Fletch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Tell me something he ever said that made you laugh,” John said. “Anything.”

  “Well. He said something to Julie the other day. But I can’t remember it. Something about going to bed.”

  “A riot,” John said. “My son-in-law is a riot. Did he have a sense of humor when you knew him in Texas?”

  “A pretty serious fellow,” Fletch said.

  “I worry about people who don’t have a sense of humor. Here’s your lunch. Take everything seriously. They’re apt to kill themselves.”

  “If the cigarettes don’t get them first,” Fletch said.

  “What?” John Collins leaned on him.

  “The cigarettes. Alan was always dreadfully afraid of cancer.”

  “He should be. No one should smoke.”

  Joan said, “Alan’s never mentioned his fear of cancer to me.”

  “He must be used to it,” Fletch said. “Or over it.”

  “Everybody should be afraid of cancer. Does it run in his family? Of course, how do we know? Never met his family. Ought to look them up and see if they’re still alive.”

  “Alan never speaks of them,” Joan said. “I doubt he even hears from them.”

  “I don’t blame him. Any man who makes his son box is a jackass. A stupid sport. Alan would have been a great tennis player if he had started young and not been forced to waste all his time getting bopped on the nose. Rather, I should say, any man who forces his son to box wants to see him in a coffin.”

  “You’re in top form today, Dad. One right after the other.”

  “Why not? Pleasant company. His father just never realized what an intelligent lad Alan was and is. Wonder he didn’t get his brains knocked out of him.”

  “Before you came, Dad, we were talking about the damn-fool ranch Alan is buying, in Nevada.”

  “Yes. Good idea.”

  “It’s a terrible idea.”

  “This family doesn’t have anywhere near enough invested in real estate. And what there is is downtown space. Or the place in Aspen, whatnot. We should be much more heavily invested in land. No one’s ever wanted to manage it. I’m glad Alan does.”

  Joan said, “I hate the whole idea.”

  “You don’t have to go there.”

  “The way Alan talks, a million acres in Nevada is going to be our spiritual home.”

  “You’ll have to go there once in a while, of course, while Alan goes over things. Do you both good to get away. With Julie. You must be sick to death of your mother and me living on top of you.”

  “She’s not well.”

  John said, “I remember the first day I saw your mother taking martinis before lunch. Gin is a depressant, my girl.”

  “My golly. You do live on top of us. I never noticed before.”

  “Was Jim Swarthout helpful?” John asked.

  “Who?”

  “Jim Swarthout of Swarthout Nevada Realty. Biggest firm in Nevada. I sent Alan to him when he began talking about the ranch. I understood he’s been dealing with him.”

  “Oh, yes. Very helpful. He’s the man who found the ranch for Alan. He’s mentioned him several times. He is the real estate broker. We’re going down next weekend, cash in hand.”

  “Cheer up, old girl. Alan’s dead right about our investing in a ranch. He couldn’t be more right.” John Collins drained his ale. “Now the job is to see if we can get young John here a tennis match.”

  “No, sir. Thank you anyway. I haven’t the time, at this point. My plane leaves midafternoon.”

  “Oh.” The man seemed genuinely disappointed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “This is a beautiful club, though. Joan mentioned the extent of your contribution to it.”

  “Well, she shouldn’t have. But I consider it very important. Young people have to have a place to go, and healthy things to do. You know, I understand young people can’t even go to the beach here anymore.”

  “Oh?”

  “Drugs. Goddamn it. Drugs everywhere. On the beach, of all places. Hard drugs. Heroin. Opium. Let alone these pills and amphetamines. Sending a youngster to the beach these days is equal to sending him to hell.”

  “People literally selling drugs to children. Pushing drugs on them. Can you imagine anything worse than that?” Joan said. “What sort of an insane, evil person would actually urge children to take drugs for just a few bucks?”

  “I’ve had several conversations with the chief of police, Chief Cummings,” John Collins said, “urging him to crack down more actively on this business. I’ve even offered to pay to have special investigators come in, to clean the whole thing up. That’s a bill I wouldn’t mind paying at all. He tells me he’s doing everything he can. He has an informer on the beach, he says, but it’s very difficult, as young people drift in and out, live on the beach, go by phony names. Apparently it’s much too fluid a situation to control. There are no constants. He said special investigators wouldn’t do a darn bit of good.”

  “I didn’t know you made that offer, Dad. How sweet.”

  “It’s not sweet. It’s necessary. With the rate of burglaries we’re having here at The Beach, muggings and robberies, something has to be done. There’s going to be a murder soon, and then people will sit up. But what really bothers me is all these young people staggering around, destroying their brains, destroying their bodies, killing themselves. How very awful for them. They don’t know better. Their lives must be just hell.”

  Fletch said, “I quite agree with you, sir.”

  “However, the esteemed chief of police is retiring soon, and a man close to retirement isn’t apt to be at his most energetic. That’s what I keep telling Alan: retire the old farts; give them their money and let them go. They’re not doing anything for the company anyway. Chief Cummings is busy setting up some retirement home. He’s not paying attention to police business here in town. Might as well get rid of him. Perhaps after he retires, we’ll have a better chance to wipe out this nest of vipers and sickies.”

