Fletch Won f-8
Page 22
Frank forced a laugh. “Biff’s been with the News-Tribune all his adult life. You’ve been with us what? Three months? He’s the best crime reporter around. He’s got a right to do his work without being bird-dogged by a screw-up kid.”
“He’s a bully,” Fletch said. “I don’t like bullies.”
“You went after Biff because he’s a bully?” Frank asked. “Like hell. You went after Biff because you thought you could beat him at his own story. Little you know.”
“I have beaten him.”
“Sure,” said Biff. “You’re ready to wrap up the story of the Habeck murder? Like hell!”
“Right,” said Fletch. “I am.”
Frank was watching Fletch closely. “I told you two days ago, Fletch, Monday, that we’ve had about enough of your crap around here. I thought if I gave you a real assignment, the Ben Franklyn whorehouse story—”
“I’ve got that about wrapped up, too.” Fletch looked at the silent phone on Frank’s desk.
“Sure,” Biff said. “Tell us who killed Donald Habeck, wise ass. We can hardly wait to hear it from your lips. A member of the family, I bet. Crazy Louise? No-brain Jasmine? Daughter Nancy left her five kids in wet diapers and ran out and shot her pa? How about her husband, the two-bit poet? Or better yet, the monk, Robert? Tell us the monk murdered his old man. That will sell newspapers.”
The telephone on Frank’s desk wasn’t ringing. At that moment, Fletch would have appreciated some factual evidence. He took a deep breath. “Stuart Childers murdered Donald Habeck.”
Biff laughed. “Jeez! I’ll bet you know that ’cause he confessed to you!”
“Yeah,” Fletch said. “He did.” Biff laughed louder. “Gotta listen,” Fletch said. “Sometimes liars tell the truth.”
Frank looked through his office windows at the city room. “What are those cops doing out there?”
Six of them stood around Frank’s secretary.
“A criminal is a victim of his own crime,” Fletch said to Biff, “as you’ll come to understand, I think.”
The phone rang. Outside, the secretary was too busy with the police to answer it.
Frank picked up the phone in annoyance. “Hello!… Who is this?…”He glanced at Biff. “Lieutenant Gomez… Yeah, Biff is here…. No.” Then Frank glanced at Fletch. “You tell me the message, Lieutenant…. The gun? Okay… Twenty-two-caliber pistol. Registered to Stuart Childers…” Biff looked up. “Stuart Childers’s fingerprints…” Frank glared at Biff. “… Ballistics … It is the gun used to murder Donald Habeck…. Right. I’ll tell him….” Slowly, Frank hung up.
Frank sat back in his chair, hands folded in his lap. He looked from Biff to Fletch and back to Biff.
Biff sat erect, looking as alert as a rabbit.
Outside the office, the hubbub made by the six policemen was rising noticeably. Clearly, two were arguing with each other. Each was pointing through the window at Fletch.
The secretary, too, had raised her voice.
Irritated, Frank asked, “What’s going on out there?”
“Okay.” Biff straightened the crease in one trouser leg. “Gomez has been working closely with me on the Habeck murder.” He cleared his throat. “That call was for me.
“You didn’t even know he was calling,” Frank said.
Outside, Hamm Starbuck had arrived. He stood between the police and the door to Frank’s office.
Fletch leaned forward in his chair. “Now, Frank, about the Ben Franklyn story…”
“Fuck off!” Biff shouted.
Frank raised his eyebrows. He said to Fletch, “Tell me.”
“The Ben Franklyn Friend Service is owned by Wood Nymph, Incorporated,” Fletch said. “Which is owned by two companies, Cungwell Screw and Lingman Toys.”
Frank, looking from Biff to the ruckus outside his office door to Fletch, nevertheless appeared to be listening. “Cungwell Screw and Lingman Toys are entirely owned by Paraska Steamship Company, which is owned entirely by four women, Yvonne Heller, Anita Gomez, Marietta Ramsin, and Aurora Wilson.”
The blood splotches disappeared against the color of Biff’s face.
Outside now, even Hamm Starbuck was shouting.
Frank looked at his telephone. He said, “Anita Gomez.” Then he looked at Biff. “Aurora Wilson.” Frank moved his chair closer to the desk. “Gomez and Wilson. I guess you two did work closely together.” He reached for his phone. “And that’s how the pictures of those whores got on my sports pages Monday morning.”
Biff exploded. “Son of a bitch!”
“Matt?” Frank said into the phone. “Frank Jaffe. Draw up a severance check for Biff Wilson. I want him out of here by five o’clock. Fired? Yes, fired. Not another minute’s protection does he, or his enterprises, get from the News-Tribune”
Biff jumped to his feet. His hands were fists. “You son of a bitch!”
He took the few steps toward Fletch and swung.
Fletch rolled off his chair, tipping it over onto the floor.
The door opened.
Hamm Starbuck said, “I’m sorry, Frank, the cops, something about Fletch.” He looked at Fletch on the floor. “What are you, a rug fetishist?”
Biff swung a kick at Fletch, but Fletch rolled away from it.
The cops poured into Frank’s office. Fat, slim, old, young, they were arguing with each other loudly. They were pointing fingers at each other and, occasionally, pointing fingers at Fletch on the floor.
