Free Fletch Won by Gregory McDonald

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 wordsand 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 DonaldHabeck. 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