“Right.”
“Please insert it.”
“What about the note you want me to take to Clara Snow?”
“Oh, yeah. Dear Clara. Leaving; area too hot tonight. Frank says you’re lousy in bed, too. Love, Fletch.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You want me to write that?”
“I sure do. Just don’t indicate you were the one who typed it. Good night, Bobby.”
“Anytime you’re ready, Mr. Fletcher.”
“I’m ready.”
“A woman and child are waiting in the lobby. For some reason she won’t say for whom they are waiting. Are they waiting for you? We haven’t put their baggage aboard …”
“No, they’re not waiting for me.”
“The boy has mentioned an ‘Uncle Alan.’ We have no other flights tonight.”
Sally Ann Cushing Cavanaugh and son William were standing in the lobby with five pieces of baggage at their feet. The boy was looking through the opened office door at Fletch.
She looked like a wonderful person. A real person. The sort Marvin Stanwyk would like, as would his son. The sort Alan Stanwyk would never have forgotten and always would have needed. The sort of girl who could make a boy give up boxing and a man give up flying. She looked like home.
The boy’s stare was level and curious.
“No,” Fletch said. “They’re not waiting for me.”
On the chartered jet was a heavy leather swivel lounge chair into which Fletch buckled himself.
His suitcase and the two attache cases he had seen stored behind a drop-curtain in the stern.
With a minimum of fuss, and a maximum of silence, the Lear jet lifted into the sky.
It was eleven o’clock Thursday night.
“Would you like a drink and something to eat, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
The steward wore a white coat and black bowtie.
“Perhaps a drink first?”
“Yes. What’s aboard?”
“Beefeater gin. Wild Turkey bourbon. Chivas Regal scotch—”
“What is there to eat?”
“We’ve stocked both a capon dinner for you, and club steak.”
At ten o’clock in the morning, he would not have to be standing in court facing contempt charges for failing to pay his first wife, Barbara, eight thousand four hundred and twelve dollars in alimony.
“That sounds very nice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Vermouth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lemon?”
“Yes, sir.”
At ten o’clock the next morning, he would not be standing in court facing contempt charges for failing to pay his second wife, Linda, three thousand four hundred twenty-nine dollars and forty-seven cents in alimony.
“Would you like a martini, sir?”
“I would like two martinis.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Each made fresh.”
At ten o’clock the next morning, he would not be standing in the marine commandant’s office, with photographers’ flashbulbs popping, having the old tale told again, receiving the Bronze Star.
“Of course, sir.”
‘Then I would like the capon. Do we have an appropriate wine?”
“Yes, sir. A selection of three.”
“All for the capon?”
“Yes, sir.”
At ten o’clock the next morning, he would not be standing before the booking desk at the main police station being charged with criminal fraud.
“After the capon, I would like two scotches.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cracked ice.”
“Of course, sir.”
At ten o’clock the next morning, his two ex-wives, Barbara and Linda, each having given up her own apartment, would be moving into his apartment, to live with each other.
“Then I would like the club steak. Fairly rare.”
“As another supper, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I see, sir.”
And shortly after ten o’clock in the morning, a warrant for the arrest of Gillett, of Gillett, Worsham and O’Brien, would be issued, for aiding a fugitive escape justice.
“With the steak I would like an ale. Do we have ale on board?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s fine. It should be very cold.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fletch was flying over Mexico with three million dollars in tens and twenties in two attaché cases.
“Would you like your first martini now, sir?”
“We’d better start sometime. We’re only going as far as Rio.”