Fletch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Tell me about Bobbi.”

  “Jesus, she’s been listening. Bobbi is as cute as a button, only sexier. She is fifteen, blond, with a beautiful, compact little body.”

  “Have you been making it with her?”

  “She needed someplace to crash.”

  “A fifteen-year-old. And you talk about me.”

  “She came out with a guy older than I am. Originally from Illinois. Daddy’s a dentist. She fell in love with this guy passing through the local coffee shop, packed a knapsack and came with him. Once she was on the beach and thoroughly hooked, he wandered off. She was hooking when I met her.”

  “How are you paying for her?”

  “Expense account. Under ‘Breakfast’ and ‘Lunch.’ ”

  “Aren’t you afraid of the law, Fletcher? A fifteen-year-old?”

  “If there is no one to complain for a kid, the law don’t give a shit.”

  “Fletcher’s Rule.”

  “The second group of kids on the beach are the local teenagers. They show up after school in their stripped Volkswagens, with surfboards, and make deals with daddy’s hard-earned bread. The fuzz care a lot more about the local kids, as might be expected. In fact, one kid in particular, a kid named Montgomery, they pick up every week, yank him down for questioning. His dad is important in the town or something. Regular as clockwork. But he shows up again, almost immediately, beat up and smiling.”

  “Why do the kids go to that beach?”

  “Because there is a source there.”

  “Who is the source?”

  “An older drifter called Vatsyayana. I’d say he’s in his mid-thirties. Balding and bearded. Oddly enough, he’s got kindly eyes. Desperately skinny. The local kids call him Fat Sam.”

  “So why haven’t you a story, if you know this much?”

  “Because I don’t know what Fat Sam’s source is. I can’t figure it out. He never seems to leave the beach. I spent ten days tailing him. All he seems to do is sell, sell, sell. I know where his stash is. It’s in a chink of the sea wall. When word passed that Fat Sam was getting low, I kept my eyes on the stash for thirty-six hours. One: Fat Sam didn’t leave the beach. Two: no one else went near his stash. After thirty-six hours, the supply was up again. Rationing was over. I can’t figure it out.”

  “You missed the contact.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve been on the story three weeks.”

  “That’s not so much.”

  “Why don’t we just run with what we’ve got? Put Fat Sam out of business?”

  “Who cares about Fat Sam? The thing would start up again within a month. If you were any kind of a journalist, Clara, you would know we do not have a story until we have Fat Sam’s source.”

  “You’ve got to stop somewhere. I mean, his source must have a source. Do you plan to follow the sources back to Thailand or some such place?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’ve got pictures of Fat Sam dealing, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Let’s run with it.”

  “Negative. You’ll get the story when there is one. Putting one little pusher behind bars for twelve hours is not my idea of journalism.”

  “Frank is anxious.”

  “You’re in charge of relieving Frank’s anxieties.”

  “I wish I could have dessert,” she said.

  Fletch was eating a strawberry shortcake with whipped cream.

  Clara said quickly, “There’s a matter of insubordination. Disobedience.”

  Fletch put a perfect balance of strawberry shortcake and whipped cream on his fork.

  “I told you not to leave The Beach today. One: we want you to stay there until that story is done. Two: we don’t want you to blow your cover. Whoever Fat Sam’s source is could be wise to you by this time, or suspicious. He could be watching you. All you needed to do was jump into your Alfa Romeo or whatever it is you drive, and speed up to the News-Tribune, which you have done, and you are dead.”

  “Good shortcake. It’s an MG.”

  “What?”

  “MG.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “My car. It’s an MG.”

  “Oh. You may be dead.”

  “I’ll get the story in first.”

  “Do you think you should go back to The Beach?”

  “Sure.”

  “Will you be safe?”

  “Come with me and find out.”

  “No, thanks. But I do wonder, Fletch, if we hadn’t ought to tell the local police that you’re down there. Who you are and what you’re doing.”

  Fletch put down his fork and sat back in his chair. His look was meant to terrify.

  “If you do that, Clara, you’ll be dead before me. I will kill you. Make no mistake.”

  “We’re responsible for you, Fletcher.”

  “Then be responsible, goddamn it, and shut the fuck up! You never blow a story! To anyone, at any time, ever! Christ, I wish I didn’t have to talk to you, you’re such an idiot.”

  “All right, Fletcher, calm down. People are watching.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “I won’t talk to the police—yet.”

  “Don’t talk to the police or anyone else—ever. If I need help, I’ll ask for it.”

  “All right, Fletcher. All right, all right, all right.”

  “Stupid bitch.”

  “Which brings up the last matter—your Bronze Star.”

  “What about it?”

  “While you’ve been gone, not only have thousands of sleazy lawyers hired by your dozens of ex-wives been prowling the corridors ready to leap at you, but the marine commandant’s office has been calling as well.”

  “So what.”

  “You won a Bronze Star.”

  “Years ago.”

  “You never picked it up.”

  “Right.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “Such a thing doesn’t belong in a pawnshop.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s where they all end up, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “You don’t have so many ex-wives.”

