Fletch(30)
“The ranch.”
“What?”
“Alan is buying a ranch. In Nevada. For us.”
“Great.”
“No, it isn’t great. It’s awful. Who wants a ranch in Nevada?”
“Most people.”
“I spent a summer on a ranch when I was a kid. Hot, dusty, dirty. Boring. Incredibly boring. All the men look like pretzels. And when they talk they sound like a Dick-and-Jane book. It comes out slow and it ends up obvious. And you don’t talk about anything that hasn’t got four legs. I mean, sitting around looking at a cow is not my idea of pleasure.”
‘Then why are you doing it?”
“Alan wants to. He thinks the ranch is a great idea as an investment. I haven’t even been out to look at it. He insists he’s taking me next weekend.”
“Next weekend?”
“I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to it.”
“It’s a place you could be alone together.”
“Like hell. There’s an airstrip in the back yard. I know that already. As long as there’s an airplane in the back yard, Alan will be off on an important business deal somewhere and I’ll be left staring at cows with a bunch of pretzels in blue jeans.”
“So stop it. Stop Alan from buying it.”
“Supposedly, he’s taking the down payment, the cash, out himself next weekend.”
“The cash? As cash?”
“Yes. Isn’t that crazy? Cash. He said cash, visible cash is the only way to do business with these people. If he shows up with cash in a brown paper bag or something, flashes the real stuff, he might save percentages from the purchase price.”
“They must be more sophisticated than that.”
“This is deep in Nevada, honey. How do you know what appeals to a pretzel in blue jeans with a cow on its mind? Oh, Dad.”
Fletch stood up.
“This is an old friend of Alan’s. They were in the Air Force together. John—”
Shaking hands, Fletch said, “Yahmenaraleski.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Yahmenaraleski,” John Collins said. “Stay and have lunch with us.”
13
Fletch brought a chair from a neighboring table and sat in it. John Collins sat facing his daughter. At one o’clock, the sunlit tennis courts were empty. The pavilion was full.
Joan had moved the Polaroid camera.
“John’s in the furniture business, Dad. From Grand Rapids, Michigan.”
“From Butte, Montana,” Fletch said.
“Oh?”
Fletch was correct. Besides no one’s being able to remember for long the name he gave, no one cared to inquire too deeply into either the furniture business or Butte, Montana. He believed himself absolutely unmemorable.
“Martinis before lunch?” John Collins said.
“I mean to take a nap this afternoon.” Joan stared at Fletch.
“I’m glad to see at least John is drinking orange juice.”
“It’s a screwdriver.”
“Ah. Well. If you drink enough of those, they’ll make your head hammer.” John Collins beamed at them both. His daughter groaned softly. “You play tennis, John?”
“Just hack about, sir. I enjoy the game, but I have so little time for it …”
“You must make time in life to enjoy yourself and be healthy. It’s the best way to get a lot done.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course it also helps if you have a very able son-in-law to take over your business and run it for you. Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m playing and Alan is working. How do you know Alan?”
“We were in the Air Force together. In Texas.”
“John said that Alan buzzed a house once, in San Antonio. Did he ever mention that to you, Dad?”
“He certainly didn’t.”
“We were lieutenants then,” Fletch said. “He was severely reprimanded. I guess I talked out of school.”
“Delighted you did,” John Collins said. “Time we had a bit of dirt on Alan. I’ll put his nose in it. Got any more dirt?”
“No, sir.”
“He’s off flying someone’s idea of an airplane in Idaho this weekend,” John said. “Do you still fly?”
“Only with a ticket in my hand.”
“Good for you. I wish Alan would give it up. He’s too important to too many people to be taking such risks. Were you overseas with him?”
“No, sir. I was sent to the Aleutians.”
“Oh.”
Fletch smiled. No one cared about the Aleutians, either.
Without having ordered, John Collins was brought a grilled cheese sandwich and a bottle of ale.
“Aren’t you two going to order?” he asked.
“Sliced chicken sandwich,” Joan said. “Mayonnaise.”