“Hey, what are you doing at my desk?”
“All right if I use your computer terminal?”
“You’re probably screwing it up.” Clifton Wolf, religion editor, looked over Fletch’s shoulder at the screen.
“ ‘Habeck,’ ” he read. “You doing research for Biff Wilson now?”
“We all work for the same newspaper.”
“Like hell we do. I work for my inch of space, you work for your inch. Biff Wilson works for his foot and a half. If you’re not on the story, buddy, you’d better get off it.”
Fletch turned off the terminal. “Just curious.”
“Curious will turn you into dog food. Also, get off my chair.”
“I don’t have a terminal of my own.” Fletch stood up, picking up a sheaf of notes he had made.
“We always wondered why you were hired. Now we know: to cover whorehouses. I don’t want anyone who spends his time in whorehouses sitting in my chair.”
“Haven’t gone to the whorehouse yet. Haven’t got my mother’s permission.”
“No tellin ‘what you might be givin’ out. Al!” Clifton Wolf yelled across the city room to the city editor. “Call the disinfectant guys! Fletcher’s been using my stuff!”
“I bet you’d like this assignment,” Fletch said. “Only place they send you is church.”
“Scat!”
“Do you know of a poet named Tom Farliegh?” Fletch asked.
Fletch suspected that, without much deliberation, people who wrote for the various sections of the newspaper dressed like the people about whom they wrote. People in the business section wore business suits; in the society section they always seemed dressed for a lawn party; in the sports section, white socks and checkered jackets seemed to be the style.
Mentally they identified with their subjects, too. Business writers thought in terms of power, profit and loss; society writers cherished an incredible web of lines of the acceptable rudeness of old money versus the crudeness of new money, attractiveness versus beauty, style versus ostentation; sportswriters thought in terms of winners and losers, new talent versus has-beens, and the end-of-life standings.
Standing before him in the dark part of the corridor was Morton Rickmers, the book editor. He wore thick glasses, a chalet tie, tweed jacket, baggy trousers, and soft, tire-tread shoes. It was clear from his book reviews that he loved people and their stories honestly told, loved words
and putting them together in their most magical, concise form, and considered the good book humans’ most noble achievement, perhaps our only raison d’être.
Frequently his reviews were more interesting and better written than the books he was reviewing.
“Why, have you met Tom Farliegh?” Morton asked.
“No.”
“I might like to meet him,” Morton mused. “I’m not sure.”
“Just heard of him.”
“First,” Morton said, “I might enjoy knowing why you’re dressed that way.”
His notepapers in hand, Fletch held his arms out to his sides. “I’ve been assigned to investigate an escort service. Is that an answer?”
“I see. Trying to disguise yourself as an out-of-town businessman? You look more like the victim of a raid, obliged to grab someone else’s clothes.”
“You’re nearly right. I lost my clothes this morning, and had to borrow this rig.”
Morton smiled. “I’m sure there’s a story behind how you lost your clothes.”
“Not much of a one.”
“It’s been years since I’ve lost my clothes. In fact, have I ever lost my clothes?”
“I don’t know. It’s easy to do.”
“Make an interesting short story.
How I Lost My Clothes
. Something Ring Lardner might have done.”
“Tom Farliegh lives locally, does he?”
“Oh, yes. Teaches something at the university. Being a poet in academia, he’s probably wrongly assigned. You know, to teach English or something, instead of music, or math, or equestrian skills.”
“Is he the son-in-law of Donald Habeck?”
“How interesting. I have no idea. You mean the man who was shot in the parking lot this morning?”
“Yes.”
“That would be fascinating.”
“Why?”
“You’ve never read him?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Not many have. But, if you’d read him, you’d remember. He writes what we call a Poetry of Violence. His best-known poem is something called
The Knife, The Blood
. His publisher entitled his book of collected poems after that one poem. I think I have a copy of it in my office. Come with me.”
In his bright, book-walled office, Morton took a slim volume from a shelf and handed it to Fletch. “Here’s
Knife, Blood
. You can borrow it.”
On the cover, bare skin was deeply slashed by a knife. Blood poured from the skin, down the knife onto a satin sheet.
