Fletch Won f-8

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Fletch, I’m pretty sure you’d be just as attractive working a pick and shovel in the city streets. You wouldn’t have to wear a necktie, belt, or comb your hair. I can arrange to have you leave here Friday and you and Lucy can take as long a honeymoon as you can afford.”

  “Might make a nice weekend. And her name’s Barbara.”

  “I thought so. Sunday bliss with Barbara. Tuesday with blisters.”

  “Frank, why don’t you let Habeck write the story himself? He’s paying five million dollars for the privilege.”

  Hamm Starbuck stuck his head around the office door. He looked at Fletch sitting cross-legged on the rug.

  “It’s that kind of morning, is it?”

  “So far,” Frank answered. “Floored one. After glancing at certain photos on the sports page, I see I have a few more to floor today.”

  “Frank, were you expecting Donald Habeck?”

  “Not me. John’s expecting him. He should be sent to the publisher’s office.”

  “He’ll never make it.”

  “He telephoned?”

  “No. He’s dead in the parking lot.”

  Frank asked, “What do you mean?”

  “In a dark blue Cadillac Seville. Bullet hole in his temple.”

  Fletch sprang off the floor without using his hands. “My story!”

  “Guess we should call the police.”

  “Get the photographers down there first,” Frank said.

  “Already done that.”

  “Also Biff Wilson. Has he reported in yet?”

  “I radioed him. He’s on the freeway.”

  “Biff Wilson!” Fletch said. “Frank, you gave this story to me.”

  “I haven’t given you anything, Fletcher.”

  “Habeck, Donald Edwin. Was I supposed to interview him at ten o’clock?”

  “Fletcher, do me a favor.”

  “Anything, Frank.”

  “Get lost. Report to Ann McGarrahan in Society.”

  “Maybe there’s a necktie in my car.”

  “I just made a career decision,” Frank said to his desk.

  “What’s that, Frank?”

  “I’m not coming into the office early Monday mornings anymore.”

  “Habeck, Harrison and Haller. Good morning.”

  “Hello, H cubed?”

  “Habeck, Harrison and Haller. May I help you?”

  “Mr. Chambers, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Would you repeat that name?”

  “Mr. Chambers.” Looking across the city room of the News-Tribune, no one could guess that someone had just been shot to death in the parking lot of that building, and that everyone there knew it. Did everyone know it? Absolutely. In a newspaper office, unlike most other companies, the process of rumor becoming gossip becoming fact becoming substantiated, reliable news was professionally accelerated. It happened with the speed of a rocket. Assimilation of news happened just as fast. Journalists are interested in the stories they are working on; some have a mental filing cabinet, some a wastebasket into which they drop all other news. “Alston Chambers, please. He’s somewhere down in your stacks, I expect. An intern lawyer, a trainee, whatever you call him. A veteran and a gentleman.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. A. Chambers.”

  “Probably drifting around your corridors, without a place to wrinkle his trousers.”

  “One moment, sir.” A line was ringing. The telephone operator had to add, “Excuse me, sir, for not recognizing the name. Mr. Chambers does not have clients.”

  “Chambers speaking.”

  “Sounds sepulchral.”

  “Must be Fletcher.”

  “Must be.”

  “Hope you’ve called me for lunch. I gotta get out of this place.”

  “In fact, I have. One o’clock at Manolo’s?”

  “You want to discuss your wedding. You want my advice as to how to get out of it. Does Barbara still have it scheduled for Saturday?”

  “No, no, yes. Can’t talk right now, Alston. Just want to give you the news.”

  “Barbara’s told you she’s pregnant?”

  “Habeck, Harrison and Haller. That the law firm you work for?”

  “You know it. Bad pay and all the shit I can take.”

  “Donald Edwin Habeck?”

  “One of the senior partners in this den of legal inequity.”

  “Donald Edwin Habeck won’t be in today. Thought I’d call in for him.”

  “I don’t get it. Why not? What’s the joke?”

