Fletch(61)
“Of course.”
‘Then someone else mentioned the chief’s frequent trips to Mexico. I heard that the first time last Saturday noon, from a very unlikely source.”
“Who?”
“A man named John Collins.”
“I don’t know him.”
“You don’t play tennis.”
“I used to. Back when I was alive. And how did you get the deposition out of Gummy?”
“I told him you had already signed one, naming him as pusher.”
“That was dirty pool. And why would Gummy believe that I had signed a deposition?”
“Because Bobbi is dead, Fat Sam. She really is dead.”
“I see. I’m sorry. She was a pretty child. Where is her body?”
“It’s about to be found.”
“And her body being found will trigger a whole chain of events. Supercops will flood The Beach.”
“You wouldn’t have a chance.”
Fat Sam lit a joint and inhaled deeply. He handed it to Fletch.
“Peace.”
“Fuck.”
“That too.”
Fletch inhaled twice.
“It’s time,” Fat Sam said. “It’s time.”
“Gummy said the same thing.”
“I wonder if I have any life left. I am thirty-eight and feel one hundred.”
“You’ll get help.”
“Now I wish they would put me in jail for a long time.” Fat Sam inhaled again. “I suppose I don’t really. I’m smoking a joint. I shot up two hours ago. Oh, Buddha.”
“It’s time to do the deposition.”
“No, son. Move away from the typewriter. I’ll do it myself.”
Fletch lay down on the sand with the rest of the joint.
Fat Sam sat at the typewriter.
“Now let’s see if Vatsyayana remembers how to type. Let’s see if Fat Sam remembers how to type. Let’s see if Charles Witherspoon remembers how to type.”
To Fletch, stoned on the sand, the typing seemed very slow.
27
“It is Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock. Although I have what can be termed fresh intuitive evidence, I cannot pretend that I have much fresh factual evidence.
“My best guess at the moment, based on no factual evidence, is that Alan Stanwyk is absolutely straight—that what he says is the truth: he is dying of cancer; he wishes me to murder him tomorrow night at eight-thirty.”
Fletch had returned to his apartment, taken a shower, eaten a sandwich and poured a quart of milk down his throat.
On the coffee table before him were the two depositions and their copies, and the original of Cummings’s incriminating note to Fat Sam.
There was also the big tape recorder.
“Yesterday morning, Alan Stanwyk picked me up in his car again and confirmed my intention to murder him. We reviewed the murder plan.
“Conversationally, he asked me the flight number of the Trans World Airlines plane for Buenos Aires. I denied knowing the flight number, as he himself had not mentioned it to me. In fact, I did know the flight number, as I had confirmed the reservation with the airline.
“My apparent failure to know the flight number should have meant two things to him: first, he should continue seeing me in character, as a drifter—that is, I’m apparently as stupid and trusting as he thinks I am; second, he should be satisfied that if he is being investigated, I am not the source of the investigation.
“Conversationally, without appearing out of character, I was able to ask him one of my major questions: why, if he wishes to commit suicide, doesn’t he crash in an airplane, as everybody half-expects?
“His answer was one of pride: that after years of keeping airplanes in the air, he couldn’t aim one for the ground.
“This is an acceptable answer. As he pointed out, people do spend more than fifty thousand dollars in support of pride. Any man who lives in a house worth more than a million dollars can be expected to spend fifty grand on a matter such as this, which would so profoundly affect his most personal pride.
“Alan Stanwyk has a mistress, a Mrs. Sandra Faulkner, of 15641B Putnam Street. He spends Monday and Wednesday evenings with her.
“Mrs. Faulkner is a widow who used to work at Collins Aviation. Stanwyk and Mrs. Faulkner did not particularly know each other while Mrs. Faulkner worked at Collins Aviation.
“Sandra Faulkner’s husband was a test pilot who was killed while attempting to land on an aircraft carrier, leaving her childless.
“At the time of the death, Sandra Faulkner left her employment at Collins Aviation, ran through her insurance money and whatever other sums she had available, and in the process became a drunk.
“It was approximately a year after the death that Alan Stanwyk discovered the straits she was in and came to her with what can only be described as a genuine instinct of mercy. Being a test pilot himself, it can be properly assumed his sympathy for the widow of a test pilot was entirely sincere.