Fletch Reflected

by Gregory Mcdonald

  And that Jack had arranged to meet for the first time ever only the week before …

  That The Tribe exposé was Jack’s story …

  And that Jack had gone well out of his way to suck the aforesaid Fletcher senior reluctantly into the investigation of the story, to see what his father was really like …

  And so that his father could see what he, Jack, was really like.

  Not his style.

  “Yes. I mean, we’re puzzled as to why he gave you these stories on The Tribe, worked with you, then sent you to us. Why didn’t he use our own people?”

  “This was my story,” Jack said. “I set it up. Mister Fletcher didn’t become involved until nearly the end of the investigation.”

  “So.” Blair smiled knowingly. “You involved him in it so you could have access to Global Cable News.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “Very generous of him,” Blair insisted. “Typical of him, I must say.”

  Blair handed a thick, folded paper across the desk to Jack.

  “Lucky for us,” Blair said. “Lucky for you. I couldn’t stand the sight of those people, myself.”

  Jack unfolded the paper. It was a check drawn on a Global Cable News bank account for a large sum of money. It was made out to John Faoni.

  “That’s nice,” Jack said.

  “Commensurate with our appreciation,” Blair said. “Your stories on the Tribe made quite an international splash. Shouldn’t be surprised if they won us some prizes.”

  “Let’s hope,” Jack said. He was puzzled by the large amount of the check. “So … I get one of these every week?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What, what…” First, Jack had asked what his assignment would be, and had had no answer. “Just what will my annual salary be?”

  “From … ?” Blair let the preposition hang in the air.

  Jack realized he had let a proposition hang in the air. A presumption. “Global Cable News.”

  “You’re not an employee of Global Cable News, Mister Faoni.”

  “But…”

  “We looked at your work as a favor to Mister Fletcher. It just happened to work out. This time.”

  “You’re not offering me a job?”

  “Of course not. We don’t even know you. You arrived here looking like something washed up on the beach, carrying a sack of videotapes and computer disks, which we were able to use. I understand we had only one phone call from Mister Fletcher. If we hadn’t had that, you never would have gotten in the door.”

  “I had the story!”

  “And we gave you credit. And”—Blair’s gray eyes looked at the check in Jack’s hand—“payment.”

  Jack looked down at the check. “You’re paying me off?”

  “With thanks. Didn’t Andy tell me you’re still in journalism school somewhere?”

  “I can’t go back there. Not at this point.”

  “Well, wait till the term rolls ’round again. You have the money in your hands for a nice vacation. My wife and I are very fond of taking the train trip across Canada. Magnificent scenery. Excellent service.”

  “You’re not offering me a job?”

  “Things are tight here now, Jack. There’s so much competition in this business. We have difficulty, you see, in persuading all American businesses they should spend as much as eighty percent of their gross income on advertising. A few still resist the idea. We’re not exactly laying people off, but we are not replacing people who leave for one reason or another. What we need are young people with experience. Just because you’ve worked on one story we do not consider you experienced.”

  “It was my story. My name was on it. It was a great story. You said it should be a prizewinner.”

  “Yes.” Blair smiled. “We’re very grateful to Mister Fletcher.”

  Jack tightened his jaw. He was sorely tempted …

  He had to remind himself of what was his style, and what wasn’t.

  “Naturally,” Blair said softly, “we hope that if you ever come across another story like The Tribe you’ll talk to us about it first. Maybe a little earlier in the investigation of the story…. We have more experienced people here. I mean, that story really should have been a team effort.”

  “‘A team effort’?” Jack could not imagine a t.v. film crew swarming The Tribe’s encampment and getting much of a story. That wouldn’t have been journalism; that would have been publicity.

  “We would have liked to have vetted some of the things you undoubtedly did to get that story with our legal department, for example. We can only hope that legal repercussions won’t develop from your work. I’m advised there are certain concerns that might be raised regarding privacy issues.”

  “You’re worried about being sued by White Supremacists for my invading their privacy?”

  “You were on private land. The computer system you broke into …”

  “Lor’ love a duck,” Jack said. “You television wallahs just want pictures.”

  “And of course you started the story while you were in prison, didn’t you?”

  “You don’t understand that? I was placed in the prison—”

  “I know what I’ve heard. One never knows what’s true.”

  “One doesn’t?” Jack’s mouth was dry. “Isn’t that what this business is about?”

  “Oh, sure.” Blair’s smile was sardonic. “That’s what I mean, Jack. You need experience. Go back to school. Go somewhere you can do lots of stories. Develop a first class resume. Right now … left school … prison … white supremacists … who knows what you are … a diamond in the rough, maybe …”

  Check in hand, Jack rose from his chair.

  “It’s been nice meeting you, Mister Blair.” He reached his arm across the mahogany desk. Blair rose and shook Jack’s hand.

