minutes in his office.…”
“I can’t esplain. I can’t esplain.”
Fletch, on his bar stool, was facing Walter March, Junior.
There were tears on Junior’s cheeks.
Fletch said, “Nappy time?”
Junior straightened up immediately. Suddenly, no tears. No whining voice. No quivering. Princeton right down the spine. Hand firmly around the empty glass. Not deigning to answer.
“Hey, Walt,” Fletch said. “I was thinking of a sauna and a rub. They’ve got this fantastic lady hidden away in the basement, a Mrs. Leary, she gives a great massage.…”
Junior looked at him. He was the President of March Newspapers.
“Good to see you again, Fletcher,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I guess I just said I’m sorry you didn’t stay aboard.” He dipped his head to Fletch. “Can I have a drink sent to your room?”
“No, that’s all right.” Fletch stood up from the bar stool.
He looked at Junior, closely, through the dark of the bar.
“As a matter of fact, Walt.” Fletch put his hands in his trouser pockets. “I would like you to send a drink to my room.” He drawled, “I’d appreciate it. Room 79.” He spoke slowly, softly, deliberately. “A couple of gin and tonics. Room 79. Okay? I’d appreciate it. Room 79.”
Fletch wasn’t sure how well Junior was hearing him, if at all.
“Thanks, Walt.”
Twenty-one
From TAPE
Station 8
Suite 8 (Oscar Perlman)
“… Yeah.”
“May I say, Mister Perlman, how much my wife enjoys your columns.”
“Fuck your wife.”
“Sir?” Captain Neale said.
“Fuck your wife. It’s always, ‘My wife likes your columns.’” Clearly, Oscar Perlman was talking through a well-chewed cigar. “Everytime I do anything, a book, a play, it’s always, ‘My wife likes it.’ I go to a party and try to get the topic of conversation off me and my work, because I know what to expect all ready. I say, ‘What did you think of Nureyev last night at the National Theater?’ ‘My wife liked it.’ Always, ‘My wife liked it.’ You saw the latest Bergman? ‘My wife liked it.’ What about Neil Diamond’s latest record—isn’t it somethin’ else? ‘My wife liked it.’ You read the new Joe Gores novel? ‘My wife.…’ What about King Lear these days? ‘My wife says it’s chauvinistic. The father expects something.’ Always, ‘My wife liked it, didn’t like it.’ What are American men, a bunch of cultural shits? Always what the wife likes. The men don’t have eyes, ears, and a brain? What’sa matter with you? You can’t say you like my column? It’s feminine to like my column? Will your chest suck up your hair and push it out your asshole if you say you like something other than hockey, boxing, and other nose-endangering sports?”
“Mister Perlman, I am just a normal veteran.…”
“You do fuck your wife, don’t you?”
“I have never met such a bunch of strange, eccentric, maybe sick people.…”
“Does she say she likes it?”
“Mister Perlman.…”
“Do you believe everything your wife says? Who should believe everything his wife says anyway? Why don’t you say you enjoy my column? I work just for wives? Fred Waring worked for wives. And look at him. He invented Mixmasters. No, he invented Waring blenders. Maybe there’s a man who’s pleased to have everybody come up to him saying, ‘My wife likes your work.’ He sold plenty of Waring blenders. Jesus Christ, why don’t you just shut up and sit down.
“I have a terrible feeling I’ve just blown a column on you,” Oscar Perlman said. “So already you owe me seventeen thousand dollars. Relax. You want a cigar? Play cards? A little up and down? I don’t drink, but there’s plenty stuff around.
“Christ. I just blew a column. How’s your wife? I’m supposed to be here enjoying. I’m not. I lost twelve hundred bucks last night. These little shits from Dallas. St. Louis. Oof. Twelve hundred bucks. What? You don’t want a drink? These cards are dirty. They took twelve hundred from me.”
“Mister Perlman, any time you’re ready to answer some questions.…”
“Shoot. So old Walter March got it up-the. Never was up-the more deserved. Everybody else ’round here is writing about it. To me, it isn’t funny yet. Make it funny for me. I’ll appreciate.”
“Mister Perlman!”
“Don’t shout at me, you backwater, egg-sucking cop. You’ve cost me a column already. You were a veteran?”
“Listen. I know you journalists are in the business of asking questions. I’m in the business of asking questions. I’m going to ask the questions. Is that clear?”
“Jesus. He’s getting hysterical. You don’t play cards at all? You should. Very relaxing.”
“Mister Perlman, you used to work for Walter March?”
“Years ago. I worked on