As a journalist, Fletch had worked (as seldom as possible) in a city room in a building he thought big in the busiest section of the city, surrounded by bars and theaters and bars and police stations and bars and slums. Few journalists had academic degrees. They had strong legs, loud voices, no regard for theories, predictions, speculation, trends, or statistics. They believed only in discovering and printing the facts of present history. They lived in the city, rode the buses, the subways, hung around the bars, police stations, hospitals, ballparks, political enclaves. They had charm and temper and the gift of gab that would draw admissions from a judge. They loved and hated each other with passion.
News, in those days, was ninety-five percent fact, three percent fancy, and two percent speculation.
As extrapolation had not yet entered the business, news, in those days, was far less confusing.
When Fletch would call Global Cable News with a bit of information, news, suggestion, comment, a question, he was answered with Yes, Mister Fletcher. Yes, Mister Fletcher. Yes, Mister Fletcher, instant response, thorough follow-through. It made him as uncomfortable as their headquarters. He did not like being listened to as a journalist because he was a major investor.
So he asked that when he called, only one person answer and say, Yes, Mister Fletcher.
That person was Andy Cyst.
“Yes, Mister Fletcher?”
“Andy, I need some information. First, I need to find a woman named Crystal Faoni.” He spelled the name out. “She used to be a working journalist. I believe she never married. I believe she has one son, named John, which she has raised herself. I’m told she now owns five radio stations in Indiana. Possibly with a residence in Bloomington. Presently, she may be at a health spa, I’m told incommunicado, somewhere.”
“F-A-O-N-I?”
“Yes.”
“An unusual name.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“An old flame, eh?” Andy asked.
“An old spark, more like.”
“Why do you need me? You have enough information here—”
“Because I am limited in what I can do at this moment.” He hoped Andy was saying to himself, The old boy’s gettin’ lazy. “Also, I think I would like to see, or at least talk to, Faoni within the next few days. Where exactly is she? What’s her schedule? How serious is this incommunicado situation? When you find her.”
“Okay.”
“Next, some convicts escaped from the federal penitentiary in Tomaston, Kentucky, yesterday.”
“Yes. Two.”
“Two?”
“I’m trying to recall what I saw regarding this story on Global Cable News. We’ve carried the full story, needless to say.”
“Andy, you know I don’t get cable here on the farm.”
“I know.”
“Cable was originally intended for rural areas. Then your business chiefs discovered dwellings in the cities and towns are closer together, and therefore much more profitable to wire. So we still don’t get cable out here.”
“You’ve mentioned this to me before.”
“About a thousand times.”
“Thirteen hundred and five times. You’re the one who makes the profits, Mister Fletcher.”
“Go ahead. Rub it in. I just want you all to know why I am not a devoted viewer. Why I do not memorize your every shifting probability. Furthermore, I understand there are four escapees.” To himself, Fletch said, Now there are three. “I need to know everything about every one of them.”
“Are you working on something, Mister Fletcher? I mean, for GCN?”
“Just maybe.”
“You want a crew?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. Was anyone hurt during the escape?”
“Ummm. I think not. You want me to boot up my personal computer to read the office files?”
“No. I haven’t the time right now. I have another call to make.”
“Sorry, I guess I didn’t pay that much attention to this story. Last night we, uh—”
Fletch waited. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Went to a concert, in old D.C.”
“So you had a late night.”
“You know what was weird?”
“Tell me.” In the smokehouse, Fletch glanced at his watch.
“The first half of the concert was big band, you know, like in the 1940s? The second half a rock light show. Like in the sixties, I guess.”
“Eclectic,” Fletch said.
“It’s left me confused. Headachy.”
One of many things Fletch admired about Andy was his respect for straight lines. “Go with the flow, baby.”
“Anything else? I’m leaving for the office now.”
“What’s The Tribe?”
“Whose?”
“I guess that’s the right question.”
“Mister Fletcher, I told you I heard more noise last night than is good for one.”
“I know, Andy. You lead the quiet life, there in the Virginia countryside.”
“Is this a real question? Am I supposed to find out something about some tribe?”
“I don’t know yet. But the question doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“Can noise make you feel sort of sick? We had beef Thai pecan last night, wild rice. That couldn’t have done it, could it?”
“As long as the pecans weren’t wild.”
“Are there wild pecans?”
“Oh, Andy, you should know some of the nuts I’ve known! I’ll say they can be wild! I’ll call you later at the office. Don’t try to call me.”
“HI, AETNA. WILL you patch me through to the sheriff, please?”
“Hydy, Mister Fletcher. How’s everything at the farm this fine morning? You all survive the big storm last night?”
“Just fine, Aetna. We’re as slick as a boxer after the tenth round.”
Fletch wondered if the dispatcher for the county sheriffs office recognized the voice of everyone in the county. Once, only by recognizing a woman’s voice had she sent the Rescue Squad to the right farm. She was credited with saving the woman’s life. She also had a great ear for music. She led the county’s most accomplished Baptist choir.
“The sheriff’s actin’ right tired this morning, Mister Fletcher.”
“I expect so.”
“Say, Mister Fletcher, while I have you on the phone, will you tell Carrie that Angie Kelly has that recipe for firecracker cake Carrie wanted?”
“Angie Kelly. Firecracker cake.”
“Who’s talking about firecracker cake on this line?”
Fletch recognized Sheriff Rogers’s gravelly voice. It was more gravelly than usual this morning.
Aetna said, “Mister Fletcher’s on the line, Sheriff.”
The sheriff said, “I sincerely doubt Mister Fletcher is interested in the recipe for firecracker cake.”
Fletch said, “I don’t even know what firecracker cake is. Listen, Sheriff, I have two of them.”
“Cakes?”
“Convicts. Escaped convicts.”
“Where?”
“One of them is dead. We found him in the gully behind my barns. Looks like the snakes got him, and then maybe he drowned.”
“Describe him.”
“Hispanic.”
“I’m prepared to call that a good arrest, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Describe the other convict to me.”
“Heavyset. Caucasian. None too bright.”
“Okay. Restrain him however you can. We’ll come pick him up.”
“Please, no.”
“No?”
“Carrie is going to drive him out to the intersection of Worthy Road and The Old County Pike. He’ll be penned up in the back of the pickup truck. She’ll pretend she’s run out of gas. As soon as she stops at the intersection there, you guys swarm him.”