  Fletch said,”You never can tell. The thing might break by itself, somehow.”

  “I’d like to see it,” John Collins said. “And I’d like to know who is going to do it.”

  “Well,” Fletch said. “The club is just great.”

  “There are no drugs here,” John Collins said, “except for martinis imbibed before lunch by certain dopes.”

  14

  Using his telephone credit card, Fletch spent an hour in an overstuffed chair in the playroom of the Racquets Club. The room was dark and cool, and no one was at the billiard tables or the ping-pong tables or watching the television.

  First, he called the home number of Marvin Stanwyk in Nonheagan, Pennsylvania.

  “Mr. Stanwyk?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Sidney James of Casewell Insurers of California.”

  “How are you, boy? What did you decide about picking up that Bronze Star?”

  “I haven’t decided yet, sir.”

  “Doubt you’ll ever be offered another one.”

  “I didn’t expect to be offered this one.”

  “I say you should pick it up. Never know. You might have a son, someday, who’d have some interest in it, or a grandson.”

  “I don’t know, sir. Women don’t seem to be having children these days.”

  “You know, you’re right about that. I wouldn’t mind Alan and his wife producing a child.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you think it’s time they had a child? Been married how long? Six, seven years?”

  “They don’t have a child?”

  “Indeed not. That would get us to come out to California. Boy, girl, anything. We wouldn’t miss seeing our grandchild.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, Mr. James, I imagine you called to ask how we are again. Mrs. Stanwyk and I are both well. Just beginning to think about lunch.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir.”

  “You must be a pretty ambitious fellow, working on a Saturday. I
have to go back to the hardware store myself after lunch, but I thought I was the only man left alive who still works on a Saturday. Of course, in your case, you may have to work on Saturday because you spend so much time the rest of the week calling up people.”

  “We’re trying to pin down just how much flying your son does.”

  “Too much.”

  “You say he comes to see you every six weeks or so.”

  “About that.”

  “How long does he stay with you?”

  “A night or two.”

  “Does he stay in your house?”

  “No. He and the copilot or whatever he is stay at the Nonheagan Inn. They have a suite there. Alan’s like you. If he’s not on the phone forty-five minutes an hour, he thinks the world’s going to end. He needs the hotel switchboard.”

  “How much do you actually see him on a visit?”

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to your questions, but a man who won the Bronze Star must know what he’s doin’. Mostly they come for breakfast.”

  “They?”

  “He and the copilot. Name is Bucky. That’s why my wife always makes him buckwheat cakes. He loves them. He can put away more buckwheat cakes than you need to shingle your roof.”

  “Is it always the same pilot?”

  “No. Twice it’s been other fellows, but I don’t remember their names. Usually it’s Bucky. Then, sometimes, Alan might come over by himself later, for supper. Not always. We don’t see that much of him when he’s here, but we guess he just finds his old hometown restful.”

  “Yes, of course. How long has he been doing this?”

  “Visiting us regularly? Since he became the big cheese out at that airplane company. I guess business brings him east more now.”

  “The last six or seven years?”

  “I’d say the last four years. We saw him hardly at all when he was first married. Which is apt to be the way.”

  “Why do you say he flies too much?”

  “Flying’s dangerous, son. Especially in a private jet. Anything could go wrong.”

  “You mean he could get hurt.”

  “He could get killed. I haven’t heard they’re making airplanes out of rubber yet. He’s already been in one air crash, you know. Two, in fact. Overseas.”

  “I know. You didn’t mind his boxing, though, when he was a kid.”

  “Who says we didn’t?”

  “You did mind?”

  “We did about everything we could think of to make him stop. Every afternoon down there in the cellar beating the beeswax out of the punching bags. Whump, whump, whump. Till supper time. There was a period when he was out fighting two nights a week. No one’s brain can stand that. I was sure his brain was going to run out his ears. Enough ran out his nose.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him from boxing, then?”

  “If you ever have a son, you’ll find that when he gets to be fourteen or fifteen there are some things you can’t tell him not to do. The more you tell them not to smash their heads against the wall, the more they insist upon doing it. They never believe they’re going to need things like brains later on in life.”

  “Then why didn’t he go on to the nationals?”

  “You can’t figure the answer to that question?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Girls, son; girls. No matter how much time fifteen-year-old boys spend thrashing around in the basement, sooner or later they notice girls. And that’s the end of their thrashing around in the basement. The boxing gloves were hung up and out came the pocket comb. I admit, though, it took us a while to figure it out. He had sure wanted to go to the nationals, and he was very, very good at out-boxing people. Suddenly, before the nationals, the house stopped shaking, the whumping ceased. We thought he was sick. The night he told us he was not going to the nationals was about the happiest night of our lives. The punching bags are still hanging in our basement. Never touched them since. They need a rest after the beating they took. Then, of course, Alan took to flying airplanes. Sons just don’t know how to keep their parents relaxed. I’m sure you weren’t a bit kinder to your parents, Mr. James.”

