Fletch’s Fortune f-3

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “He was your father?” Gillis asked.

  “So I’ve always heard.”

  “Who told you? Who said so?” Gillis asked.

  “My grandparents. They brought me up. In Florida.” Molinaro was looking at Gillis with more interest. “I never even saw your fist,” he said.

  “You never do,” said Gillis. “You never see the knockout punch.”

  “You used to box? I mean, professionally?”

  Gillis said, “I used to play piano.”

  Molinaro shook his head, as much as his head permitted him. “Fat old fart.”

  “You want to not see my fist again?”

  Molinaro stared at him.

  “You’re Frank Gillis, the television guy.”

  “I know that,” Frank Gillis said.

  “I’ve seen you on television.”

  “How come you roll your own?” Gillis asked.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Just unusual. Ever work in the Southwest?”

  “Yeah,” Molinaro said. “On a dude ranch, in Colorado. And one day I read Walter March owned a Denver newspaper. So I gave up my job and went to Denver and spent every day, all day, outside that newspaper building. Finally, one night, seven o’clock, he came out. Three men with him. I ran up to him. Two of the men blocked me off, big bruisers, the third opened the car door. And off went Walter March.”

  “Did he see you?” Fletch asked “Did he see your face?”

  “He looked at me before he got into the car. And he looked at me again through the car window as he was being driven off. Three, four years ago. Son of a bitch.”

  “You know, Joe,” Gillis said. “You’re not too good at taking a hint.”

  “What’s so wrong with having an illegitimate son?” Molinaro’s voice rose. “Jesus! What was ever wrong with it? Even in the Dark Ages, you could say hello to your illegitimate son!”

  Standing in the sunlight on a timber road a few kilometers behind Hendricks Plantation, Fletch found himself thinking of Crystal Faoni. I didn’t act contrite enough.… He fired a great many people on moral grounds… I’d be pleased to be accused.…

  “Your father was sort of screwed up,” Fletch said.

  Molinaro squinted up at him. “You knew him?”

  “I worked for him once. Maybe I spent five minutes in total with him.” Fletch said, “Your five minutes, I guess.”

  Molinaro continued to look at Fletch.

  Gillis asked, “You came to Virginia in hopes of seeing him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you know he was here?”

  “President of the American Journalism Alliance. The convention. Read about it in the papers. The Miami Herald.”

  “What made you think he’d be any gladder to see you this time than he was last time?”

  “Older,” Molinaro said. “Mellower. There was always hope.”

  “Why didn’t you register at the hotel?” Gillis asked. “Why hide up here in the woods?”

  “You kidding? You recognized me. I planned to stay pretty clear of the hotel. Until I absolutely knew I could get through to him.”

  “Did you contact him at all?” Fletch asked.

  “On the radio, Monday night, I heard he’d been murdered. First I knew he’d actually arrived here. I’d been noseying around. Hadn’t been able to find out anything.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gillis said. “So why are you still here?”

  There was hatred for Gillis on Molinaro’s face. “There’s a memorial service. This morning. You bastard.”

  Gillis said, “I’m not the bastard.”

  He got on his horse and settled her down.

  “Hey, Joe,” Gillis said. “I’m sorry I said that.” The hatred in Molinaro’s face did not diminish. “I mean, I’m really sorry.”

  Fletch said, “Joe. Who was your mother?”

  Molinaro gave Fletch the hatred full-face.

  And didn’t answer.

  Fletch stared into the younger, unlined face of Walter March.

  He stared into the unmasked hatred.

  Having known, slightly, the smooth, controlled, diplomatic mask of Walter March, Fletch was seeing the face now as it probably really was.

  Probably as the murderer of Walter March had seen him.

  “Joe.” Fletch mounted his horse. “Your father was really screwed up. Morally. He made his own laws, and most of ’em stank. Whatever you wanted from your father, I suspect you’re better off without.”

  Sullenly, bitterly, still sitting on the doorsill of the camper, Joseph Molinaro said, “Is that your eulogy?”