  “He’s been shot to death.”

  “This is a joke?”

  “Not from his point of view.”

  “Where, when?”

  “At the News-Tribune. A few minutes ago. I gotta go.”

  “I wonder if he left a will.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Lawyers are famous for not writing wills for themselves.”

  “Alston, I’d appreciate it at lunch if you’d talk to me about Habeck. Tell me what you know.”

  “You on the story?”

  “I think so.”

  “Does anyone else think so?”

  “I’m on it until I’m ordered off it.”

  “Fletch, you’re getting married Saturday. This is no time to flirt with unemployment.”

  “See you at one o’clock at Manolo’s.”

  “Did he do himself?” Fletch was looking over Biffs shoulder into the front seat of the Cadillac.

  A man in his sixties was slumped over the armrest. His left leg hung out of the car. His shoe almost touched the ground.

  Biff turned his head slowly to look at Fletch. His look said that plebeians were not supposed to initiate conversations with royalty.

  “Or was he shot?”

  Not answering, Biff Wilson stood up and turned. He waited for Fletch to move out of the way. Despite the heat, the strong sun in the parking lot, Biff wore a suit jacket and tie, although his shirt collar was loosened. Hair grew out of his ears.

  Biff walked the few steps to the three policemen standing by the black-and-white police car. Only two of the police were in uniform.

  “Do we know who found him yet?” Biff asked.

  “Do we?” Fletch said to himself.

  The younger uniformed officer was staring at Fletch.

  Three cars were parked at odd angles around the blue Cadillac. One was the plainclothesman’s unmarked green sedan. The second was the black-and-white sedan, front door open, police radio crackling, red and blue roof lights rotating.

  The third said NEWS-TRIBUNE on the sides and back. This was the car Biff Wilson used. Its front door was open, too. Radios crackled from its interior. And a blue light flashed from its roof as well.

  The older man in uniform looked at his notebook. “Female employee of the News-Tribune named Pilar O’Brien.”

  Biff let spit drop on the sidewalk between his shoes. “Never heard of her.”

  “Suppose she’s a secretary.”

  “And she called the cops?”

  “She told the security guard at the gate.”

  “And he called the cops?”

  “No,” said the plainclothesman. “He called the news desk.”

  Biffs smile glinted. “Everybody’s buckin’ for promotion.”

  “Your photographers have already come and gone,” said the older uniform.

  “They didn’t touch anything,” the youngest cop said. “I saw to that. Photographed him from the side and through the windshield. Took a few long shots. Didn’t touch the car or the victim.”

  “Gun been found?” Biff asked.

  “Not visible. Might have slipped under the seat,” said the plainclothesman. “Where’s forensics? I want my coffee.”

  “Donald E. Habeck,” the older uniform read from his notebook. “Anyone know what he was doing here?”

  “Yeah,” Biff answered. “He was here to see John Winters, the publisher. Ten-o’clock appointment. They were going to
set up the announcement that Habeck and his wife are going to, were going to, give five million bucks to the art museum.”

  “How do you know that, Biff?” the plainclothesman asked.

  “How do I know everything, Gomez?” Again Biff spat on the sidewalk.

  “I know you’re the greatest, Biff. I spent all last night tellin’ my wife that.”

  Biff shrugged. “Car telephone, jerk. Hamm Starbuck said Donald Habeck was dead in the parking lot. I asked him, What’s he doin’ at the News-Tribune? Wouldn’t you say that’s a natural question?”

  “That’s why I just asked it, Biff.” At least Gomez had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  There was no shade in the parking lot.

  The younger uniformed policeman kept giving Fletch long, hard looks.

  “Five million dollars. Jeez.” The older uniformed policeman rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. “Think of bein’ able to give away five million dollars.”

  “You’ve never been able to do that?” Biff asked.

  “Saturday I gave my niece and her new husband an old couch we had in the den. Slob didn’t even come for it. I had to truck it over myself.”