  “You are going to pick up the Bronze Star.”

  “I am not.”

  “It’s all arranged. There is to be a ceremony next Friday, a week from today, in the commandant’s office at the marine base, and you are going to be there in a suit and tie and shoes.”

  “What the hell is this to you? This is private business.”

  “It is not private business. You are I.M. Fletcher, star writer of the News-Tribune, and we are going to have a photographer there and a cub reporter and we are going to run you smiling modestly in all editions Saturday.”

  “You are like hell.”

  “We are. What’s more, the marine commandant is going to have his full public relations staff, including photographers, there.”

  “No.”

  “And we’re going to try to make a wire story out of it and tell the whole world both about your exploits and the modesty that has kept you from picking up such a high honor all these years. We won’t tell them you really haven’t picked it up just because basically you are a slob.”

  “I won’t be done with The Beach story by then.”

  “You will turn in your beach story, whatever it looks like, with pictures, by four o’clock Thursday afternoon. We will run it in the Sunday paper, with a little sidebar saying, News-Tribune reporter I.M. Fletcher received the Bronze Star Friday, etc.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort.”

  “Frank has decided. The publisher has agreed.”

  “I don’t care. I haven’t.”

  “There is the matter of insubordination. You left an assignment when you were told clearly not to.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “I’ll put it more simply, Fletcher: you have The Beach story in, complete, Thursday afternoon at four and be in the marine commandant’s office
next Friday morning at ten, or you’re fired. And I, for one, will cheer.”

  “I bet you will.”

  “You’re an obnoxious prick.”

  “I sell newspapers.”

  “You heard me, Fletcher. Thanks for wearing your shoes to lunch.”

  “I didn’t.”

  6

  “Fletcher, this is Jack Carradine. I tried to call you earlier, but apparently you were out to lunch.”

  “I just ran upstairs to get bitten.”

  “What?”

  “I was in the cafeteria getting chewed out.”

  “I have some information for you regarding Alan Stanwyk, but before I give it to you I’d like to know what you want it for. The financial department of this newspaper can’t be totally irresponsible.”

  “Of course. I understand.” Fletch switched the telephone to his left ear and picked up a pen. “The truth is,” he lied, “we’re thinking we might do a feature story on who the most highly, I should say heavily, insured people are in this area and why they are so heavily insured.”

  “Is Alan Stanwyk heavily insured?”

  “Yes. Very heavily.”

  “It stands to reason. He has a lot riding on his nose. Who is the beneficiary?”

  “Wife and daughter, I believe.”

  “I shouldn’t think they’d need the money. But since they hold a lot of stock in Collins Aviation, which he runs almost single-handedly, I suppose they would suffer at least a temporary loss upon his passing.”

  “Right,” Fletcher drawled. “What have you got?”

  “Well, as I just told you, he runs Collins Aviation. He’s the executive vice president—has been since he married his wife. His father-in-law is president and chairman of the board, but he really leaves the running of the company to Stanwyk. It is expected that within two or three years, once he gets a little age on him, he will be made president of Collins. His father-in-law is only in his late fifties but would rather sail his yacht and run tennis tournaments. He seems to trust Stanwyk completely.”

  “How is the company doing?”

  “Beautifully. The stock, what there is of it available, is high and solid. Never been higher, in fact. They declared a stock dividend last year. They’re considered a little weak in management, but that doesn’t matter so much when you have a man as young and as competent as Stanwyk running the show. And he does, absolutely. He’s a hard-working fellow. It is presumed that as his father-in-law’s executive team begins to retire in the next few years, Stanwyk will bring in his own fresh young team. It won’t be hard for him to do so, because he has made a point of knowing almost everybody in the industry.”

  “Mind a stupid question?”

  “I’m used to them.”

  “What does Collins Aviation do?”

  “They design and manufacture subsidiary parts for airplanes. In other words, they don’t make airplanes, but they might make the seats, or engine parts, or control panels, what have you. Without meaning to make a pun, they also have a satellite division that does the same thing for spacecraft. This latter division has grown terrifically under Stanwyk. Apparently he is an attractive, amiable, personable man who always seems to be able to get the right contract for his company at the right time. Someone said, ‘He’s firm, but he never presses.’ ”

  “How much is a company like that worth?”

  “To whom?”

  “I mean, what is its net worth?”

  “Well, Fletch, you don’t really know what you mean. Companies aren’t houses that have an approximate aggregate value. Companies are worth precisely what their stock is worth on the market at that moment. It has a considerable gross income, a nifty net return to the stockholders, a big payroll …”

  “Gimme a figure.”

  “If it were a house? If it were a house, Collins Aviation might be worth a half a billion.”

  “Half a billion dollars?”

  “Can you count that high?”

  “Not even with my shoes off. Who owns it?”

  “The Collins family—John, his wife and daughter—continue to own fifty-one per cent of the company.”

  “Wow.”

