Fletch f-1

by Gregory Mcdonald

“But, frankly, I don’t think that’s the reason for the policy.”

  “Oh?”

  “John put that policy on him to try to get him to stop flying these gimcracked planes after Julia was born. He thought the premiums would convince Alan he should give up flying. I believe John mentioned that to me over a drink one day at the Racquets Club. I had said that much insurance on somebody would make anybody a target for murder. John didn’t think my impugning his daughter was funny.”

  “Who is Julia?”

  “The granddaughter. I mean, Joan’s daughter. Joan and Alan. A cute little tyke.”

  “Mr. Stanwyk is still flying?”

  “Oh, yes. Every once in a while we hear of a near scrape. Keep the insurance on.”

  “When was the last time you examined Mr. Stanwyk, doctor?”

  “Not since before you guys took him over. You’re giving him a complete physical every six months. How many times a year can a man be examined?”

  “You haven’t seen him at all?”

  “As I say, just socially. At John’s for drinks, or dinner at the club.”

  “What sort of shape would you say he is in?”

  “I couldn’t say without examining. From seeing him at the pool and in the locker room, I can say he is a slim, well-built young man, muscular and apparently perfectly healthy. He drinks and smokes moderately. He’s built like a twenty-year-old boxer. Except for his wind, he could go fifteen rounds with anybody.”

  “Is it possible he could be seeing any doctor other than you?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “A specialist?”

  “I don’t know who would refer him to a specialist, if your insurance doctor didn’t. And if he became aware of a problem, he would most likely refer him back to me, and I would refer him to a specialist, if he needed one. If the question is, have I referred him to a specialist lately, or ever, the answer is no.”

  “Thank you, doctor. Sorry to take your time.”

  “May I ask the reason for this inquiry?”

  “We have to do a summary investigation of these large carriers periodically.”

  “Three million dollars is a hefty amount of insurance. That much insurance on a man would change his whole way of life, I would think.”

  “Or his way of death, doctor.”

  4

  “Library.”

  “I asked for the clips on Alan Stanwyk at a quarter past eight this morning. It is now a quarter to eleven. What the hell’s the matter with you people?”

  “Is this Mr. Fletcher?”

  “It is.”

  “The chief librarian wants to speak with you.”

  Fletch had been pleased to get the photo file on Stanwyk before the chief librarian had arrived for work at nine.

  “Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have the clips on Alan Stanwyk down here for you anytime you want to pick them up.”

  “Terrific. Such cooperation. I’ve been waiting two hours while you guys have been playing games.”

  “Running a morgue is no game, Fletcher. We are not running a delivery service. You have to come down and get the file yourself.”

  “I said thank you.”

  “And you have to sign out the file yourself. I’ve had enough of your denials that you never took something that simply disappeared after it was delivered to you.”

  “I’ll be right down. Try not to have the out-to-lunch sign up when I get there.”

  Fletch was halfway down the corridor to the library before he realized he had forgotten to put his sneakers back on.

  “I would have brought the file to you myself, Mr. Fletcher, but Mr. Osborne said not to.” The great round frames to her eyeglasses made the girl look almost attractive.

  “Fuck Mr. Osborne.”

  “He has the file.”

  Osborne had a large red nose and always looked hung over. He had been a good reporter once.

  “Here’s where you sign, Fletch; thank you very much. And here’s your file. Shitty piece you did last week on the bookie joints.”

  “Sorry.”

  “My joint was closed all week. Couldn’t make a bet anywhere in town.”

  “Good for what’s left of your character.”

  “I kept track of the races. I figure you lost me about five hundred dollars.”

  “I’ll send you a check, I get paid so much.”

  “I’m just saying: thanks very much. Anytime I can do you a favor…”

  “You can. Fuck off.”

  “Return this file before you go home, sweetheart, or I’ll report you.”

  “I.M. Fletcher. Reporter.”

  “For now.”

  The girl with the nice glasses looked at his bare feet and smiled.

  “Fletcher!”