  “Nice of you,” Biff said.

  “Didn’t get no story about myself in the newspaper for it, though.”

  “Maybe Biff will write you up a story,” Gomez said.

  “Sure,” Biff said. “Friday night I gave my kid a welt under his left eye. I’m generous, too.”

  “Here comes your competition, Biff.” Gomez nodded toward the security gate.

  There were two cars there from the Chronicle-Gazette.

  “Sunday I realized how much I missed that couch. I had to sit up during the ball game. And my back was sore from movin’ the damned thing the day before.”

  The younger uniformed cop. touched Biffs sleeve and then pointed to Fletch. He spoke quietly. “He with you?”

  Biff considered Fletch from his throne as News-Tribune crime writer. “Naw.”

  “Does he work for the News-Tribune?”

  “I dunno.” Biff was not keeping his voice low. “Maybe I’ve seen him around. Emptying wastebaskets.”

  “Didn’t know the News-Tribune had any waste-baskets,” Gomez said. “Just delivery trucks.”

  At the gate the security guard was delaying the arrival of the Chronicle-Gazette’s reporter and photographer at the scene of the crime.

  “Haven’t you had any coffee yet this morning?” Biff asked Gomez.

  “Only two cups,” Gomez said. “Anglo.”

  “You act like you haven’t had any.”

  “El mismo” Gomez said.

  “Because I’ve seen something about that guy,” the younger officer said. “Recently. A picture, or something.”

  Biff fixed Fletch with his distant gaze again. “Maybe on the funnies page.”

  Finally the two cars from the Chronicle-Gazette reached the scene of the crime. Neither had lights flashing nor radios crackling.

  “Don’t you guys touch anything,” the younger uniformed officer shouted at them.

  The reporter said, “Shut up.” He looked into the car.

  The photographer was bending around taking pictures without the reporter in them.

  “Who is he?” the reporter asked.

  “Not confirmed,” Biff answered.

  “Employee of the News-Tribune?”

  “Probably,” Biff answered. “Most of us have Caddy Sevilles. I let my kid take mine to school.”

  “Security guard must know who he is,” the reporter said. “He must have given a name when he came in.”

  “Go ask him,” Biff said.

  “This is your story, uh, Biff?” the reporter asked.

  “It happened in his backyard,” Gomez said.

  “Yeah,” the reporter said. “Expect I can make something of that. Murder in the parking lot of a family newspaper. Tsk, tsk.”

  “That’s Habeck,” said the photographer. “Donald Habeck, the attorney. Rich guy. Lives over in The Heights.”

  “Yeah?” said the reporter. “What’s he doin’ here?”

  “Natural question,” said Biff.

  “Yet to be determined,” said Gomez.

  “How long you been workin’ for the News-Tribune, Gomez?” the reporter asked.

  “Nothing’s going to be said until the medical examiner and forensics team have come and gone,” Gomez answered.

  “Not by you.” The reporter went to his car and began talking into his telephone.

  “Here they come.” Gomez nodded at the station wagons coming through the security gate into the parking lot. “Want to get some coffee inside, Biff?”

  Biff looked at the side of the News-Tribune building.

  “Coffee’s no good in there, either.”

  “I’ll get Maria to make some special.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Biff said. “I forgot your sister-in-law works in the cafeteria.”

  “You did like hell. You got her the job.”

  Fletch began moving out of the area into which the forensics team was moving.

  The younger uniformed policeman said to Fletch, “You work here?”

  “Naw,” said Fletch. “Just makin’ a delivery. Just bringin’ Mr. Wilson his uppers.”

  The young cop looked alert. “His uppers?”

  “Yeah,” said Fletch. “He really messed ’em up last night with taffy apple. Took the dental lab an hour to get ’em clean this morning.”

  “Oh.”

  The older uniformed policeman was looking inside the car at Donald Edwin Habeck. “I’ll bet my giving away that old couch,” he said slowly, “meant more to me than this guy’s givin’ away five million bucks.”