  “Yeah,” Fletch said. “I guess it is.”

  Thirty

  8:00-9:30 A.M. Breakfast

  Main Dining Room

  The pool was empty, and no one was around it except one man—a very thin man—sitting in a long chair, dressed in baggy, knee-length shorts, a vertically striped shirt open at the throat, and polished black loafers.

  Next to his chair was a black attaché case.

  Fletch had approached the hotel from the rear, still shirtless and sweaty.

  While he was fitting his key into the lock of the sliding glass door, the man came and stood beside him.

  He seemed peculiarly interested in seeing the key go into the lock.

  “Good morning,” Fletch said.

  “I.R.S.,” the man said.

  Fletch slid the door open. “How do you spell that?”

  “Internal Revenue Service.”

  Fletch entered the cool, dark room, leaving the door open.

  “Let’s see, now, you have something to do with taxes?”

  “Something.”

  He sat on a light chair, the attaché case on his knees.

  Fletch threw his T-shirt on the bed, his room key on the bureau.

  The man opened the attaché case and appeared ready to proceed.

  Fletch said, “You haven’t asked me to identify myself.”

  “Don’t need to,” the man said. “It appeared in a Washington newspaper you were here. I was sent down. The room clerk said you were in Room 79. You just let yourself in with the key to Room 79.”

  Fletch said, “Oh. Well, you haven’t identified yourself.”

  The man shook his head. “I.R.S.,” he said. “I.R.S.”

  “But what do I call you?” Fletch asked. “I? I.R.? Mister S.?”

  “You don’t need to call me anything,” I.R.S. said. “Just respond.”

  “Ir.”

  Fletch went to the phone and dialed Room 102.

  “Calling your lawyer?” I.R.S. asked.

  “Crystal?” Fletch said into the phone. “I need a couple of things.”

  She said, “Have you had breakfast?”

  Fletch said, “I forget.”

  “You forget whether you’ve had breakfast?”

  “I’m not talking about breakfast.”

  “Was it that bad? I had the pancakes and sausages, myself. Maple syrup. I know I shouldn’t have had the blueberry muffins, but I did. It was a long night.”

  “I know. And you may be eating for two now, right?”

  “Fletch, will you ever forgive me?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Good. Then let’s do it again.”

  “I had some difficulty explaining to hotel management how the bar for the shower curtain got ripped out.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them I tried to do a chin-up.”

  “They believed that?”

  “No. But one has to start one’s lying somewhere.”

  “Were they nasty about it?”

  “They were perfectly nice about saying they would put it on my bill. Listen, I need a couple of things. And I have a guest.”

  “Freddie Arbuthnot? No wonder you forgot breakfast.”

  Fletch looked at I.R.S. The man was almost entirely Adam’s apple.

  “Close.”

  The man’s shoulders were little more than outriggers for
his ears.

  “Anything, Fletcher darling, love of my life. Ask me for anything.”

  “I need one of those cassette tape recorders. You know, with a tape splicer? I need to splice some tape. Do you have one?”

  “Mine doesn’t have a splicer. I’m very sure that Bob McConnell has one, though.”

  “Bob?”

  “Would you like me to call him for you?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll call him myself.”

  Crystal said, “I think he’s disposed to cooperate with you in any way he can.”

  “Mentioning me in his piece has caused me a little bit of trouble.”

  I.R.S. was flicking his pen against his thumbnail, impatiently.

  “What’s the other thing, darling?”

  “I finished my travel piece. Want to send it off. Do you have anything like a big envelope, a box, wrapping paper, string?”

  “There’s a branch post office in the lobby.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They sell big mailers these days.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Big insulated envelopes, boxes, right up to the legal limit in size.”

  “Yeah. I forgot.”

  “Over the door there’s a sign saying ‘United States Post Office.’ ”

  “Thank you, Crystal.”

  “If you get lost in the lobby, just ask anyone.”

