, weren’t you?”

“You were a reporter.”

“Aren’t I still?”

Jack flicked a hand at the study’s walls. “I don’t know any reporter who lives this way. Why don’t you have any paintings by Edgar Arthur Tharp?”

“Who can afford them? Besides, I spent years working on Tharp. One likes to think one can come to the end of something.” He opened a desk drawer. He took out of it a pistol. From a separate, locked drawer, he took out the pistol’s cartridge and a box of shells. “You know all this about me from newspapers and your mother, is that it?”

He crossed the study and put the pistol on Jack’s lap. He placed the cartridge and the box of shells on the coffee table beside the tray.

Jack asked, “What’s this?”

“A pistol,” Fletch answered.

Jack sat up, with the pistol still on his shorts. “I know that. I mean, what are you doing?”

“Giving you a pistol.”

“Why?” Besides having the pistol in his lap, Jack was touching no part of it. “Are you trying to trick me?”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“You weren’t with me in the Jeep when I came to that roadblock. Nor were you mentioned. An hour later, when the deputies arrived, you were here. How did you get here? Where’s your vehicle? People here don’t really, really believe frogs drop from the sky in a hard rain. The cops must have a description of you. I want you armed. If the counties come back knowing who you are, I want you to have the decency to tell them you have been holding me and—me captive. Load it.”

Jack put his hand into the box of shells. “You still have your pistol.”

“I can make it disappear faster than you can inhale a tuna sandwich.”

Jack concentrated on loading the cartridge.

Fletch said, “Aiding a fugitive from justice is against the law.”

“How about arming one?”

“You’re not going to shoot anybody.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Jack put only five shells into the cartridge. He put the cartridge down.

“Load the cartridge into the gun,” Fletch said.

Again watching himself carefully, Jack slid the cartridge into the handgun’s grip.

“Aren’t you going to put a bullet into the chamber?” Fletch asked.

“Later.” Jack placed the handgun on the divan beside him.

The brass knocker on the front door banged more than a half dozen times. Fletch smiled. He said: “Hark.”

He pulled his shirt out over the butt of the gun in his waistband.

On the front porch stood a short, fat, balding man in prison denims. From head to foot and side to side he was covered with mud and manure. He squinted through filthy, askew, steamed glasses.

“You’re Kris Kriegel, the escaped murderer?” Fletch asked.

“Yeah.”

“Go around back.”

Fletch slammed the door just as the man stepped toward it.

Going back into the study, Fletch said to Jack, “It’s someone for you.” The handgun he had given Jack was not in sight. “I sent him around back. If you can’t keep the shit out of the house, at least keep the mud out. Mud the cops will notice.”

O
n the bed
, Carrie was sitting on Fletch, still in the position in which both had climaxed.

“I could sit here forever,” Carrie said, “feeling you inside me. What would you do if I sat here forever?”

On his back, Fletch shrugged. “Send out for Chinese, I guess.”

Laughing, Carrie fell to her side on the rumpled bed-sheets.

Climbing the stairs, Fletch had said to Jack, who was going along the hallway below him toward the back of the house, “I’m going to sleep.”

He did not sleep.

He had rapped lightly on the bedroom door and said, softly, “All escaped convicts are chickens.”

When he inserted his head around the door frame into the dawn-lit room, Carrie’s big, blue eyes were on high beam.

The shotgun was on the bed with her, aimed at the door. The index finger of her left hand was on the trigger.

Fletch laughed.

He closed the door behind him.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

“All things being relative.”

Fletch took off his clothes and got onto the bed. “You’re not ready to go downstairs yet, are you?” he asked.

“No.”

She proved it.

Then, curled beside him, she asked, “Have we had any visitors?”

“Yeah. Santa Claus just showed up at the front door.”

“Hate to tell you this, Yankee, but Santa doesn’t come in the summertime.” She giggled and punched Fletch in the ribs.

“Poor him. His name is Kris Kriegel. He’s short, fat—”

Her head snapped back for a better look at Fletch’s full face. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah. He’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

“Kris Kriegel.”

“One of the convicts! I thought I heard a pounding on the front door. It woke me up.”

“Guess he couldn’t find one of the chimneys. Two of the other convicts I guess are still hiding out in the gully.”

“What gully? The big gully…?” She moved her head to indicate direction. “… Yonder?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know they’re there?”

“I sent them there, to hide. Michael and Will came for the Jeep. They patrolled the place pretty well.”

“The gully.” Carrie made a face. “During the storm?”

“You care?”

“Why there? You knew that would turn into a ragin’ flood. God, the snakes!”

“To wear them all out. If we’re gonna have escaped felons around here, we might as well have exhausted ones.”

“Have them around here! Why didn’t you shoot them? Why didn’t you turn them all in? You said Michael and Will were here.” She sat up, cross-legged on the bed. Instantly, she was picking her fingers.

“Because of Jack.”

“Who’s jack?”

“Carrie, I think he’s my son.”

Her head snapped to look at him.

He sat up, too. “I knew a woman, once, named Crystal Faoni. She was a journalist, too.” Fletch spoke rapidly. “At a journalists’ convention we made love, once. This boy’s name is John Fletcher Faoni. He’s one of the escaped convicts. Or, at least, he says that’s his name. He seems to know about Crystal, about me.”

“Faoni.” She spoke slowly. “You recognized his name last night, at the roadblock. That’s why you began making sandwiches when you got home.”

“It’s not that common a name.”

“Your
son!?
Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“I mean, why didn’t you ever tell me you have a son?”

“I never knew he existed until he walked through the French doors of the study last night. Crystal is one of these women who wanted to have the baby, raise the child on her own. I believe that’s true.”

“She never let you know?”

“No.”

“Are you upset about that?”

“Of course.”

“How did you know he likes tuna puffs?”

Always Fletch was amazed at the acuity of Carrie’s questions. Next to hers, District Attorney Alston Chambers’s questions were vague. “Last night he would have eaten re-fried roadkill.”

She put her hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry.”

“Attempted murder,” Fletch said. “He took a shot at a cop.”

“E=MC
²
!” Such was Carrie’s expletive. She considered the theory of relativity the most
outlandish
thing she had ever heard of.

She looked out the window. “It’s stopped raining.”

“I think it will be a bright, hot day.”

“The fields got a good wetting,” she said.

“It flattened the corn.”

“It will spring up again.” She got up off the bed. “Why are you putting up with this? Even if he is, maybe, your son, he tried to kill someone; I mean, you have no responsibility for him. How old is he?”

“Curiosity.”

“You know what curiosity did to the orangutan.”