  “News-Tribune resource desk. Code and name, please.”

  “Seventeen ninety dash nine,” Fletch answered into the car phone. He was driving toward The Heights.

  “Fletcher.”

  “I haven’t had a call from you before.”

  “They don’t let me out much.”

  “We have some messages for you.”

  “I want the address for Mr. and Mrs. Donald Edwin Habeck. I believe that’s H-A-B-E-C-K, somewhere in The Heights.”

  “That’s 12339 Palmiera Drive.”

  “Mapping?”

  “It’s a little road northwest of Washington Boulevard. There are lots of little roads in there. Winding roads. Your best bet would be to stop at intersection of Washington and Twenty-third and get exact directions. You’ll be turning onto Twenty-third there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Messages are, call Barbara Ralton. She wants lunch with you. Says she has things to discuss.”

  “Like how many babies we’re gonna have?”

  “My, my. This old mother suggests you have lunch before you pick up on that heavy topic.”

  “Thank you.”

  “See how much it costs to feed just two mouths.”

  “It doesn’t cost much to feed a kid. Just squirt orange juice into him a few times a day. Peanut butter.”

  “Ha.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Ha.”

  “How much does peanut butter cost?”

  The bumper sticker on the car in front of Fletch read: NASTINESS WILL GET YOU EVERYWHERE.

  “Should have taken my own advice and stayed in bed. One more message for you, Fletcher. From Ann McGarrahan, society-page editor. She said if you phoned in to tell you to report to her immediately. Your assignment has been changed.”

  “Oh.”

  “So it looks like you don’t need that address in The Heights after all.”

  “One more question: Who is Pilar O’Brien?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “What kind of an answer is that?”

  “A personal answer. Why do you want to know?”

  “Just heard of her. Does she work for the News-Tribune?”

  A hesitation slightly longer than normal before the News-Tribune resource-desk person said, “You’re
talking to her.”

  “Ah! Then you’re the lady who found Habeck this morning.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy dead in the parking lot.”

  “Is that his name? I thought you just asked for the address of—”

  “Forget about that, will you?”

  “How can I? How can a reporter I never heard of before be asking for the address of—”

  “I said, please forget about that. I never asked.”

  “Mrs. McGarrahan—”

  “I’ll call her. Tell me about finding Habeck.”

  “I’m not permitted to talk to any reporters until after the police question me. Then I may only report what I told the police.”

  “Jeez, you know the rules.”

  “That’s what Mr. Starbuck said.”

  “When you found him, was the car door opened or closed?”

  “I can’t answer you.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Maybe that’s why I can’t answer you.”

  “Did you see a gun?”

  “What’s-your-name… Fletcher. Shall I tell Mrs. McGarrahan you’re returning to the office?”

  “Sure,” Fletch said. “Tell her that.”

  “Would you please give me directions to Palmiera Drive?”

  The eyes of the man behind the counter of the liquor store at the intersection of Washington Boulevard and Twenty-third Street shifted from Fletch through the store window to Fletch’s Datsun 300 ZX outside the front door, motor running, and back to Fletch. There was a hole in the car’s muffler. The engine was noisy.

  “I’m looking for the twelve-thousand block of Palmiera Drive, if there is such a thing.”

  Looking Fletch full in the face, the man behind the counter whistled the first few bars of “Colonel Bogey’s March.”

  “Do I turn right on Twenty-third Street?”

  The man raised a .45 automatic pistol from beneath the counter. He pointed it at Fletch’s heart.

  “Jeez,” Fletch said. “I’m being held up by a liquor store!”

  Fletch was grabbed from behind. Muscular brown arms, fingers clasped just under Fletch’s rib cage, pinned Fletch’s own arms to his side.

  “Hey!” Fletch yelled. “I asked politely!”

  The gun kept Fletch’s heart as its target.

  The man holding the gun called toward the back of the store, “Rosa! Call the cops!”