just last month.”

“That was on the paintings of Cappoletti.”

“So? It’s journalism.”

“Once a shithead, always a shithead,” said Fabens.

“May your cigar kill you,” said Fletch.

“You’re going,” said Eggers.

“I’m not even a member of the A.J.A.”

“You are,” said Eggers.

“I used to be.”

“You are.”

“I haven’t paid my dues in years. In fact, I never paid my dues.”

“We paid your dues. You’re a member.”

“You paid my dues?”

“We paid your dues.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Fletch said.

“Think nothing of it,” said Fabens. “Anything for a shithead.”

Fletch said, “You could have spent the money on a better grade of cigars. Preferably Cuban.”

“I’m a government employee.” Fabens looked at the tip of his cigar. “What do you expect?”

“Peace?”

“The convention starts tomorrow,” Eggers said. “Outside of Washington. In Virginia.”

“Tomorrow?”

“We didn’t want you to have too long to think about it”

“No way.”

“Tomorrow,” Fabens said. “You’re going to be there.”

“I’m having lunch with this guy in Genoa tomorrow. Tuesday, I’m flying down to Rome for an exhibition.”

“Tomorrow,” said Fabens.

“I don’t have a ticket. I haven’t packed.”

“We have your ticket.” Eggers waved his hand. “You can do your own packing.”

Fletch sat forward, placing his forearms on his thighs.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s this about?”

“At the airport in Washington, near the Trans World Airlines’ main counters, you will go to a baggage locker.” Fabens took a key from his jacket pocket and looked at it. “Locker Number 719. In that locker you will find a reasonably heavy brown suitcase.”

“Full of bugging equipment,” said Eggers.

Fletch said, “Shit, no!”

Fabens flipped the key onto the coffee table.

“Shit, yes.”

“No way!” said Fletch.

“Absolutely,” said Fabens. “You will then take another airplane to Hendricks, Virginia, to the old Hendricks Plantation, where the convention is being held, and you will immediately set out planting listening devices in the rooms of all your colleagues, if I may use such a term for you shitheads of the fourth estate.”

“It’s not going to happen,” said Fletch.

“It’s going to happen,” said Fabens. “In the brown suitcase—and forgive us, we had trouble matching your luggage exactly—there is also a recording machine and plenty of tape. You are going to tape the most private, bedroom conversations of the most important people in American journalism.”

“You’re crazy.”

Eggers shook his head. “Not crazy.”

“You are crazy.” Fletch stood up. “You’ve told me more than you should have. Bunglers! You’ve given me a story.” Fletch grabbed the key from the coffee table. “One phone call, and this story is going to be all over the world in thirty-six hours.”

Fletch backed off the carpet onto the marble floor.

“Blow smoke in my face. You’re not going to get this key from me.”

Fabens smiled, holding his cigar chest-height.

“We haven’t told you too much. We’ve told you too little.”

“What haven’t you told me?”

Eggers shook his head, seemingly in embarrassment

“We’ve got something on you.”

“What have you got on me? I’m not a priest or a politician. There’s no way you can spoil my reputation.”

“Taxes, Mister Fletcher.”

“What?”

Fabens said again, “Taxes.”

Fletch blinked. “What about ’em?”

“You haven’t paid any.”

“Nonsense. Of course I pay taxes.”

“Not nonsense, Mister Fletcher.” Fabens used the ash tray. “Look at it our way. Your parents lived in the state of Washington, neither of them well-to-do nor from well-to-do families.”

“They were nice people.”

“I’m sure. Nice, yes. Rich, no. Yet here you are, living in a villa in Cagna, Italy, the Mediterranean sparkling through your windows, driving a Porsche … unemployed.”

“I retired young.”

“In your lifetime, you have paid almost no federal taxes.”

“I had expenses.”

“You haven’t even filed a return. Ever.”

“I have a very slow accountant.”

“I should think he would be slow,” continued Fabens, “seeing you have money in Rio, in the Bahamas, here in Italy, probably in Switzerland.…”

“I also have a very big sense of insecurity,” Fletch said.

“I should think you would have,” Fabens said. “Under the circumstances.”

“All right. I haven’t paid my taxes. I’ll pay my taxes, pay the penalties—but after I phone in the story that you guys are bugging the convention of the American Journalism Alliance.”

“It’s the not filing the tax reports that’s the crime, Mister Fletcher. Punishable by jail sentences.”

“So what? Let ’em catch me.”

Eggers was sitting in a chair, hands behind his head, staring at Fletch.

“Peek-a-boo,” Fabens said. “We have caught you.”

“Bull. I can outrun you two tubs anytime.”

“Mister Fletcher, do you want to know why you haven’t filed any tax returns?”

“Why haven’t I filed any tax returns?”

“Because you can’t say where the money came from.”

“I found it at the foot of my bed one morning.”

Eggers laughed, turned his head to Fabens, and said, “Maybe he did.”

“You should have reported it,” said Fabens.

“I’ll