  “Hope you don’t mind my giving you a little fatherly advice,” Blair said. “You got credit for this big story, but it’s ours now. We bought it. It’s over. And essentially you are untried. You lucked out, once. This is over. It’s a big, dirty world out there, no one owes you a living, go back to school, get a job, get married, have kids, who knows, you might be happy in some other line of work altogether. …”

  Still holding Blair’s hand, staring into his gray eyes, Jack said, “Sorry you fell overboard. My door is always closed to you.”

  “What?” Uncertainly, Blair chuckled.

  Jack said, “Bye.”

  3

  “Vindemia. Good morning. How may I help you?”

  “Will you ring the American Girl Rose Suite, please?” Jack asked.

  “Ringing.”

  Again, Jack was using Andy Cyst’s phone.

  “No answer, sir, in the American Girl Rose Suite.”

  “I’m calling for Ms. Shana Staufel.”

  “I doubt Ms. Staufel would be in her room at 11:30 in the morning, sir. Hold on.” Jack held on. At the moment he didn’t much care what this personal telephone call cost Global Cable News. “Sir? I’ve tried the outdoor pool, the spa, the skeet-shooting range, the golf house, and the stables. Is there anywhere else you think I should try?”

  “Yeah. The phone outside the gas station in the village.”

  “Sorry, sir. That’s a pay phone. We can’t plug into that.”

  “May I leave a message?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “This is Jack Faoni. The message is, ‘Prepare the Cactus Suite, Coz’.”

  •

  “Fletch. Hello?”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Urmph.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Something made my ears block.” Fletch wondered if he’d ever get used to the word “Dad.” There must be some alternative. The young man so enjoyed using it.

  Until a week before, Fletch had never known he had a son.

  He still hadn’t taken legal advice to prove that one John Fletcher Faoni was his son.

  “Where are you?” Jack asked.

  “Ap
proaching Forward, Wisconsin, from the southeast.”

  “I’m surprised you dare show your face in that burg.”

  “Thought I’d better clean up the mess I helped make for your mother. Today is moving day for the denizens of Blythe Spirit.”

  “Your story on GCN closed down Mama’s favorite fat farm?”

  “As a journalist, never be the rooster who believes it is only his crowing which brings up the sun.”

  “Now what will she do?”

  “The State of Wisconsin is closing it down, for health reasons, while handing out fraud indictments to everyone involved they can find.”

  “Are you going to pick her up?”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “You can’t pick up a woman who weighs over six hundred pounds? Mama done tol’ me you were always pickin’ up all kindsa wimmin.”

  “I am driving a rented handicap van with an hydraulic lift.”

  “She’ll be furious with you. Blythe Spirit has become her home away from home.”

  “And her major expense. A lot of good it was doing her. Did you know the staff at Blythe Spirit had pretty well convinced your mother she must plan to spend the rest of her life with them?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. With one hand they fed her appetites, with the other hand they fed her despair, while somehow continuing to pick her pockets. For a bright woman such as your mother, that took real sleight of hand.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. As her son, I can tell you she might take a swing at you, but she can’t catch you. Just don’t ever let her fall on you.”

  Fletch said, “You mean, again.”

  “Again.”

  “Look what happened last time she fell on me.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “I happened. Aren’t you glad?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “Now I know why you’re so nimble footed.”

  “Live with a six hundred plus pound mama for a while,” Jack said, “and you learn to take short, rapid, circuitous steps. Dos yee doe.”

  “So how are you doing, Nijinski?”

  “Who’s Nijinski?” Jack asked.

  “Someone who could dance around women pretty well, too.”

  “I’m fine,” Jack answered. “The stories exposing The Tribe made a big splash around the whole world. Or so I’m told. Did you see any of the stories on GCN?”

  “You know we don’t have cable at the farm. But I’ve been reading about your stories in the press. I’m proud of you. You didn’t do any on-camera work, did you?

  “What do you mean?”

  “They didn’t show you, pictures of you, did they?”

  “No. They wanted to, bad enough. In the vein of Young Reporter Risks Himself. I didn’t let them. Some of your principles have gotten through to me, you know.”

  “Oh. Your mama taught you well.”

  “But gee, Dad, it really crimps the vanity, you know? I coulda been a see-leb-pretty.”

  “I’m sure. As the preacher said to his daughter, ‘Save yourself. There’s always tomorrow.’”

  “Yeah. I had a date with her once. Speaking of people who don’t put out, I just met your Mr. Blair.”

  “Alex Blair? He’s a jerk.”

  “Gee, Dad, and I thought he was real nice.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “Such a sincere man.”

  “As sincere as a snake on a rock stirrin’ his tail in the water.”

  “He gave me a nice big check.”

  “I see.” Driving through rural Wisconsin, Fletch was trying to find a roadsign for the town of Forward. “That means GCN didn’t offer you a job.”

  “It’s a very generous check.”

  “Bastards. Which also means you didn’t let them know you’re my son.” In the van by himself, Fletch smiled. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Gee, Dad, am I your son?”

  “Until further notice.”

  “You’re not going to make me submit to DNA tests?” Jack asked.

  “I hate the question. I don’t even know why you’d want to be my son. Your mother raised you, filling you up with all kinds of lies about me…. All I’ve ever done is write a book you don’t like much.”