  Clara Snow was in the corridor.

  “For Christ’s sake, Fletcher!”

  Beige suit, alligator accessories, all trim and proper for a trim and proper day.

  “You just getting in, Clara?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Fletcher, jeans and a T-shirt are bad enough; can’t you wear shoes in the office?”

  “I’ve been here since seven-thirty.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here at all. You’re supposed to be at The Beach.”

  “I told you last night I was coming up.”

  “And I told you not to come.”

  “I had to do some research.”

  “I don’t give a damn. I told you not to leave The Beach until you had that story. Do you have the story?”

  “No.”

  “Fletcher.” In the dark of the corridor her face was clearly purple. “I’ll talk to you later. I’m late for firing someone. Someone else.”

  “What? Did you and Frank oversleep?”

  “That’s not funny. It’s not even amusing.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  Fletch spread the file over his desk. The clips on Alan Stanwyk were from various sections of the newspaper, mainly society and financial, but also sports and run-of-paper. On each clip, Stanwyk’s name was circled in red the first time it appeared.

  Fletch snapped on the tape recorder he had brought from the passenger seat of his MG. His bare feet on the desk, he leaned back in his swivel chair.

  “Eleven A.M. Friday. Re: The Murder Mystery.

  “So far we have established only a few things.

  “First, from the picture files at the News-Tribune, I have established that the man I met last night, who brought me to the Stanwyk house, was Alan Stanwyk.

  “Second, he is executive vice president of Collins Aviation, married to Joan Collins and has one child, Julia, age hopefully somewhat less than six.

  “His private physician and family friend, Dr. Joseph Devlin, of the Medical Center, confirms that Stanwyk is insured for three million dollars. The reason Devlin offers for the heavy insurance is that Stanwyk’s father-in-law and company president, chairman of the board, wishes to discourage Stanwyk from continuing to fly experimental planes. So far, the discouragement induced by heavy premiums hasn’t worked. Stanwyk is still flying.

  “So far, we have not had a reliable check on Stanwyk’s health. Nor do I think we’re going to get one.

  “Devlin pleaded ignorance regarding Stanwyk’s physical condition, which is a queer thing for a family physician to do, unless he were covering himself.

  “And, most significantly, the doctor indicated that Collins Aviation stock would fall if word got around that Alan Stanwyk is terminally ill. It’s a safe bet the dear old family doctor and friend has a large slice of his savings in Collins Aviation.

  “It would be to his benefit to lie and to give Stanwyk all the time possible to put his house in order.

  “Therefore, it is unconfirmed and probably unconfirmable whether or not Alan Stanwyk has terminal cancer.

  “To me he looked a healthy man, but I’m not better at medical diagnosis than I am at safecracking, to everyone’s disappointment.” Leaning over the
clips spread out on his desk, Fletch worked the on-off button on the tape recorder microphone.

  “Let’s see. From the News-Tribune clips, the Alan Stanwyk file, we have the following:

  “Engagement is announced, Joan Collins to Alan Stanwyk, November, six years ago at a big bash at the Racquets Club.

  “She is the daughter of John and Marion Collins. The only child. Graduated from The Hills High School, Godard Junior College, and took a year at the Sorbonne. Won Tennis Juniors when she was fifteen and sixteen. Since her year in France, worked in the International Department of Collins Aviation.

  “The lady sounds dull.

  “Alan Stanwyk, son of Marvin and Helen Stanwyk, Nonheagan, Pennsylvania. Colgate College, Bachelor of Arts degree. Captain, United States Air Force, flew twenty-four missions in Indochina. Purple Heart. Graduated from Wharton Business School.

  “At the time of the engagement he was assistant vice president of sales for Collins Aviation.

  “January first, it is announced on the financial page that Alan Stanwyk is named executive vice president of Collins Aviation. The old man wanted to see how the boy worked out as a big man in the office before finding out how he worked out as a son-in-law.

  “In April, Alan Stanwyk announced a multimillion-dollar government contract for Collins Aviation.

