his job back, and sat him in a corner, where he remains to this day.”

“Bob could do it.”

“Murder?”

“Very sullen kind of guy anyway. Big sense of injustice. Always too quick to shove back, even when nobody’s shoved him.”

“I noticed.”

“We’ll do some b.g. on him, too. Who’s this guy Stuart Poynton mentions in tomorrow’s column?”

“Poynton mentions someone? The desk clerk?”

“I’ve got the wire copy here. He mentions someone named Joseph Molinaro.”

“Never heard of him. I wonder what his name really is.”

“I’ll read it to you. ‘In the investigation of the Walter March murder, local police will issue a national advisory Thursday that they wish to question Joseph Molinaro, twenty-eight, a Caucasian. It is not known that Molinaro was at the scene of the crime at the time the crime was committed. Andrew Neale, in charge of the investigation, would give no reason for the advisory.’ Mean anything to you, Fletch?”

“Yeah. It means Poynton conned some poor slob into doing some legwork for him.”

“Fletch, sitting back here in the ivory tower of the Boston Star.…”

“If that’s an ivory tower, I’m a lollipop.”

“I can lick you anytime.”

“Ho, ho.”

“My vast brain keeps turning to Junior.”

“As the murderer?”

“Walter March, Junior.”

“I doubt it.”

“Living under Daddy’s thumb all his life.…”

“I’ve talked with him.”

“That was a very heavy thumb.”

“I don’t think Junior’s that eager to step into the batter’s box, if you get me. Mostly he seems scared.”

“Scared he might get caught?”

“He’s drinking heavily.”

“He’s been a self-indulgent drinker for years, now.”

“I doubt he could organize himself enough.”

“How much organization does it take to put a scissors in your daddy’s back?”

Fletch remembered the stabbing motion Junior made, sitting next to him in the bar, and the insane look in his eyes as he did it.

Fletch said, “Maybe. Now, would you like to know who the murderer is?”

Jack Saunders chuckled. “No, thanks.”

“No?”

“That night, during the Charlestown fires, you had it figured out the arsonist was a young gas station attendant who worked in a garage at the corner of Breed and Acorn streets and got off work at six o’clock.”

“It was a good guess. Well worked-out.”

“Only the arsonist was a forty-three-year-old baker deputized by Christ.”

“We all goof up once in a while.”

“I think I can stand the suspense on this one a little longer.”

“Anyway, Christ hadn’t told me.”

“If you get a story, you’ll call me?”

“Sure, Jack, sure. Anything for ‘old times’ sake.’ “

Twenty-eight

From TAPE

Station 5

Suite 3 (Donald Gibbs and Robert Englehardt)

“Snow, beautiful snow!”

From his voice, Fletch guessed Don had had plenty of something.

“Who’d ever expect snow in Virginia this time of year?”

Fletch couldn’t make out what Englehardt muttered.

“Who’d ever think my dear old department headie, Bobby Englehardt, would travel through the South with snow in his attaché case? Good thing it didn’t melt!”

Another unintelligible mutter from Englehardt.

“Well, I’ve got a surprise for you, too, dear old department headie,” Gibbs said. “‘What’s that?’ you ask with one voice. Well! I’ve got a surprise for you! ’Member those two sweet little things in Billy-Bobby’s boo-boo-bar lounge? ‘Sweet little things,’ you say together. Well, sir, I had the piss-pa-cacity to invite them up! To our glorious journalists’ suite. This very night! This very hour! This very minute! In fact, for twenty minutes ago.”

“You did?”

“I did. Where the hell are they? Got to live like journalists, right? Wild, wild, wicked women! Live it up!”

“I invited someone, too.” Englehardt’s voice sounded surprisingly cautious.

“You did? We gonna have four broads? Four naked, writhing girls? All in the same room?”

“The lifeguard,” Englehardt said.

“The lifeguard? Which lifeguard? The boy lifeguard? There weren’t any other type. I looked.”

Englehardt muttered something. There was a silence from Gibbs.

Then Englehardt said, “What’s the matter, Don? Don’t you like a change?”

“Jesus. Two girls and a boy. And us. For a fuck party. An orgy. Bob….”

“Take it calm, Gibbs.”

“Where’s the bourbon? I want the bourbon. Back of my nose feels funny.”

The doorbell in the suite was ringing.

“And the Lord High Mayor ate pomegranates,” Don Gibbs said. “Surprising fellas, department heads. Lifeguards with snow on. Boy lifeguards.”

“… Confront new situations,” Englehardt said. “Part of your training. Field training.”

“Never saw anything about it in the manual.”

Englehardt said, “You can do it that way, too.”

Fletch’s own phone was ringing.

“Hello?”

He had turned the volume down on his machine.

It was Freddie Arbuthnot.

“Fletcher, I thought I’d be more subtle. Meet you for a swim? Or have you about had it for today?”

“Are you in your room?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you hear my tape recorder?”

“That’s how I knew you were still awake.”

“Then you should be able to figure out I’m working very hard. On