Free Fletch and the Widow Bradley by Gregory McDonald Page A

ill—dyin’!”
    “But you did know he was sick?”
    “No. Not really. The only comment I made about it to my wife was that he seemed to be getting smaller. Don’t ask me what I mean, because I don’t know. I guess his shoulders got thinner. He must have lost weight. He wasn’t very big to begin with. Poor ol’ Tom. Here’s to you, Tom.” Alex raised his glass and tipped it like a censer before drinking.
    “Nice trophy,” Fletch said, nodding to it on the bar.
    “Say, so you know his sister, Francine Bradley, eh?” Alex Corcoran said.
    “Well, as I said, I only met her once.”
    “Enid says she’s a real clever business woman, that this Francine and Tom used to talk all the time. Some of Tom’s best ideas came from Francine, Enid said.”
    “I guess she’s pretty clever,” Fletch said.
    “Tom left it in his Will that Francine was to take over operation of the company—if she was willing and able. Tell you—what’syour name?”
    “Mike.”
    “I’ll tell you, Mike, I’ll welcome her with open arms.”
    “You will? Company not running so well?”
    “Well, you know, a company needs a head—someone to make the people-decisions, give it a direction. I’m president, by the grace of Tom Bradley, but I’m not good that way. What I’m very good at is selling things to people. That’s all I can do; that’s all I want to do. I mean, really, my wife says I could sell snowballs to Siberians. Long-range corporate planning, the day-to-day stuff—I’m not good that way. Enid tries, but, you know …”
    “Enid is Tom’s wife?”
    “Yeah. Nice lady. Once in a while she has a good idea, but, you know … long-range planning. Listen, anything Tom Bradley decided to do with his company is all right with me. He could have left it to his horse, and I’d say, sure, fine, good idea.”
    “Tom rides?”
    Alex looked at him. “A figure of speech. Don’t you know your Roman history?”
    “Oh.”
    “As a matter of fact, Tom did ride. Kept a horse out in the valley, somewhere. Rode on Sundays, some week-day mornings. Yeah, he liked riding. He’d go alone, I guess.”
    “Sounds like you were fond of him.”
    “Listen.” Alex’s eyes became a little wet. “Fond of him … I loved that guy. He was a real gentleman. Except for his stupid, raunchy jokes everybody had always heard before. That’s what was so funny about them. He was one hell of a nice man. People like that shouldn’t die so young. When you consider all the shits who live a lot older—like me!”
    “Gotta split.” Fletch put his beer glass on the bar, and held out his hand to Alex Corcoran. “Nice talking with you. Sorry about Tom Bradley.”
    “Yeah, yeah. I gotta go too. My wife will be lookin’ for me.” Two of the other golfers in the group had left. Alex Corcoran picked his trophy up off the bar. “Come here, you little darlin’.” He kissed it. “Where the hell would a man be, if it weren’t for golf?”
    “Home with the wife,” said one of the other golfers.
    And they all laughed.

15
    F  L E T C H   D R O V E   H O M E in the dark, but the lights in his apartment were on and Moxie came to the door as soon as she heard his key in the lock. She was wearing an apron and nothing else.
    “Gee,” Fletch said. ‘Just like a wife.”
    “Not like wife.” With her fingers Moxie held the edges of the apron’s skirt away from her skin and curtsied, as a geisha might. “Like Moxie Mooney.”
    He kissed her. “Your ex-wife called,” she said. He kissed her again. “Tom Jeffries called. Wants you to call him back.” He kissed her again.
    “What did good ol’ Linda want?”
    “Oh, we talked a long time. She told me what a male nymphomaniac you are, how unreliable you are, how funny you are. She told me about the time you called her from the office and said you were on your way home and then went to Hawaii.”
    “There was a story in Hawaii.”
    “She said the meatloaf got cold. How cruel you were to