Biff, feet planted either side of Fletch, bent over. He picked Fletch up by the neck.
“Alexander Liddicoat!” shouted one cop. “I recognized him at the stoplight!”
“You didn’t check his license plates!” shouted another cop. “We did! He’s Irwin Fletcher, wanted for selling PCP!”
Fletch gurgled. “Help! Police!”
“Armed robbery…”
“Were you asleep at roll call this morning?”
“Angel dust…”
“Listen, Fletch.” Frank had come around his desk. Hands on knees, he bent over Fletch being strangled on the floor by Biff Wilson. Clearly, Frank was concentrating hard. “I want the complete story of Habeck’s murder, Childers’s confession and arrest in the morning edition. Gomez said they’re arresting him this afternoon. The other press will have the story of the arrest, but we’ll have complete background. Also the news that he confessed to a News-Tribune reporter. You’ll do a follow-up for the Saturday newspaper.”
“Grrr-uggg!” Fletch was trying to force Biff’s arms apart.
“Cut that out!” Frank hit Biff’s forearm.
“Every traffic violation in the book!” shouted a cop. “Whoever he is, we got him on all that! Even a broken muffler!”
Frank continued. “We want a complete wrap-up, all the background, on the Habeck story, for the Sunday newspaper. We’ll need that by six o’clock Saturday.”
Hamm Starbuck, after wondering awhile what he was witnessing, took action. Fletch’s face, having gone from red to white, was turning blue. Putting his arms around Biff’s shoulders, he locked his hands under Biff’s chest. He lifted.
Not letting go of Fletch’s neck, Biff lifted Fletch higher off the floor.
Six policemen argued vehemently.
The phone was ringing.
Frank stood up as Fletch rose. “Now, what about the Ben Franklyn story? I think that ought to be treated as an expose in Sunday’s newspaper. We’ll publish teaser-promos on it tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday. That means we’ll need that story, complete, by midday Saturday, for pictures.”
Hamm finally wrestled Biff off Fletch.
Biff’s grip on Fletch’s neck broke.
Fletch fell flat on the floor. His head bounced on the carpet.
“Can you do that?” Frank asked.
Grabbing breath, Fletch said, “I’m getting married Saturday!”
“Ah, the hell with that!” Frank turned away in disgust. “There’s no sense of sport in this business anymore!”
He looked around his off
ice.
In one corner, Hamm Starbuck was struggling, restraining Biff Wilson.
Five cops were arguing with each other about Irwin Fletcher, angel dust, Alexander Liddicoat, armed robberies, and traffic violations. Two had their night sticks drawn.
The sixth policeman was bending over, trying to put handcuffs on Fletch.
Fletch’s hands were rubbing his throat.
Almost the entire city-room staff was looking through the door and windows into Frank’s office.
“What’s going on!” Frank yelled. He grabbed the arm of the policeman about to handcuff Fletch. “Cut that out! I need him!” The cop did stop. “Jeez,” Frank said. “Whatever happened to the sanctity of the newspaper office!”
“ ‘Just a breath of fresh air,’ ” Fletch quoted from the floor, “ ‘a young maverick who would shake things up a bit…’ ”
Frank Jaffe’s secretary leaned over him. “Fletcher, there’s a woman on the phone who says she must talk with you. She says it’s urgent.”
“ ‘… See things differently, maybe,’ ” Fletch quoted as he got to his feet, “ ‘… jerk people out of their ruts,’ ” On his feet, he swayed. “That was my assignment, wasn’t it, Frank? Isn’t that why I was hired?” Frank had six policemen talking to him, mostly at once. Fletch muttered, “Some ruts are deeper than others.”
Among the people marveling through the office door was Ann McGarrahan. A smile played at the corners of her lips.
Hamm Starbuck was talking into Biff’s ear. Biff nodded affirmatively twice. Hamm released him.
Straightening his jacket, then making fists of his hands again, Biff skirted all the arguing policemen. He marched out of the office.
“Biff!” Fletch held his throat as he shouted after him. “I know a good lawyer! He’s available!”
The secretary said, “She said her name is Barbara something-or-other.”
Frank was saying, loudly, to the assembled police, “Look, guys, he can’t go to the police station now. He’s needed here.” Frank watched Fletch pick the phone up off his desk. “I’ll go with you to headquarters. Straighten things out myself.”
“Hello, Barbara!” Fletch croaked into the phone. “I won’t be able to make it to dinner with your mother tonight. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not Friday night. Absolutely. I’ve got work to do. Got a job. I’ll try to see you Saturday. Wait a minute. Hang on…” Fletch put his hand over the receiver. “Frank?”
At the side of the room, Hamm Starbuck was breathing deeply.
Frank, surrounded by policemen, looked at Fletch.
“When I do the story on Ben Franklyn,” Fletch asked, rubbing his throat, “you want me to report the full particulars of the involvement of Biff Wilson, late of the News-Tribune?”
“Damned right.” Frank grinned. “Screw the bully.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: 49b5cb68-67a7-4579-a4b8-514d48ffacb8
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 31.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.53, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Gregory McDonald
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