  “I guess not. Maybe it’s just as well your son and daughter-in-law don’t have a child.”

  “Aw, no. Bringing up kids is not the same as eating creamed chicken, but you shouldn’t miss it.”

  “Well, I guess that’s all for now, Mr. Stanwyk. Thanks again.”

  “Say, son?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad you called back, because I didn’t know where to reach you. I’ve been thinking about your Bronze Star. I want to make a deal with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, you ought to pick it up. What I’m thinking is this. You pick the Bronze Star up and send it out to us. We’ll admire it and hold it for you, and someday when you want it, when you have a kid or something, we’ll send it back to you.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “What do you say? If anything happens to us, we’ll make sure you get it somehow. We’ll leave it with the bank along with my wife’s best shoes.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s a long life, son, and your feelings change about things. You send the Bronze Star on to us, and we’ll take care of it for you.”

  “You’re a sweet man, Mr. Stanwyk.”

  “I don’t understand that California kind of talk.”

  “May I think about it?”

  “Sure. I’m just thinking it might make the whole thing easier for you.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “Call anytime. I bought some more telephone stock last night.”

  “The Nonheagan Inn. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon. This is Mr. Alan Stanwyk.”

  “Hello, Mr. Stanwyk. Nice to hear your voice, sir.”

  Teenage girls looked into the Racquets Club playroom. Apparently Fletch was not what they were looking for.

  “I’m calling myself because it’s Saturday and I just decided I might come out next weekend.”

  “Oh?”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to sound surprised. It’s just that we look forward to seeing you every six weeks or so, and you were here just two weeks ago.”

  “I may change my mind about coming.”

  “It will be perfectly all right if you do, sir. We’ll keep the suite for you until we’re sure you’re not coming.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Stanwyk.”

  “Swarthout Nevada Realty Company.”

  “Jim Swarthout, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Swarthout is out with a client.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “Well, sir, it is Saturday afternoon …”

  I see.

  “May I have him call you after he calls in?”

  “No, thanks. He’ll be in the office Monday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll get him then.”

  15

  Still in tennis whites, Fletch cruised slowly down Vizzard Road. The telephone directory had said the number was 12355.

  It was a pleasant Spanish-styled stucco house set back on a cool lawn. In the driveway was a blue Cadillac Coupe de Ville.

  Fletch parked in the street.

  Going toward the house, he smelled and saw smoke, so he went around to the back.

  Inside the pool enclosure was a fat, balding man in Bermuda shorts contemplating a lighted hibachi. Beside him on a flagstone was a large gin and tonic.

  “Burt?”

  The man looked up, ready to be pleased, ready to greet someone, to be glad; instead, he looked slightly hesitant at someone he had never seen before.

  “John Zalumarinero,” Fletch said.

  “Oh, yes.”

  Burt Eberhart put out his hand.

  “I’m only in town for the day. Just had lunch with Joan Collins and her father at
the Racquets Club.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I asked for you. Joan said you lived here at The Beach and I should pop in to say hello on the way back to the hotel.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I haven’t seen you since Joan’s wedding. You were best man.”

  “John!” Burt Eberhart said with a burst of synthetic recognition. He shook hands again. “By God, it’s good to see you again. How have you been keeping yourself?”

  “Furniture business. Montana.”

  “That’s terrific. You look so young. You say you just had lunch with Joan and her dad?”

  “The grilled cheese special.”

  “Jesus. John Collins and his grilled cheese sandwich. A billionaire practically, and he gives you a grilled cheese sandwich. I’d hate to see what he’d eat if he were poor. I know what you mean, fella. I’ve had plenty of his grilled cheese sandwiches. At least he could buy you a steak. With his money. He’s afraid of putting on a pound. As if anybody cares. Everybody’s too busy weighing John’s wallet to care what he looks like.”

  “You look prosperous enough yourself.”

  “Now no cracks, boy. What can I get you to drink? A gin and tonic?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “It’s right here, right here.” A bar was in the shade, against the house. “Never be more than ten feet away from your next drink, I always say.”

  And he looked it.

  “We had great fun at the wedding together, you and I,” Fletch said. “I guess you don’t remember.”

  “God, I was bombed out of my mind. I don’t remember anything. For all I know, I was the one who got married that day. What did you say your last name is again?”

  “Zalumarinero.”

  “That’s right, that’s right. An Irish boy.”

  “Welsh, actually.”

  “I remember now. We did have fun. Wasn’t that a beautiful wedding? Oh, God, did we have fun. I remember you: you went right into the pool with your hat on.”

  “I did?”

  “You did. You certainly did. You walked right up to the pool with your hat on and kept right on walking. Splash! Any man who can do a thing like that can’t be all bad.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I wasn’t the only one putting them down that day, my boy. Here’s to your health. Oh, God, it’s hot. Why people live in this climate I’ll never know. We all rush to California because of the beautiful climate, and then spend the rest of our lives indoors hugging an air-conditioner. Come sit by the hibachi. We’re having a few people over later.”