The manager’s eyes read “FEED THE PEOPLE.” He shook his head slowly.
Hands in his back pockets he walked slowly around to the “ADJUST!” side.
The sun appeared between clouds.
“There’s more on the top, too,” Fletch said
Coming back, the manager stood on tiptoes and stretched his neck to see the top.
“Have to paint the whole thing.”
“Shit,” Fletch said.
“Little jerks,” the manager said. “‘Feed the people,’ but screw whoever owns this truck.”
“Yeah,” Fletch said. “Me.”
“You got insurance?‘
“Sure.”
“Want to check your coverage?”
“Got to have the truck,” Fletch said, “whether insurance covers it or not. Can’t use it this way.”
“What do you do?
“I’m a plumber,” Fletch said.
“Yeah. I guess not too many people would like that truck in their driveways. You might lose a few customers.”
“Lose ‘em all. Paint it. I’ll pay you and knock the insurance company up later myself.”
“Same blue?”
“Wouldn’t work, would it?”
“Naw. You’d be able to read the black right through it.”
“Better paint it black, then.”
“Sons of bitches. Even dark red wouldn’t work. Even dark green. Ought to have their asses whipped.”
“Paint it black.”
“You want it black?”
“No, I don’t want it black. If I wanted a black truck I would have bought a black truck.”
“You’ll look like a hearse.”
“Friggin‘ hearse.”
“You got the registration?”
“What for?”
“Got to take it into the Registry. Report the change in vehicle color.”
“Screw ‘em.”
“What?”
“Look.” Fletch laid on anger. “I’m the, victim of a crime. If the fuzz were doin‘ what they’re supposed to be doin’, instead of makin‘ us fill out papers all the time, my truck wouldn’t have been vandalized.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Let ‘em go screw, I’ll notify ’em when I’m good and ready.”
“You want it black, uh?”
“No. But it’s gonna be black.”
“When do you need it?”
“Right now. I’m late for work right now.”
“You can’t have the truck today. No way. Tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. If that’s the best you can do.”
“You goin‘ to go into the Registry?”
“I’m goin‘ to work. I’ll go into the Registry when I get damned good and ready.”
“Okay. I understand. We’ll paint the truck. You go to the Registry.”
“Damned kids,” Fletch said. “Weirdos.”
“If you get picked up, just don’t say where you got the truck painted.”
Fletch said, “Screw ‘em.”
Twelve
Fletch listened to the old elevator creak and clank as it climbed to the sixth floor.
The door to apartment 6A opened. A miniature poodle preceded a woman on a leash. It was immediately obvious the woman was tipsy at one-thirty in the afternoon. While Fletch held the elevator door, she rummaged in her purse for her key. The dog watched Fletch curiously. Apparently satisfied she had her key, the woman slammed the door.
“Watch,your step,” Fletch said.
The woman tripped anyway.
He pushed the “L” button. They sank slowly.
“You the man taking Bart’s apartment?”
“Yes,” Fletch said. “Name of Fletcher.”
How could the woman not have heard of the murder next door? Some drunk.
Fletch patted the dog.
“When did Bart leave, anyway?”
“Saturday,” Fletch said. “Sunday. He’s using my house in Italy.”
“Oh,” the woman said.
Fletch wondered how far she could walk the dog.
“That couldn’t be,” she said.
“What couldn’t be?”
“I saw Bart Tuesday.”
“You did?‘
“Tuesday night. At the place right up the street. The Bullfinch Pub.”
“What time?”
She shrugged. She was tired of the conversation.
“Drink time. Six o’clock.”
“Are you sure it was Tuesday?”
“He wore a tweed sports jacket. I knew he hadn’t just come from the office. Thought it odd. Pretty girl with him.”
“What did she look like?”
“Pretty. Young.”
The elevator clunked to a stop.
Fletch opened the door.
“Are you sure of this?” he asked.
Passing him, she said, “I’m in love with Bart.”
Thinking, Fletch watched her walk unevenly across the lobby.
He caught up to her at the door. He put his hand on the knob to open it.
“Did you speak to Bart Tuesday night?”
“No,” she said. “I hate the son of a bitch.”
He trailed her through the door.
“That’s a nice dog you have there.”
“Oh, that’s my love, Mignon. Aren’t you, Mignon?”
On the sidewalk she extended a gloved hand to Fletch.
“I’m Joan Winslow,” she said. “You must come by sometime. For a drink.”
“Thank you,” Fletch said. “I will.”
Thirteen
“The arrogance of the press,” Fletch said, standing to shake hands.
It was two-fifteen. Knowing full well Jack Saunders would be late, Fletch had ordered and sipped a vodka martini. Through the window he had watched the plainclothesman standing in the alley. A day of quickly traveling clouds, sunlight switched on and off in the alley as if someone were taking time exposures of the discomfited cop. There had been no place for him to park his car. Through the dark window glass of Locke-Ober’s the man he was supposed to be watching was sitting at a white-clothed table, sipping a martini, watching him. Fletch had toyed with the idea of inviting him in for a drink.
Jack Saunders said, “Sorry to be a little late. The wife got her eyelashes stuck in the freezer door.”
Sitting down, Fletch said, “A reporter is always late because he knows there is no story until he gets there. Still drink gin?”
Jack ordered a martini.
He had not changed much—only, more so: His glasses were a little thicker, his sandy hair a little thinner. His belly had let out more than his belt.
“Olde times,” Jack said in toast. “With an ‘e’.”
“To the end of the world,” said Fletch. “It will make a hell of a story.”
They talked about Jack’s new job, where he was living, now, their time together on the Chicago Post. They had a second drink.
“God, that was funny,” Jack was saying. “The time you busted the head of the Internal Revenue Service in Chicago. The Infernal Revenue Service. The guy was as guilty as hell. They had him in court. They couldn’t get the evidence on him because his wife had all the evidence, and they couldn’t call her to testify because she was his wife, even though they were separated.”
“The newspaper was being very polite about it,” Fletch said, “following the court in its frustration, as the man Flynn might say.”
“Journalistic responsibility, Fletch. Journalistic responsibility. Will you never learn?”
“Sloppy legwork,” Fletch said. “I didn’t do anything any junior-grade F.B.I. man couldn’t have done.”
“What did you do, anyway?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Come on, I’m not your boss anymore.”
“You might be again one day, though.”
“I hope so. Come on, we’re not in Illinois, the guy’s in jail…”
“Why the hell should I give you ideas? You were reporting the court record as docilely as the rest of the idiot editors.”