  “They are very rich. Of course, the stock is actually held in foundations and trusts and what-have-you, but it’s all John Collins when it comes time to vote. I must add that the Collins family, so you won’t think they’re complete dopes, have an amount equal to or greater than their investment in Collins Aviation invested through investment houses in Boston.”

  “Phew. Why Boston?”

  “You don’t know much, do you, Fletcher?”

  “Not about money. I’ve seen so little of it.”

  “Boston is the Switzerland of this hemisphere. It is chock-a-block full of quiet, conservative investment bankers.”

  “I thought it was full of beans.”

  “It is. Other people’s.”

  “How do people get as rich as Collins?”

  “If I knew, do you think I’d be sitting here? Collins is a Harvard graduate who started designing and making airplane equipment with his own hands in a rented garage on Fairbanks Avenue in the early 1930s. Patents led to capital. It’s easy. Go do it. Everybody says he’s a nice man, quiet, humble. He’s good to his friends. Most of the rest of Collins Aviation stock is held by friends of the family. They’re all as rich as lords. He’s made heavy contributions to Harvard College, the Cancer Fund, muscular dystrophy …”

  “The Cancer Fund?”

  “He’s given them something like a total of ten million dollars.”

  “Recently?”

  “Yes. Continuously.”

  “I see.”

  “Stanwyk is the perfect man to be Collins’s son-in-law, considering Collins doesn’t have a son of his own. Stanwyk is from a modest family in Pennsylvania. His father is in the hardware business.”

  “Still alive?”

  “I believe so. Why do you ask?”

  “His parents didn’t come out to his wedding.”

  “Probably couldn’t afford it. That would have been an expensive trip for them.”

  “Stanwyk could have paid.”

  “There could have been lots of reasons why his parents didn’t come to his wedding—ill health, business, cost—how do I know?”

  “Go on.”

  “A brilliant student all the way through, and apparently a nice kid. True blue. A Boy Scout; a Golden Gloves champion for the state of Pennsylvania who did not go on to the nationals for some reason; summa cum laude at Colgate, where he did not box but began to play racquet sports; an Air Force flier who flew lots of missions, currently a major in the Air Force Reserves; graduated third in his class from Wharton Business School, which, because you probably don’t know, is one of the best; came out here; worked in the sales department of Collins Aviation, where sales immediately jumped; became a vice president at twenty-six or twenty-seven; and married the boss’s daughter. Apparently just a magnificent young man in all ways.”

  “He sounds machine-made.”

  “Too good to be true, huh? There are people like that. Unquestionably the guy is ambitious, but there is nothing immoral in that. He’s done well and he’s well liked.”

  “By the way, Jack, who is your source for all this?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. The Collins family has a local stockbroker, an investment man out here who does just little things for them, you know, regarding Collins Aviation stock—little things that run into the millions—name of Bill Carmichael. We play golf together. Needless to say, Carmichael is the son of an old buddy of John Collins. His father died, and Carmichael fell heir to the account. He and Stanwyk have become close friends. Stanwyk has taken him flying. They play squash and tennis together. He genuinely likes Stanwyk. And, incidentally, he says Stanwyk genuinely likes his wife, Joan Collins, which ain’t always the case.”

  “There is no hanky-panky going on?”

  “Not as far as Carmichael knows. Between you and me, Stanwyk would have to be out of hi
s mind to be playing around on the side under these circumstances. God knows what Papa would say if Stan-wyk got thrown out of bed.”

  “Does Stanwyk have any money of his own?”

  “No, not to speak of. He has savings from his salary invested with Carmichael, but it doesn’t amount to much over a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Poor fellow.”

  “He did not buy the house on Berman Street. She did, but it’s in both their names. Carmichael says it’s worth maybe a million dollars. However, Stanwyk maintains the house and staff, and supposedly all other family expenses, out of salary. Male chauvinist pride, I guess. Which is why he probably doesn’t have more savings out of salary. That’s an expensive family to keep up with. Incidentally, the house on Berman Street backs onto the Collins estate on, would you believe it, Collins Avenue?”

  “Old John Collins has spyglasses.”

  “I gather there is a lot of back and forth.”

  “Doesn’t he own a second house anywhere?”

  “No. His father-in-law has a house in Palm Springs, one in Aspen, and one in Antibes. The kids use these houses whenever they like.”

  “Does he own his own airplane?”

  “No. Collins Aviation has three Lear jets, with pilots, but Stanwyk flies them when he likes. He also has to do some flying to keep up his Air Force Reserve rank. And he flies experimental planes all over the country, supposedly to test Collins equipment. Carmichael suspects he just gets a kick out of it.

  “Stanwyk is also the holder of some stock options in Collins Aviation. So I guess if you put everything together, he is probably a millionaire in his own right at this point, but it’s on paper. He couldn’t raise a million in cash without upsetting an awful lot of people.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Fletcher. Stanwyk and his wife have just converted about three million dollars of her personal stock.”

  “Converted?”

  “Into cash. Carmichael says they intend to buy a cattle ranch in Nevada. He thinks it’s an effort to get out from under the heel of Daddy Collins—go do their own thing.”