Free Fletch Won by Gregory McDonald Page B

deals.”
    “Habeck. Donald Edwin Habeck.”
    “That’s right. Interesting story. I mean, it should be interesting. I look forward to reading Biff Wilson about it.”
    Fletch said nothing.
    “Fletch, you’re not doing anything on that Habeck story, are you?”
    “Well, there was a coincidence. I was just about to meet him when—”
    “You’ll get fired.”
    “Some confidence you’ve got.”
    “You haven’t written enough wedding announcements yet, to take on a big story like that.”
    “I haven’t taken it on. I just intend to sit and watch it.”
    “You’ve never
just sat
in your life.”
    “Well, maybe
not just sit.”
    “Does anyone know you’re sticking your nose into this story?”
    “Barbara—”
    “We’re getting married Saturday, Fletch. First, you don’t have time for any such story. Second, it really would be nice, when we come back from our skiing honeymoon, if you had a job. I’m pretty sure Cecilia won’t have offloaded all her jodhpurs by then.”
    “Relax. If I turn up something interesting, something useful, you think the newspaper would turn the information down?”
    “Fletch, have nothing more to do with this story. Get away from it. Jealousies on a newspaper can’t be any different from anywhere else.”
    “Anyway, I’ve been assigned to a different story altogether.”
    “What is it?”
    “I’d rather not tell you, just now.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, it’s not too far removed from wedding announcements, births, deaths. A travel story. You might say it’s a travel story. It might even turn into a medical story.”
    “You’re not making much sense.”
    “That’s because I haven’t really got ahold of the story yet. I’m writing it for the society pages.”
    “Fletch, I don’t think there have been any society pages in this country for half a century.”
    “You know what I mean: the life pages, living, style. You know, the anxiety pages.”
    “You should be all right doing a piece for the anxiety pages.”
    “Sure. Anxieties, we all have ’em. You see, I was using my new influence to feed Cecilia’s jodhpurs into Amelia Shurcliffe’s column.”
    “Nice of you. When will you get to the beach house?”
    “Soon as I can.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means I have to run off some copies from a file. And then make one phone call.”
    “Only one?”
    “Only one.”
    “And it has nothing to do with Habeck?”
    “No, no,” said Fletch. “Nothing to do with Habeck. Has to do with this other story. The one for the anxiety pages.”
    Fletch hesitated, just slightly, before pushing the button which would make selected copies from Habeck’s file.
    Sitting at his borrowed desk, he hesitated again, just slightly, before picking up the phone and dialing an in-house number.
    “Carradine,” the voice answered.
    “Jack? This is Fletch.”
    “Who?”
    “Fletcher. I work for the
News-Tribune.”
    “Are you sure?” The financial writer’s tone was mildly curious. “Oh, yeah. You’re the guy who committed that headline a couple of months ago, what was it? Oh, yeah: W ESTERN C AN C O . S ITS ON I TS A SSETS .”
    “Yeah, I’m that one.”
    “That one, eh? Guess we’re all young, once.”
    “Don’t know why everybody objected to that.”
    “Because we’d all heard it before. Did you call for forgiveness, Fletcher, or do you have a hot tip for me on the international debt?”
    “You know that guy who was murdered this morning?”
    “Habeck? No. I didn’t know him. Saw him once at a lunch for the Lakers.”
    “A couple of guys here are saying he was very rich.”
    “How rich is very rich?”
    “That he was about to give away five million bucks.”
    “I doubt it. He was a worker. A high-priced worker, but a worker. I doubt he had more than he’d earned. What were his assets? A partnership in an admittedly prosperous law firm. What’s that worth, year by year? Also, whatever he had been able to accumulate over a lifetime of work. Maybe he