Fletch's Fortune Part 29

"Now, if she got cold in mid-afternoon, what do you think might happen to us at half-past midnight?"

"We might get warmed up."

"You miss the point, Ms. Arbuthnot."

"The point is, Mister Fletcher, you shot your wad."

"The point is, Ms. Arbuthnot...."

She said, "And I thought you were healthy," and hung up.

There was a poker party, or the poker party, going on in Oscar Perlman's suite, a whacky tobacky party in Sheldon Levi's, silence in the Litwacks'; Leona Hatch was issuing her "Errrrrr's" regularly; Jake Williams was on the phone to a March newspaper in Seattle, sounding very tired (something about how to handle a story about a fistfight among major-league baseball players in a downtown c.o.c.ktail lounge); in her room Mary McBain appeared to be all alone, crying; Charlie Stieg was in the last stages of a seduction scene with a slightly drunk unknown; Rolly Wisham and Norm Reid were tuned to the same late-night movie in their rooms; Tom Lockhart's room was silent.

Fletch switched back to Station 5, Suite 3.

"Switch!" Don Gibbs was shouting. "Everybody switch! Swish, swish, swish, I SAID!"

There was a considerable variety of background noises, some of which Fletch had difficulty identifying.

A girl's voice sang, "Snow, beautiful snow...."

"Everybody get your snow before it melts," Don Gibbs said.

There was the sound of a hard slap.

Englehardt's voice, low and serious, said, "When I pay money, I want to get what I pay for."

"Cut that out," Gibbs said. "I said, 'Switch!' Everybody switch!"

A young man's voice said, "You're not paying for that, b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Switch! I said!"

Fletch listened long enough to make sure a second female voice was recorded by his marvelous machine.

Then Don Gibbs was saying, "Whee! We're living like journalists! G.o.dd.a.m.n journalists. G.o.dd.a.m.n that Fletch! Live like this alla time. Disgusting!"

Fletch put his marvelous machine on automatic, for Station 5, Suite 3, and took a shower.

Twenty-nine.

Wednesday The sun was up enough to have dissipated the dew and, after a long but gentle gallop, make Fletch hot enough to stop and pull off his T-shirt and wrap it around his saddle horn.

When he stopped to do so his eye caught the sun's reflection off a windshield between trees, up the side of a hill, so he rode to a point well behind the vehicle and then up through scrub pine level to it, where he found an old timber road. He rode back along it.

Coming around a curve in the road, he stopped.

A camper was parked in the road.

Behind it, lying on his back, blood coming from his mouth, was the man he had been looking for, the man the ma.s.seuse, Mrs. Leary, had mentioned, the man in the blue jeans jacket, the man with the tight, curly gray hair.

He was obviously unconscious.

Over him, on one knee, going through a wallet, now looking up at Fletch apprehensively, was none other than Frank Gillis.

Fletch said, "Good morning."

"Who are you?" Gillis asked.

"Name of Fletcher."

Gillis returned to his investigation of the wallet. "You work here?"

"No."

"What then? Staying at the hotel? Hendricks?"

"Yes."

"You a journalist?" There was a touch of incredulity in Gillis' voice.

"Off and on." Fletch wiped some sweat off his stomach. "You're Frank Gillis."

"You got it first guess."

For years, Frank Gillis had been traveling America finding and reporting those old, usually obscure stories of American history, character, odd incidents, individuals, which spoke of and to the hearts of the American people. During days when America had reason to doubt itself both abroad and at home, Gillis' features were a tonic which made Americans feel better about themselves, even if only for a few minutes, and, probably, during the nation's most trying days, did a lot, in their small way, to hold the nation together.

Fletch said, "And you just mugged somebody."

Gillis stood up and dropped the wallet on the man's chest.

"Yeah, but guess who," he said. "Get down. Come here. Look at him."

Gillis was a man in his fifties, with gentle, smiling eyes and a double chin.

Fletch got off his horse and, holding the reins, walked to where Gillis was standing.

He looked down at the man on the ground.

His was a much younger face than Fletch had expected-much, much younger than indicated by the gray hair.

"My G.o.d," Fletch said.

"Right."

"Walter March."

Gillis was looking around at the tops of the trees, fists on his hips, still visibly provoked.

"Why'd you mug him?"

"I have a distinct dislike of people flicking lit cigarettes into my face." He ran his hand over his cheek, left of his nose. "I only hit him once."

"You know him?"

"Don't care to. I stopped to ask for directions." The great explorer of contemporary America smiled sheepishly. "I was lost. This guy was standing here behind the camper, rolling a cigarette. When I saw his face, I was astounded. I said, 'My G.o.d, you're the spitting image of...' and a real rotten look, real pugnacious, came into his face, so I stopped, and he lit his cigarette, and he said, 'Of who?' and I said, 'Old March, Walter March,' and, flick, the cigarette went into my face and I'd hit him before I knew it." He looked down at the much younger, inert man. "I only hit him once."

"You hit good," Fletch said. "Glad I don't smoke."

"No way to get a story," Gillis said, rubbing his knuckles.

On the ground, the man's head and then his left leg moved.

"What's his name?" Fletch asked.

"Driver's license says Molinaro. Joseph Molinaro. Florida license."

The camper had Florida license plates.

"Golly," said Fletch. "This guy's only twenty-eight years old."

Gillis looked at him sharply, and then said, "Young body. You're probably right."

Suddenly, Molinaro's eyes opened, immediately looking alert and wary, even before shifting to focus on Fletch and Gillis.

"Good morning," Fletch said. "Seems you took a nap before breakfast."

Molinaro sat up on his elbows, and then reacted to pain in his head.

His wallet slipped off his chest onto the dry dirt of the road.

"Take it easy," Fletch said. "You've already missed post time."

Molinaro's eyes glazed and he looked as if he were about to sink to the ground again.

Fletch put his hand behind Molinaro's arm.

"Come on. You'll feel better if you get up. Get the blood going again."

He helped Molinaro stand, waited while he wiped the blood off his lips, examined it on his hand.

Molinaro looked sourly at Gillis.

Throwing off Fletch's hand, Molinaro staggered the few steps to the back of the camper and sat on the sill of the open door.

"You have some bad habits," Gillis said. "And I have a quick temper."

"Your name Joseph Molinaro?" Fletch asked.

The man's eyes moved slowly from Gillis to Fletch without losing any of their bitterness.

He said nothing.

"What relation are you to Walter March?" Gillis asked.

Still the man said nothing.

"Are you his son?" Fletch asked.

The man's eyes lowered to the road, and then off into the scrub pine.

And he snorted.

Fists again on hips, Gillis looked expressionlessly at Fletch.

A mosquito was in the air near Fletch's face. He caught it in his hand.

Gillis went to the side of the road and gathered up his horse's reins and slowly returned to where he had been standing.

He said to Molinaro, "You are Walter March's son. With that face you have to be. Did you murder him?"

Molinaro said, "Why would I murder him?"

"You tell us," Gillis said.

"The son of a b.i.t.c.h is no good to me dead," Molinaro said.

Gillis watched him with narrow eyes, saying nothing.

"What good was he to you alive?" Fletch asked.

Molinaro shrugged. "There was always hope."

There was another silent moment while Molinaro rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands.

Finally, Fletch said, "Come on, Joe. We're not out to get you." He had considered telling Molinaro that Poynton had reported there would be a national advisory issued that morning saying the police wanted to question him. He had also considered advising Captain Andrew Neale of the whereabouts of Joseph Molinaro. "We're not even looking for a story."

Molinaro said, "Just nosy, uh?"

Joseph Molinaro had been in the vicinity of the crime at the time the crime was committed.