Free Fletch and the Widow Bradley by Gregory McDonald

Just in time.”
    Fletch picked up his beer, moved down the bar and, laughing with the men, looking interested at the next thing to be said, insinuated himself into the group. He nodded in appreciation at their slightly drunken inanities. He stood next to the man called Alex.
    After many minutes, at a fairly quiet point in the conversation, Fletch said to the man, “You’re Alex Corcoran, aren’t you?”
    “Sure,” the man said.
    “Second place winner of not the biggest but surely the friendliest golf tournament in the U.S. of A.,” slurred one of the group.
    “Congratulations,” Fletch said.
    “It’s you young guys who beat me now,” Corcoran said. “And you don’t even go to bed at night to sleep.” He pulled on his gin and tonic. “I said, to sleep.”
    “You and I met briefly before,” Fletch said. “What’s the name of that club over there …?” He pointed vaguely to the East.
    “Euston.”
    “Yeah. Euston.”
    “Did I play you?”
    “No, I wiped out in the first round. Watched you. We talked in the bar, later.”
    Alex Corcoran laughed. “Pardon me for not remembering.”
    “We talked about Wagnall-Phipps. You work for Wagnall-Phipps, right?”
    “No!” said a golfer. “He doesn’t work for Wagnall-Phipps. He’s the president!”
    “He doesn’t work at all,” said another.
    Fletch nodded. “Yeah, I thought we talked about Wagnall-Phipps.”
    “Been with W-P seven years,” Corcoran said. “Didn’t become president, though, until the company suddenly decided to get out of the ski house business.”
    Everyone laughed.
    “Jerry was really screwed by that.” A golfer shook his head. “Jeez. Business entertaining. Suddenly it becomes illegal, or un-American or something.”
    “Depends on who you entertain.”
    “Depends on who you bribe.”
    Everything was funny to these golfers after the tournament.
    “Alex, what happened to Jerry?”
    “He’s gone skiing,” one of them joked.
    “Yeah. Retired to Aspen.”
    “The ex-president of Wagnall-Phipps,” said the current president, “is living in Mexico on a pension bigger than my salary.”
    “Really?” marveled one of the men. “The wages of sin.”
    “Pretty big pension,” Alex said. “The scandal did him no harm. Wish I could work up a good scandal myself. Then I’d never have to go to the office.”
    “You hardly ever go now, Alex.”
    “You can’t sell our crap from behind a desk,” Alex said. “You gotta get out there and dazzle by foot-work!” The big man shuffled his feet in a boxer’s step. None of his drink spilled.
    “Thomas Bradley,” Fletch said. “Your boss. Didn’t he die?”
    All the men guffawed.
    “Depends on which paper you read,” one of them said. “Another round of drinks, Mike,” he said to the bartender. “What for you?”he asked, looking into Fletch’s glass. “I don’t know your name.”
    “Mike,” Fletch said. “Mike Smith.”
    “And a beer for Mike, Mike.”
    “Mike Smith? You were on the U. at Berkeley golf team, weren’t you?”
    “Is Thomas Bradley dead or not?” Fletch asked.
    “Everywhere but in the
News-Tribune
.”
    Fletch looked confused.
    “Yes,” Alex Corcoran said in a more serious tone. “He died. About a year ago. Did you know him?”
    “I knew his sister,” Fletch said. “In New York. Francine.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Corcoran’s face expressed great interest.
    “Well, met her once,” Fletch said. “At a party, you know?”
    “What’s she like?” Alex asked.
    “You mean you’ve never met her?”
    “No. She’s coming out to take over the company, and I’ve never met her. Tom used to say she was brilliant. Never came West, as far as I know.”
    “How did Tom die?” Fletch asked.
    “Went to France for some medical treatments and didn’t survive them, is what I understand.”
    “France?”
    “Never knew he was as sick as he was. He used to be moody, and act down-in-the-dumps once in a while. Jeez, I didn’t know the guy was fatally