  “Big wedding in June at the Collins family home in The Hills. Biographies are the same, but there is no reference to Stanwyk’s family attending the wedding. Best man is Burt Eberhart, Colgate graduate, same year as Stanwyk.

  “The Stanwyks, the Stanwyks… it is announced… Joan Stanwyk, Junior League, Symphony Friend… A dinner-dance benefit the Symphony at the Racquets Club, in fact, once a year: each October. Julia Collins Stanwyk born in March the year after the wedding. All very proper.

  “But interesting: she’s here, she’s there, she’s everywhere at first after becoming Mrs. Alan Stanwyk—teas, lunches, dinners, openings, cocktails. Yet either her activity declined steadily, or the society writers didn’t find her very good copy. Which would be unusual, as she is née Collins and the average American blonde who takes a good picture.

  “Apparently she has done very little the last six months.

  “Oh, Mrs. Stanwyk… why have you withdrawn… at thirty?

  “Alan Stanwyk. Sails as navigator on his father-in-law’s yacht, the Colette, in the Triangle Race every year. Never won. Never placed. Skippered by John Collins. A sailing as well as a tennis-playing family. A very rich family.

  “Alan Stanwyk becomes member of Racquets Club executive committee. Three years. Treasurer, Racquets Club, the last three years. Makes it to finals tournaments in both tennis and squash. Never wins. Never places.

  “Becomes a member of the Urban Club. Reads a paper urging city police to return to foot patrols. Key phrase is: ‘Get the cops out of their cars and back into the community.’ Yeah, Stanwyk. The police chief answers. The mayor answers. People listen to Alan Stanwyk.

  “The next year the paper he delivers to the Urban Club is in defense of jet noise around Collins Aviation. In answer to an earlier paper read to the Urban Club by my boss: News-Tribune editor-in-chief Frank Jaffe. Wonder who wrote it for him. Probably Clara Snow, over a cup of Ovaltine. No one answered Stanwyk that time.

  “Stanwyk Speaks on F-111. He’s in favor of them. Stanwyk Flies F-111 Simulator. Stanwyk Flies this and Stanwyk Flies that. Stanwyk tests Collins cold-weather private-plane equipment in Alaska.

  “Stanwyk honored by U.S. aviation writers.

  “Stanwyk, Stanwyk, Stanwyk… more of the same. I see why his father-in-law married him. There are no flies on Stanwyk. If there were, short of murder, somehow I doubt our sterling journal would print them…”

  The telephone rang.

  Fletch said into it, “So glad you called.”

  “Fletch, can’t you do anything right? Like grow up?”

  “Clara, darling! You sound relaxed and subdued, like just after sex. You just fired someone.”

  “As a matter of fact, I just did.”

  “Who?”

  “A kid in the city room. He had been calling people up and asking them stupid questions, saying he was someone from the Associated Press.”

  “Really? How awful! I always tell people I’m from the Chronicle-Gazette, myself.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “How did you catch the jerk?”

  “He called the French embassy in Washington and asked how to spell élan. We got the bill.”

  “What awful snoops you are.”

  “He admitted it.”

  “And you fired him after he admitted it?”

  “We can’t have people doing that. AP complained.”

  “Jesus. I’ll never confess to anything again.”

  “Fletcher, we have to talk.”

  “Are you up to it?”

  “That’s why I thought we should have lunch. In the cafeteria. Put your shoes on.”

  “You’re not taking me out?”

  “I wouldn’t be seen in public with you. Even a drugstore lunch counter wouldn’t let us in, the way you dress.”

  “If I had Frank’s income…”

  “Upstairs in the cafeteria, at least people will understand I’m eating with you because I have to.”

  “You don’t have to. I have work to do.”

  “I have several things to talk to you about, Fletcher. Might as well get it over with. Including your Bronze Star.”

  “My Bronze Star?”

  “See you upstairs. Put your shoes on.”