  “Crystal? I’m going to say something very, very rotten to you.”

  “What?”

  “The dining room is still open for breakfast.”

  “Rat”

  Fletch hung up but continued standing by the bed. He needed a shower. He thought of jumping in the pool. He wanted to do both.

  “If we might get down to the business at hand?” I.R.S. said.

  “Oh, yeah. How the hell are ya?”

  “Mister Fletcher, our records indicate you’ve never filed a tax return.”

  “Gee.”

  “Are our records accurate?”

  “Sure.”

  “Your various employers over the years—and, I must say, there is an impressive number of them—have withheld tax money from your income, so it’s not as if you’d paid no tax at all.”

  “Good, good.”

  “However, not filing returns is a crime.”

  “Shucks.”

  “As a matter of personal curiosity, may I ask why you have not filed returns?”

  “April’s always a busy month for me. You know. In the spring a young man’s fancy really shouldn’t have to turn to the Internal Revenue Service.”

  “You could always apply for extensions.”

  “Who has the time to do that?”

  “Is there any political thinking behind your not paying taxes?”

  “Oh, no. My motives are purely esthetic, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Esthetic?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen your tax forms. Visually, They’re ugly. In fact, very offensive. And their use of the English language is highly objectionable. Perverted.”

  “Our tax forms are perverted?”

  “Ugly and perverted. Just seeing them makes my stomach churn. I know you wallahs have tried to improve them but, if you don’t mind my saying so, They’re still really dreadful.”

  I.R.S. blinked. His Adam’s apple went up and down like a thermometer in New England.

  “Esthetics,” he muttered.

  “Right.”

  “All right, Mister Fletcher. We haven’t heard from you at all in more than two years. No returns. No applications for extensions.”

  “Didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Yet our sources indicate you have had an income during this period.”

  “I’m still alive, thank you. Clearly, I am eating.”

  “Mister Fletcher, you have money in Brazil, the Bahamas, Switzerland, and Italy.”

  “You know about Switzerland?”

  “Quite a lot of money. Where did you get it?”

  “I ripped it off.”

  “‘Ripped it off’?”

  “‘Stole it’ seems such a harsh expression.”

  “You say you stole it?”

  “Well, you weren’t there at the time.”

  “I certainly wasn’t.”

  “Maybe you should have been.”

  “Did you steal the money in this country?”

  “Yup.”

  “How did you get the money out of the country?”

  “Flew it out. In a chartered jet.”

  “My God. That’s terribly criminal.”

  “Why does my not paying taxes and illegally exporting money bother you more than the fact I stole the money in the first place?”

  “Really!”

  Fletch said, “Just an observation.”

  Fletch picked up the phone and dialed Room 82.

  “Bob? This is your friend Fletcher.”

  There was a long pause before Robert McConnell said, “Oh, yeah. Hi.”

  “Crystal tells me you have a cassette tape recorder with a tape splicer attachment.”

  “Uh. Yes.”

  “Wonder if I might borrow it for a few hours?”

  Robert McConnell was envisioning his sensitive parts tied to a cathedral door if he said no. Dear Crystal.

  “Uh. Sure.”

  “That’s great, Bob. You going to be in your room?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be by in a few minutes.” Fletch started to hang up, but then he said into the receiver, “Bob, I appreciate. Let me buy you a drink.”

  The only response was a click.

  I.R.S. said, “Mister Fletcher, I hope you realize what you’ve admitted here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you stole money, illegally exported it from the country, failed to report it as income to the Internal Revenue Service, and have never filed a federal tax return in your life.”

  “Oh, that. Sure.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Just esthetic. Those tax forms….”

  “Mister Fletcher, you seem to be signing yourself up for a long stretch in prison.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Make it somewhere South. I really don’t like cold weather. Even if I have to be indoors.”

  There was a knock on his door.

  “Have I answered your questions satisfactorily?” Fletch asked.

  “For a start.” I.R.S. was returning things to his attaché case. “I can’t believe my ears.”

