“Texas?”
“Andy and I are planning to fly to Dallas the end of this week.”
“Good! Then I go, too.”
“Good!” said Fletch. “We’ll all go. Just like a family.”
Andy’s look could have burned through telephone books.
To Andy he said, “I doubt you’ve ever had Texan chili. Good American cooking.”
“Chili sauce,” said Sylvia. “You want chili sauce?”
Fletch placed his unused napkin next to his untouched plate.
“Sorry I can’t stay to help out with the dishes. I’m going to sleep now.”
“Sleep?” Sylvia was prepared to be hurt. “You no want dessert?”
“Don’t even tell me what it is,” Fletch said. “I’ll dream on it.”
He went into a guest room, locked the door, stripped, and crawled between the sheets.
The rhythms of exclamations in Italian, French, Portuguese, and English through the thick walls lulled him to hungry sleep.
Thirty-three
“Hi, babe.”
In the single bed, he had rolled onto his side.
Light was pouring through the open drapes.
Eyes open, staring at him, her head faced him on the pillow.
The white sheet over her upper arm perfected her smooth, tanned shoulder, neck, throat
His right hand went along her left breast, under her arm, down her side. She pulled her right leg up, to touch his.
“Nice to feel you again,” he said.
She must have entered through the bathroom from the other guest room.
He flicked her lips with his tongue.
Then his left arm went under her and found the small of her back and brought her closer to him.
“Where were you last night?” she asked.
“When?”
“Two o’clock. Three o’clock. You weren’t in bed.”
“I went out for a walk,” he said “After that heavy dinner.”
In fact, between two and three in the morning, he had switched the license plates of the rented car and the black truck.
“‘After that heavy dinner,’” she said.
She giggled.
“Did you use my bed in Cagna?” he asked.
“Of course. Our bed.”
He said, “I’m hungry.”
She put on a slightly perplexed face.
She said, “This is your apartment.”
“Yes.”
“How come Sylvia’s in the master bedroom and you and I are in a single bed in a guest room?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I guess it’s like the Latin-American expression, ‘I lost the battle of the street.’”
“Was there a revolution?”
“There must have been. I guess I was an absentee government.”
“What does that mean?”
“I wasn’t here a couple of nights.”
“Where were you?”
“I was working.”
“Working?”
“At a newspaper. An old boy I worked with in Chicago works for a paper here now. He was short-handed and asked me to come in. Charlestown was burning down again.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Why not?”
“Why should you?”
“I liked it. Anyhow, Jack had let me spend some time at the newspaper looking up Horan.”
“Jack?”
“Jack Saunders.”
“I doubt it would take two nights for Charlestown to burn down.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I would expect your friend to solve his staff problems by the second night.”
“I don’t get you.”
“You said you were gone two nights.”
“Did I say that?”
“Where were you the other night?”
“What other night?‘
“You were only gone one night?”
“Ah…”
“If you were only gone one night, how come Sylvia the master bedroom?”
“Um…”
“How come she has it, anyway.”
“Who? Sylvia?”
“Were you sleeping with Sylvia?”
“Who, me?”
“You see, Fletch?”
“See what?”
“Don’t give me a hard time.”
“Did I give you a hard time?”
“About Bart.”
“Oh, yeah, Bart the Woman Slayer.”
“He needed help, Fletch.”
“I’ll bet.”
“You know why his wife left him?”
“I heard rumors.”
“Then this girl he wanted to take to Cagna finally refused to go.”
“I know. I found her body. She should have gone.”
“Bart never killed anybody.”
“Andy, one of three people killed Ruth Fryer. I know I didn’t, and Bart tops the list of the other two candidates.”
“Tell me about Sylvia.”
“Sylvia who?”
“Come on.”
“You must have misunderstood something.”
“I did not. You’ve never lost a battle of the street in your life.”
“I haven’t know many Sylvias.”
“What happened?”
“I was raped.”
“That’s nice.”
“Not bad.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me. I think you’ve figured out she wants the paintings as much as you do.”
“She’s not going to get them, is she?”
“I know what she has to offer. What do you have to offer?”
“You know what I have to offer.”
“You’re skinnier than she is.”
“You like that. Skinny.”
“Did I say that?”
“Once or twice.”
“Was I telling the truth?”
“One never knows.”
“We’re doing an awful lot of talking. For two friends who haven’t seen each other in almost a week.”
“I’m not used to making deals in bed.”
“Oh. Then feel sorry for me.”
“Why should I feel sorry for you?”
“I was raped. I need to got my sexual confidence back.”
“You have it back. I can feel it.”
“See how much good you’ve done already?”
Thirty-four
Fletch went into the den to answer the telephone after a second helping of scrambled eggs and sausage.
It was past ten, and Sylvia apparently had gone out earlier to follow her own investigation, which, Fletch guessed, meant walking through Boston’s private galleries with the list of de Grassi paintings in her hand.
It was finally, a cloudless October day.
At breakfast, Fletch and Andy had decided to spend the day walking the old streets. She said she would show him his American history.
He worried about the moon.
It was Horan.
“Mister Fletcher, I was able to get Mister Cooney on the phone last night, too late to call you back.”
“That was very considerate of you. I did go to bed early.”
“There was little point in rushing to you with the news anyway.”
“Oh?”
“He says he won’t respond to your new offer for the Picasso, either. Contrary to my advice to you, he says you’re not even in the ballpark.”
“Did you remind him he has eight kids to feed?”
“He said he is looking for upwards of a million dollars for the painting.”
“Hungry kids. I thought beef was cheaper in Texas.”
“That’s the lay of the land. I don’t know if you want to go further with this negotiation, but I expect you’ll want to think about it.”
“Would you? I mean, would you go further?”
“I think I would. I think I’d make another offer for it. Of course, I have no idea how much of your resources you want to tie up in a single property.”
“Will you make another offer, if I don’t?”
“Mister Fletcher, I think I made a mistake there—one for which I apologize—an indicating to you I might be interested in purchasing this painting if you don’t. I’m your broker, in this case, and a client should never feel he would be in a position where he must bid against his own broker.”