“This is a book of poetry?” Fletch asked. “Looks more like an old-fashioned mystery novel.”
“It’s unusual poetry. Rather thin on sentiment.”
“Thank you.”
“I do believe in reading about what you’re doing,” Morton said, almost apologetically. “Widens the base of your perception.”
Skimming through the book, Fletch said, “I don’t suppose you know anything personally about Donald Habeck.”
“In fact, I do.” Morton folded his arms across his chest and turned away from Fletch. “My sister’s son, years ago, was accused of stealing a car and then running over someone in it. Intoxication, grand theft, vehicular homicide, at the age of eighteen.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was awful. The boy was your average frustrated, sullen teenager who just went wild one night.” With his back still toward Fletch, Morton said, “We hired Donald
Habeck. I mean, he’s the sort you hire when things look really awful.”
“At any price.”
“Yes. At any price.”
“What happened to the kid?”
“Intoxication charge was dismissed. Habeck proved the police had used the blood-alcohol testing equipment incorrectly. The charge of car theft was reduced to using a car without permission of owner. I suspect Habeck bribed the owner to say he knew the boy and there had been a misunderstanding regarding use of the car. And the vehicular homicide was found to be the fault of the car manufacturer. Apparently that model car had been proven to have something amiss with its steering mechanism.” Morton sighed. “My nephew was sentenced to three months probation, no time in prison.”
“Wonder they didn’t give him the keys to the city.”
Morton turned slowly on his heel. “We’re still ashamed of the whole thing. My sister and I, well, we ended up feeling like criminals, like we committed a crime.”
“In hiring Habeck.”
“I think, in miscarrying justice.” Morton shrugged. “My nephew, with just enough of a misdemeanor on his record to make him an understanding person, is now a teacher in a San Diego high school, married, three kids of his own. But, you know, I can’t think of him without feeling guilty.”
“Did Habeck leave your sister with any worldly wealth?”
“Not much. She had to sell their new house, their second car, cash in their savings, and accept a little help from me.”
“What did you think this morning when you heard Habeck had been killed?”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day. When you live by
the sword…” Behind his thick glasses, Morton’s eyes were focused as if reading from a page close to his face. “Ironic, somehow. I see his ghost hurrying up from his corpse to defend the person who murdered him… for good long-range results, or bad….”
“But always for money.”
“Yes. He used his brilliance to twist the legal system for money. Scoff at him. Hate him for it. But, when it came right down to it, we paid that money, gladly, to save Billy from an utterly ruined life, to give him a second chance, which he, at least, took. I’m not sure how many of Habeck’s clients take that second chance, how many of them are just free to maim, kill, destroy again.”
“Thanks for the book.”
“If you do meet Tom Farliegh, tell me if you think he’s worth a feature story.”
“What time are you going to be done?”
“Never.” Fletch was sitting at another borrowed desk in the city room. Having gone through his notes, he had just picked out items from the voluminous Habeck file he wanted copied.
“What’s it today?” Barbara asked over the telephone. “Wedding announcements? Deaths? Or writing headlines for other people’s stories?”
“Hey, I’m working hard for you, kid. I’m trying to plant an item in Amelia Shurcliffe’s column about jodhpurs. And the place to buy them is Cecilia’s Boutique.”
“Anything would help. I’m so sick of wearing them.”
“You have to wear them in the store?”
“Yeah. A plum pair, would you believe it? Customers are supposed to come in, see me in my jodhpurs, say, ‘Oh, darling, they’re divine,’ and buy themselves, or their daughters, a pair.”
“But do they?”
“No. They look me up and down obviously wondering
if I’m sufficiently trendy even to wait on them. I’ll meet you at the beach house, right?”
“It’s an awfully long drive.”
“I only have the house another few days. Until the wedding.”
“When you gave up your place, why didn’t you move into my apartment? It would have been much simpler.”
“What’s wrong with having a beach house for the week before we get married?”
“Why don’t you spend tonight at my apartment? That way I won’t have to drive all the way out and back.”