  Fletch opened the door to a bellman.

  “Telegrams, sir. Two of them.” He handed them over. “You weren’t in your room earlier, sir.”

  “And sliding them under the door, you would have lost your tip. Right?”

  The bellman smiled weakly.

  “You’ve lost your tip anyway.”

  Fletch closed the door before opening the first telegram:

  GENERAL KILENDER ARRIVING HENDRICKS FOR BRONZE STAR PRESENTATION MID-AFTERNOON—LETTVTN.

  I.R.S. was standing in his droopy drawers, attaché case firmly in hand, staring at Fletch incredulously.

  He came toward the door.

  The second telegram said:

  BOAC FLIGHT 81 WASHINGTON AIRPORT TO LONDON NINE O’CLOCK TONIGHT RESERVATION YOUR NAME. WILL BE AT BOAC COUNTER SEVEN-THIRTY ON TO RECEIVE TAPES—FABENS AND EGGERS.

  At the door, I.R.S. said, “Mister Fletcher, I must order you not to leave Hendricks, not to leave Virginia, and certainly not to leave the United States.”

  Fletch opened the door for him.

  “Wouldn’t think of it”

  “You’ll be hearing from us shortly.”

  “Always nice doing business with you.”

  As I.R.S. walked down the corridor, Fletch waved good-bye at him—with the telegrams.

  Thirty-one

  9:30 A.M.

  PROBLEMS WITH FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE:

  On Renting a House in Nigeria,

  Finding a School For Your Kids in Singapore,

  Getting a Typewriter Fixed in Spain,


  and Other Problems

  Address by Dixon Hodge

  Conservatory

  10:30 A.M.

  WHAT TIME IS IT IN BANGKOK?: An Editor’s View

  Address by Cyrus Wood

  Conservatory

  [11:00 A.M. Memorial Service for Walter March]

  St. Mary’s Church, Hendricks

  11:30 A.M.

  THE PLACING OF FOREIGN CORRESPONDENTS:

  Pago Pago’s Cheaper, but the Story’s in Tokyo

  Address by Horsch Aldrich

  Conservatory

  Fletch had a shower, swam a few laps in the pool, dressed, and went to the hotel’s writing room, next to the billiards room at the back of the lobby.

  On a bookshelf near the fireplace was a copy of Who’s Who in America, which he pulled down and took to a writing table.

  Fletch had learned the habit a long time before of researching the people with whom he was dealing, through whatever resources were within reach.

  Sometimes the most simple checking of names and dates could be most revealing:

  MARCH, WALTER CODINGTON, publisher; b. Newport, R.I., July 17, 1907; s. Charles Harrison and Mary (Codington) M.; B.A., Princeton, 1929; m. Lydia Bowen, Oct., 1928; 1 son, Walter Codington March, Jr. March Newspapers, 1929-: treas., 1935; vice-pres., corp. affs., 1941; mergers & acquisitions, 1953; pres., 1957; chmn., pub., 1963-. Dir. March Forests, March Trust, Wildflower League. Mem. Princeton C. (N.Y.C.), American Journalism Alliance, Reed Golf (Palm Springs, Ca.), Mattawan Yacht (N.Y.C.), Simonee Yacht (San Francisco). Office: March Building, 12 Codington Pl New York City NY 10008

  MARCH, WALTER CODINGTON, JR., newspaperman; b. N.Y.C., Mar. 12, 1929; s. Walter Codington and Lydia (Bowen) AH.: Princeton, 1941. m. Allison Roup, 1956: children—Allison, Lydia, Elizabeth. March Newspapers, 1950-: treas., 1953; vice-pres., corp. affs., 1968; pres., 1973-. Dir. March Forests, March Trust, Franklin-Williams Museum, N.Y. Symphonia, Center for Deaf Children (Chicago). Mem. American Journalism Alliance, Princeton C. (N.Y.C). Office: March Building, 12 Codington Pl New York City NY 10008