Fletch(28)
“I see. I hadn’t realized that. I guess I really goofed.”
“Never mind. He’s been accused of it enough times. Poor Alan spends all his available time proving he married me for myself and not for Poppa’s business.”
“He works for your father?”
“I’m not sure at the moment who works for whom. Alan runs the place. Dad runs tennis tournaments. In fact, these days Dad does pretty much what Alan tells him.”
“Alan always was very competent”
“Remarkably.”
“What sort of a business is this, anyway?”
“Collins Aviation.”
“I never heard of it. Sorry.”
“You wouldn’t have, unless you were in the aviation business. It makes parts for airplanes the actual airplane manufacturers put together.”
“Not exactly a dry-cleaning shop.”
“Not exactly.”
“You see how bad I am at business. I don’t even follow the stock market.”
“Very little of Collins Aviation stock is available. It belongs mostly to us.”
“The whole thing?”
“To us and a few family friends. You know, like the family doctor, Dad’s old Harvard roommate, Joe Devlin … people like that. All as rich as Croesus.”
“How nice.”
“It is nice to have everyone you know rich. Problems never come up about who pays the drink bill.”
“Would you like another?”
“Why, John. How nice.” He signaled a waiter.
“By the way, John, how did you gain entree to the Racquets Club?”
“I’m a guest of the Underwoods. He and I are doing a little business together. He knew my plane was not leaving until midafternoon, so he suggested I come over, hit a ball and have a swim.”
“The Underwoods? I don’t know them. They must be new members.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
“But where’s your tennis racquet?”
“I borrowed one. I just returned it to the pro shop.”
“I see.”
“A martini on the rocks, please, and a screwdriver,” he said.
The waiter said, “Yes, Mrs. Stanwyk.”
“The Racquets Club is Daddy’s pet. He darn near built the place himself. In fact, he’s endowed it so well, the Racquets Club is a major stockholder in Collins Aviation. That very chair you’re sitting on was probably designed for an airport lounge in Albany. Does Albany have an airport?”
“Albany, New York?”
“Yes.”
“Who cares?”
“Good point. Who cares about Albany, New York?”
“Except the Albanians.”
“Except the Albanians. Woo. I usually don’t drink martinis after playing tennis in the morning.”
“What do you usually do after playing tennis in the morning?”
“I wouldn’t mind doing that either,” she said. “Alan’s away a lot. Mondays and Wednesdays he never gets home before eleven o’clock at night. The ends of the weeks he’s apt to get in his airplane and go somewhere on business. Business, business, business. Ah, here’s another drink.”
The waiter said, “Here you are, Mrs. Stanwyk.”
“To business,” she said.
“He never comes home until eleven on Mondays and Wednesdays?” Fletch repeated.
“Very late. On Thursdays I have a committee meeting here at the club. Just as well; the servants at home are out. Julie and I have supper here at the Club. Julie’s my daughter. You haven’t met her yet. I don’t know what happens to Alan on Thursdays. That leaves us exactly Tuesdays together. He’s always very attentive on Tuesdays.”
“I remember Alan got a piece of metal stuck in him overseas.”
“He got a scar in his belly and a Purple Heart.”
“Is he all right now?”
“Perfect. He’s in perfect physical condition.”
“He is?”
“Why are you so incredulous?”
“He always worried about having cancer. Every time he lit a cigarette he’d mention it. He called them cancer sticks.”
“I have noted no such justifiable neuroticism on his part.”
“He’s never had cancer?”
“God. Don’t even say it.”
“Remarkable.”
“What is?”
“That he’s never had cancer.”
“He doesn’t smoke all that much. But for you, John whatever-your-last-name-is, there seems nothing wrong with you.”
“I never went overseas,” Fletch said.
“You seem quite perfect.”
“Overflight.”
“What?”
“Overflight. I’m trying to think of the name of Alan’s best man. Over-something.”