Free Fletch and the Widow Bradley by Gregory McDonald Page B

her cat. I believe she loves you.”
    “And what did you tell her?”
    “I told her I believe you still love her.”
    “Thanks a heap. I love paying her alimony.”
    “Oh, she said you haven’t. Paid her any alimony, that is. I told her I didn’t understand that, as you have scads of money, have just ordered a sixty-foot motor cruiser, and anytime she needs money she’s to come to you, alimony be damned.”
    “Terrific. What else did you do for me?”
    “Told her you’d just given me a diamond tiara and a mink coat.”
    “I’m sure she believed you.”
    “I don’t think so, somehow. Go telephone what’s-his-name. He’s the guy with the broken back, isn’t he?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I’ll run you a bath.”
    “Why don’t we—?”
    She put her hand against his shoulder and pushed. “Yucky, dirty, smelly boy. If I’m going to give my all for you, least you might do is remove the outer layer of pollution.”
    “But, but—”
    “Lots of evening left.”
    She turned her back on him and hopped into the bathroom.
    ‘Tom? Fletch. How’s life at ground level?”
    “Never, never, Fletch, have I known there were so many ants in the world. All day I spend in the patio watching ants.”
    From the livingroom, Fletch could hear the bath water running. “You don’t see many ants when you’re hang-gliding I guess.”
    “Actually, ants are sort of interesting. Just like people, only more so.”
    “The Darwin of the patio.”
    “Listen, I called you not only because I’m bored out of my mind but also to tell you a funny story. Cheer you up. A story under the heading
Incompetent People Who Do Not Get Fired From The News-Tribune
—”
    “There are some?”
    “Jack Carradine called this morning, after you left. About Clara Snow.”
    “What’s she done now?”
    “You know she’s been assigned to the State House, just as if she were a real reporter?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, while assigned to the State House she failed to report that the Governor’s press-secretary’s brother owns a car dealership which, if you can believe it, has been selling cars to the state police.”
    “Clara didn’t report that?”
    “She put her nose up in the air, looked all haughty, you know, as only she can, and said she felt the matter was too personal.”
    “To whom?”
    “A private matter, she said. Having to do with family life. Not in the public interest to report. Then she said the state police have to buy their cars from somewhere. Can you believe that?”
    “It makes me angry.”
    “Good. I thought it would cheer you up. Of course you know Clara’s been going to bed with the press secretary.”
    “I thought she was going to bed with Frank Jaffe.”
    “Him, too, Clara goes to bed with anyone who can help her career. You can’t say Clara doesn’t give her all. Which is why she’sbeing allowed to get away with this little slip of her’s.”
    “Are you telling me Frank still isn’t going to run the story?”
    “Jack says Frank called the Governor and told him to put an end to this corruption within a month, or the
News-Tribune
would blow the whistle. How do you like those sweet peas?”
    “Jeez. I hope the competition gets wise to it.”
    “You could always make sure they do, Fletch.”
    “No. I wouldn’t do that.”
    “Just trying to get you a job, man.”
    “Not that way.”
    “How do you feel, Fletch?”
    “Lousey. How do you feel?”
    “Lousey. See ya.”
    “See ya.”
    Fletch called the
News-Tribune
. There was no chance of the bathtub overflowing. Water ran into it at about the speed of decisions reached by committee.
    “Classifieds,” the girl said. “May I help you?”
    “Yes, please,” Fletch said. “I’d like to run an item in your Lost and Found column.”
    “Yes, sir. What’s the message?”
    “Wallet found name James St. E. Crandall write Box number—whatever box number you give me.”
    “236.”
    “236.”
    “James St. E. like in James Saint Edward or