“If you do that, Clara, you’ll be dead before me. I will kill you. Make no mistake.”
“We’re responsible for you, Fletcher.”
“Then be responsible, goddamn it, and shut the fuck up! You never blow a story! To anyone, at any time, ever! Christ, I wish I didn’t have to talk to you, you’re such an idiot.”
“All right, Fletcher, calm down. People are watching.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“I won’t talk to the police—yet.”
“Don’t talk to the police or anyone else—ever. If I need help, I’ll ask for it.”
“All right, Fletcher. All right, all right, all right.”
“Stupid bitch.”
“Which brings up the last matter—your Bronze Star.”
“What about it?”
“While you’ve been gone, not only have thousands of sleazy lawyers hired by your dozens of ex-wives been prowling the corridors ready to leap at you, but the marine commandant’s office has been calling as well.”
“So what.”
“You won a Bronze Star.”
“Years ago.”
“You never picked it up.”
“Right.”
“May I ask why not?”
“Such a thing doesn’t belong in a pawnshop.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s where they all end up, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see why.”
“You don’t have so many ex-wives.”
“You are going to pick up the Bronze Star.”
“I am not.”
“It’s all arranged. There is to be a ceremony next Friday, a week from today, in the commandant’s office at the marine base, and you are going to be there in a suit and tie and shoes.”
“What the hell is this to you? This is private business.”
“It is not private business. You are I.M. Fletcher, star writer of the News-Tribune, and we are going to have a photographer there and a cub reporter and we are going to run you smiling modestly in all editions Saturday.”
“You are like hell.”
“We are. What’s more, the marine commandant is going to have his full public relations staff, including photographers, there.”
“No.”
“And we’re going to try to make a wire story out of it and tell the whole world both about your exploits and the modesty that has kept you from picking up such a high honor all these years. We won’t tell them you really haven’t picked it up just because basically you are a slob.”
“I won’t be done with The Beach story by then.”
“You will turn in your beach story, whatever it looks like, with pictures, by four o’clock Thursday afternoon. We will run it in the Sunday paper, with a little sidebar saying, News-Tribune reporter I.M. Fletcher received the Bronze Star Friday, etc.”
“You will do nothing of the sort.”
“Frank has decided. The publisher has agreed.”
“I don’t care. I haven’t.”
“There is the matter of insubordination. You left an assignment when you were told clearly not to.”
“I won’t do it.”
“I’ll put it more simply, Fletcher: you have The Beach story in, complete, Thursday afternoon at four and be in the marine commandant’s office next Friday morning at ten, or you’re fired. And I, for one, will cheer.”
“I bet you will.”
“You’re an obnoxious prick.”
“I sell newspapers.”
“You heard me, Fletcher. Thanks for wearing your shoes to lunch.”
“I didn’t.”
6
“Fletcher, this is Jack Carradine. I tried to call you earlier, but apparently you were out to lunch.”
“I just ran upstairs to get bitten.”
“What?”
“I was in the cafeteria getting chewed out.”
“I have some information for you regarding Alan Stanwyk, but before I give it to you I’d like to know what you want it for. The financial department of this newspaper can’t be totally irresponsible.”
“Of course. I understand.” Fletch switched the telephone to his left ear and picked up a pen. “The truth is,” he lied, “we’re thinking we might do a feature story on who the most highly, I should say heavily, insured people are in this area and why they are so heavily insured.”
“Is Alan Stanwyk heavily insured?”
“Yes. Very heavily.”
“It stands to reason. He has a lot riding on his nose. Who is the beneficiary?”
“Wife and daughter, I believe.”
“I shouldn’t think they’d need the money. But since they hold a lot of stock in Collins Aviation, which he runs almost single-handedly, I suppose they would suffer at least a temporary loss upon his passing.”