  “Well, I look at it this way,” Jack said. “You still have an opportunity to turn out well. Just maybe, with my good influence on you—”

  “You intend to reform me at this point? Good luck.”

  “Hey, I might even teach you one or two things about journalism.”

  “What are you going to do now that GCN has given you your walking papers?”

  “Visit an old girlfriend in Georgia.”

  “How close an old girlfriend?”

  “She’s getting married. To someone else.”

  “The best kind.”

  “We only spent a very short weekend together once. Very short.”

  “I’ve got the picture. You were at the Heartbreak Motel. So why are you showing up in her life now that she’s getting married? Can’t you stand any rejection at all?”

  “She’s invited me. She thinks there’s something weird about her boyfriend’s family.”

  “Isn’t there always? Few are the brides who realize it in time. You’re investigating the in-laws for her?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Why? Doesn’t sound like there’s a story there.”

  “Does there always have to be a story?”

  “You’ve got to keep yourself in Pepsi and pizza, boy.”

  “You haven’t asked me who her in-laws are.”

  “Who?”

  “Professor and Mrs. Chester Radliegh.”

  “Oh, yes. I see. He who invented the perfect mirror. Georgia. Isn’t he the guy that built that crazy place … ?”

  “Vindemia. That’s where I’m going.”

  “I see. I guess I wouldn’t mind meeting the guy who invented the wheel.”

  “‘To collect characters for the long ride,’” Jack quoted. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say at this point?”

  “Jeez, kid, you’re stealing all my best lines.”

  “It might be interesting, don’t you think? For some reason Shana thinks the Professor’s life is in danger.”

  “If it doesn’t work out, come back to Priory Farm, will you? Carrie insists she likes you and wouldn’t mind having you around for a while. Besides, the fences always need painting. We can offer you minimum wage, a shed to sleep in, and a bath on Saturdays.”

  “Naw,” Jack said. “As a father and son, we’ve grown too close.”

  “Sure,” Fletch said. “I’ve seen you two or three times now, spent hours with you.”

  “It’s not the quantity of time we spend together, it’s the quality.”

  “Well …” Fletch spotted the sign for Forward and slowed the van for a left turn. “You sure got my attention the few days we spent together.”

  “How is Carrie?”

  “Didn’t I just say? She’s crazy. She likes you. She loves me.”

  “Just wanted you to know where I’ll be,” Jack said. “Tell my mother, please.”

  “Sure,” Fletch said, turning the van left at the intersection. “Call if you find work.”

  •

  “Want to go have lunch?” Andy Cyst asked.

  “Yeah,” John Fletcher Faoni answered.

  “We might as well go to the employees’ dining room. Lasagna is the special today.”

  “No,” Jack said, “I want an Italian submarine sandwich.”

  “Where are you going to get that?”

  “Subs Rosa.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “North Carolina.”

  “Uh?”

  Jack shook Andy’s hand. “It’s been fun. Thanks for all your help.”

  “Blair didn’t give you a job?”

  “He gave me what he called ‘fatherly advice,’ to wit: get lost.”

  “Hey, Jack!” Andy called after him. “Will I see yo
u again?”

  Walking toward the exit of Global Cable News, Jack turned and waved at Andy.

  Jack sang, “Maybe when I learn not to end a sentence with a proposition.”

  4

  “Tell me who the bastard is now,” Crystal demanded through clenched jaws at the sight of Fletch.

  She was lying on the big bed in what had been her room on the second floor of Blythe Spirit. There were no pillowcases, sheets, blankets on the bed. There was no curtain around the bed.

  She was an enormous mound of mostly useless flesh in an outsized nightgown and bathrobe.

  To Fletch she looked as helpless, vulnerable as someone lying in the middle of a highway after a car wreck.

  Except through a curtain the week before, Fletch had not seen Crystal in years. When he had entered the room he was physically shocked by her mammoth size.

  Fletch exhaled. “Hi.”

  “They’ve even taken the lamps,” Crystal said. “The reading lamps.”

  “Yeah. This is a busy old place today.” There were cars, station wagons, ambulances, trucks, some of them with official insignias on their doors, crammed in Blythe Spirit’s horseshoe driveway. Files were being wheeled out of the administration offices downstairs on dollies. He cleared his throat. “Let me take you away from all this.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Crystal snapped. “You put the law on us. Your damned report on Global Cable News.”

  “You know I’m right.”

  “I know no such thing. These people were taking care of me.”

  “These people were keeping you handicapped so they could pick your pockets.”

  “Where’s Jack?”

  “Virginia. I was just talking to him.”

  “Is he coming?”

  “No. He’s on his way to Georgia.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  Fletch smiled. “He told me to be careful not to let you fall on me again.”

  After looking at Fletch a moment from the bed, Crystal laughed. “This time, I’d crush you to death.”

  “Flatter than a manhole cover.”

  “You’re both bastards. Father and son. I shouldn’t have let one of you know the other existed. Get out of here. Who needs you?”

  “You do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Okay. What are your plans?”