  5

  Clara Snow had ordered an uncut bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwich on toast. When she bit into it the two edges of toast nearer Fletch gaped as if about to bite him.

  “Tell me what I’ve always wanted to know, Clara, and somehow never expected to find out: how is our editor-in-chief, Frank Jaffe, in bed?”

  “Fletch, why don’t you like me?”

  “Because you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know anything about this business.”

  “I’ve been employed in this business a lot longer than you have.”

  “As a cooking writer. You know nothing about hard news. You know nothing about features. You know nothing about the mechanics of this business.”

  Speaking like a school marm trying to coax a boy full of puberty toward the periodic tables, she said, “Are you sure you don’t resent me just because I’m a woman?”

  “I don’t resent women. I rather like women.”

  “You haven’t had much luck with them.”

  “My only mistake is that I keep marrying them.”

  “And they keep divorcing you.”

  “I don’t even mind your going to bed with the editor-in-chief. What I do mind is your being made an editor—my editor—solely because you are going to bed with the editor-in-chief, when you are totally unqualified and, I might add, totally incompetent. Go to bed with Frank if you like. Anything to keep the bastard reasonably sober and relaxed. But your accepting an editorship in bed when you are unqualified is thoroughly dishonest of you.”

  Even in the cafeteria light, the skin over Clara’s cheekbones as she stared at him was purple.

  She bit into the sandwich, and the toast yawned at Fletch. He chewed his calves’ liver open-mouthed. “Such principle,” she said, sucking Coke from a straw. “You can’t tell me you haven’t made every strung-out little girl on the beach.”

  “That’s different. That’s for a story. I will do anything for a story. That’s why I put penicillin on my expense account.”

  “You do?”

  “Under ‘Telephones.’ ‘

  “What Frank and I do together, and what our personal relationship is, is none of your damned business, Fletcher.”

  “Fine. I’ll buy that. Just leave me alone, and leave my goddamned copy alone. You chopped hell out of my divorce equity story and made me look like a raving idiot.”

  “I had to make changes in it, and you were away on a stor
y. I couldn’t get in touch with you.”

  “It came out totally imbalanced, thanks to you, bitch editor. If I were a divorce lawyer in our circulation area, I would have sued the hell out of me by now. You opened me and the newspaper wide for suit, besides making me look like an incompetent.”

  “I tried to get in touch with you.”

  “Leave my copy alone. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Want coffee?”

  “I never take stimulants.”

  “For now, Fletch, we have to work together.”

  “Until you build enough of a case against me to get me fired, right?”

  “Maybe. Now please tell rne how you are doing on the drugs-on-the-beach story.”

  “There are drugs on the beach.”

  “Lots?”

  “On that particular stretch of beach, lots.”

  “Hard drugs?”

  “Very.”

  “Who are the people there?”

  “The so-called kids on the beach are divided into two groups. The first group are drifters, kids on the road, alienated, homeless wanderers, usually incapable of permanent relationships. Some of them are just sun-worshippers, but if they are, they case this particular stretch of beach and move on. The kids who stay are there for the drugs. Because there is a source there, somewhere, of good, clean junk. Some of these so-called kids are forty years old. Although others aren’t, like Bobbi.”

  “Tell me about Bobbi.”

  “Jesus, she’s been listening. Bobbi is as cute as a button, only sexier. She is fifteen, blond, with a beautiful, compact little body.”

  “Have you been making it with her?”

  “She needed someplace to crash.”

  “A fifteen-year-old. And you talk about me.”

  “She came out with a guy older than I am. Originally from Illinois. Daddy’s a dentist. She fell in love with this guy passing through the local coffee shop, packed a knapsack and came with him. Once she was on the beach and thoroughly hooked, he wandered off. She was hooking when I met her.”

  “How are you paying for her?”

  “Expense account. Under ‘Breakfast’ and ‘Lunch.’‘

  “Aren’t you afraid of the law, Fletcher? A fifteen-year-old?”

  “If there is no one to complain for a kid, the law don’t give a shit.”