Fletch's Fortune Read Online Free

newsperson.”
    “With
Newsworld
magazine.”
    “Women’s stuff? Fashion? Food?”
    “Crime,” she said, looking straight ahead.
    “Women’s stuff.”
    Fletch was smiling behind his hand.
    “Newspersons’ stuff. I’ve just come back from covering the Pecuchet trial, in Arizona.”
    Fletch did not know of the case.
    “What was the verdict?” he asked.
    She said, “Good story.”
    “Yee.” He slapped himself on the cheek. “Yee.”
    She looked into his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect any other verdict.”
    “Do you know Walter March was murdered this morning?”
    “I heard about it from the taxi radio on the way to the airport. Do you have any of the details?”
    “Nary a one.”
    “Well.” She straightened her legs as much as they could be straightened in the cramped airplane. “I have two notebooks. And three pens.” Touching her fingers to her lips, she yawned. “And are you a journalist?” she asked. “Or a busboy?”
    “I’m not sure,” he answered. “I’m on a sabbatical.”
    “From what company?”
    “Practically all of them.”
    “You’re unemployed,” she said. “Therefore you’re working on a book.”
    “You’ve got it.”
    “On the Vatican?”
    “Why the Vatican?”
    “You’re working on the book in Italy.”
    “I’m working on a book about Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior.”
    “You’re working on a book about an American cowboy painter in Italy?”
    “It brings a certain perspective to the work. Detachment.”
    “And, I suspect, about thirty tons of obstacles.”
    “Do obstacles come by the ton?”
    “In your case, I think so. The rest of us measure them in kilograms.”
    She put her hand on his on the armrest, slipped one of her fingers under two of his, raised them and let them fall.
    “I think I detect,” she said, “what with all your ex-wives and ex-employers, that your life lacks a certain consistency—a certain glue.”
    “Rescue me,” Fletch said. “Save me from myself.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “I. M. Fletcher.”
    “Fletcher? Never heard of you. Why so pompous about it?”
    “Pompous?”
    “You announced your name,
I am Fletcher.
As if someone had said you weren’t. Why didn’t you just say,
Fletcher?”
    She was still playing with his fingers.
    “My first initial is
I
. My second initial is
M
.”
    “Hummmm,” she said. “An affliction since birth. Does the
I
stand for Irving?”
    “Worse. Irwin.”
    “I like the name Irwin.”
    “No one likes the name Irwin.”
    “You’re just prejudiced,” she said.
    “I have every reason to be.”
    “You have nice hands.”
    “One on the end of each arm.”
    With her two hands she made a loose fist out of his left hand, brought it a few inches closer to her, and dropped it.
    She was still looking at his hand.
    “Would you run your hands over my naked body, time and again?”
    “Here? Now?”
    “Later,” she said. “Later.”
    “I thought you’d never ask. Shall I send them in to you by Room Service, or come myself?”
    “Just your hands,” she said. “I don’t know much about the rest of you—except that you get along well with everybody.”
    He took her hand in his, and she put her left hand on top of his.
    She had pulled her legs into her seat.
    “Ms., you have me at a disadvantage.”
    “I sincerely hope so.”
    “I don’t know your name.”
    “Arbuthnot,” she said.
    “Arbuthnot!” He extricated his hand. “Not Arbuthnot!”
    “Arbuthnot,” she said.
    “Arbuthnot?”
    “Arbuthnot. Fredericka Arbuthnot.”
    “Freddie Arbuthnot?”
    “You’ve heard of me? Behind that Italian tan, I detect a sudden whiteness of pallor.”
    “Heard of you? I made you up!”
    The plane was on its landing run into Hendricks Airport
    She truly looked puzzled.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“Well, I do.”
Fletch unclasped his seat belt.
He said again, “I do.”

Four

    Mrs. Jake Williams—Helena, she insisted people call her—the hostess at the American Journalism Alliance