“Hey. I’m getting paid for house-sitting. I know it’s not much, but we need the money, right?”
“Right. It’s just that I’d sort of like to stay in town and keep checking on a few things.”
“I hear someone got bumped off in your parking lot this morning.”
“True.”
“A lawyer of some kind.”
“Some kind.”
“One of the ones you see in the newspaper all the time. A Perry Mason type. Murder trials, and big drug deals.”
“Habeck. Donald Edwin Habeck.”
“That’s right. Interesting story. I mean, it should be interesting. I look forward to reading Biff Wilson about it.”
Fletch said nothing.
“Fletch, you’re not doing anything on that Habeck story, are you?”
“Well, there was a coincidence. I was just about to meet him when—”
“You’ll get fired.”
“Some confidence you’ve got.”
“You haven’t written enough wedding announcements yet, to take on a big story like that.”
“I haven’t taken it on. I just intend to sit and watch it.”
“You’ve never
just sat
in your life.”
“Well, maybe
not just sit.”
“Does anyone know you’re sticking your nose into this story?”
“Barbara—”
“We’re getting married Saturday, Fletch. First, you don’t have time for any such story. Second, it really would be nice, when we come back from our skiing honeymoon, if you had a job. I’m pretty sure Cecilia won’t have offloaded all her jodhpurs by then.”
“Relax. If I turn up something interesting, something useful, you think the newspaper would turn the information down?”
“Fletch, have nothing more to do with this story. Get away from it. Jealousies on a newspaper can’t be any different from anywhere else.”
“Anyway, I’ve been assigned to a different story altogether.”
“What is it?”
“I’d rather not tell you, just now.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s not too far removed from wedding announcements, births, deaths. A travel story. You might say it’s a travel story. It might even turn into a medical story.”
“You’re not making much sense.”
“That’s because I haven’t really got ahold of the story yet. I’m writing it for the society pages.”
“Fletch, I don’t think there have been any society pages in this country for half a century.”
“You know what I mean: the life pages, living, style. You know, the anxiety pages.”
“You should be all right doing a piece for the anxiety pages.”
“Sure. Anxieties, we all have ’em. You see, I was using my new influence to feed Cecilia’s jodhpurs into Amelia Shurcliffe’s column.”
“Nice of you. When will you get to the beach house?”
“Soon as I can.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have to run off some copies from a file. And then make one phone call.”
“Only one?”
“Only one.”
“And it has nothing to do with Habeck?”
“No, no,” said Fletch. “Nothing to do with Habeck. Has to do with this other story. The one for the anxiety pages.”
Fletch hesitated, just slightly, before pushing the button which would make selected copies from Habeck’s file.
Sitting at his borrowed desk, he hesitated again, just slightly, before picking up the phone and dialing an in-house number.
“Carradine,” the voice answered.
“Jack? This is Fletch.”
“Who?”
“Fletcher. I work for the
News-Tribune.”
“Are you sure?” The financial writer’s tone was mildly curious. “Oh, yeah. You’re the guy who committed that headline a couple of months ago, what was it? Oh, yeah: W
ESTERN
C
AN
C
O
. S
ITS ON
I
TS
A
SSETS
.”
“Yeah, I’m that one.”
“That one, eh? Guess we’re all young, once.”
“Don’t know why everybody objected to that.”
“Because we’d all heard it before. Did you call for forgiveness, Fletcher, or do you have a hot tip for me on the international debt?”
“You know that guy who was murdered this morning?”
“Habeck? No. I didn’t know him. Saw him once at a lunch for the Lakers.”
“A couple of guys here are saying he was very rich.”
“How rich is very rich?”
“That he was about to give away five million bucks.”
“I doubt it. He was a worker. A high-priced worker, but a worker. I doubt he had more than he’d earned. What were his assets? A partnership in an admittedly prosperous law firm. What’s that worth, year by year? Also, whatever he had been able to accumulate over a lifetime of work. Maybe he invested in something and struck it rich, but, if he had, I expect I would have heard of it. He was too much of a street person ever to have inherited anything much. And, again, if he had married great wealth, we would have known about it.”
“What about the mob?”