“I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s a long life, son, and your feelings change about things. You send the Bronze Star on to us, and we’ll take care of it for you.”
“You’re a sweet man, Mr. Stanwyk.”
“I don’t understand that California kind of talk.”
“May I think about it?”
“Sure. I’m just thinking it might make the whole thing easier for you.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Call anytime. I bought some more telephone stock last night.”
“The Nonheagan Inn. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon. This is Mr. Alan Stanwyk.”
“Hello, Mr. Stanwyk. Nice to hear your voice, sir.”
Teenage girls looked into the Racquets Club playroom. Apparently Fletch was not what they were looking for.
“I’m calling myself because it’s Saturday and I just decided I might come out next weekend.”
“Oh?”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to sound surprised. It’s just that we look forward to seeing you every six weeks or so, and you were here just two weeks ago.”
“I may change my mind about coming.”
“It will be perfectly all right if you do, sir. We’ll keep the suite for you until we’re sure you’re not coming.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Stanwyk.”
“Swarthout Nevada Realty Company.”
“Jim Swarthout, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Swarthout is out with a client.”
“When do you expect him?”
“Well, sir, it is Saturday afternoon …”
I see.
“May I have him call you after he calls in?”
“No, thanks. He’ll be in the office Monday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll get him then.”
15
Still in tennis whites, Fletch cruised slowly down Vizzard Road. The telephone directory had said the number was 12355.
It was a pleasant Spanish-styled stucco house set back on a cool lawn. In the driveway was a blue Cadillac Coupe de Ville.
Fletch parked in the street.
Going toward the house, he smelled and saw smoke, so he went around to the back.
Inside the pool enclosure was a fat, balding man in Bermuda shorts contemplating a lighted hibachi. Beside him on a flagstone was a large gin and tonic.
“Burt?”
The man looked up, ready to be pleased, ready to greet someone, to be glad; instead, he looked slightly hesitant at someone he had never seen before.
“John Zalumarinero,” Fletch said.
“Oh, yes.”
Burt Eberhart put out his hand.
“I’m only in town for the day. Just had lunch with Joan Collins and her father at the Racquets Club.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I asked for you. Joan said you lived here at The Beach and I should pop in to say hello on the way back to the hotel.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I haven’t seen you since Joan’s wedding. You were best man.”
“John!” Burt Eberhart said with a burst of synthetic recognition. He shook hands again. “By God, it’s good to see you again. How have you been keeping yourself?”
“Furniture business. Montana.”
“That’s terrific. You look so young. You say you just had lunch with Joan and her dad?”
“The grilled cheese special.”
“Jesus. John Collins and his grilled cheese sandwich. A billionaire practically, and he gives you a grilled cheese sandwich. I’d hate to see what he’d eat if he were poor. I know what you mean, fella. I’ve had plenty of his grilled cheese sandwiches. At least he could buy you a steak. With his money. He’s afraid of putting on a pound. As if anybody cares. Everybody’s too busy weighing John’s wallet to care what he looks like.”
“You look prosperous enough yourself.”
“Now no cracks, boy. What can I get you to drink? A gin and tonic?”
“That would be fine.”
“It’s right here, right here.” A bar was in the shade, against the house. “Never be more than ten feet away from your next drink, I always say.”
And he looked it.
“We had great fun at the wedding together, you and I,” Fletch said. “I guess you don’t remember.”
“God, I was bombed out of my mind. I don’t remember anything. For all I know, I was the one who got married that day. What did you say your last name is again?”
“Zalumarinero.”
“That’s right, that’s right. An Irish boy.”
“Welsh, actually.”
“I remember now. We did have fun. Wasn’t that a beautiful wedding? Oh, God, did we have fun. I remember you: you went right into the pool with your hat on.”