Alston Chambers and Fletch went back a long way together.
Alston had started his career as a prosecutor. When his children were born he decided he needed to earn a better living than the state provided him.
He tried being a defense attorney. He did make more money.
He hated defending people he knew to be criminals.
“The difference is,” he told Fletch at the time, “between telling the truth and distorting truth, making up a barely palatable lie to fit the facts, to seed reasonable doubt.”
“Not your bowl of minestrone, eh?”
“I hate my clients! I think most of them should be hung, drawn, and quartered. How can I spend my life hating the people I work with, spend all my time with, my clients?”
“Many do.”
“It’s like being a beautician in the land of the ugly!”
“There’s always divorce law,” Fletch said. “Personally, I can tell you how profitable that is.”
“I want to put all my clients in prison!”
“Then go back to putting them in prison,” Fletch said. “You were good at it.”
So, after time, with periodic objective advice, encouragement, and a few legitimate political dollars from Fletch, Alston Chambers had risen to the position of District Attorney.
Alston came on the phone. “Can’t you let me get home, let me take off my coat, smell the stew pot, and pat the cat before making me answer the phone?”
“You’re late. You must have slowed and smirked going by the county jail again. Did any of the citizens you’ve jugged wave at you as you went by? I know how you love that.”
“Are you in a factory?”
“No. Why?”
“What’s that noise?”
“Rain on an aluminum roof. Hard rain. I’m in the smokehouse.”
“Why? Are you going to talk dirty to me?”
“Probably.” Fletch had taken the cellular phone from the station wagon into the smokehouse. Frequently, the phone did not work in the deep valley of the farm. Despite the storm, the phone was working well. Through the open door of the unlit smokehouse he could keep his eye on much of the farm. Probably he would be able to see Jack returning to the house, his dark shape moving along the white board fence. Hoping the phone would not leak, especially that his conversation would not be heard on some police frequency, he had finger-punched out Alston’s home number in California.
“Hey, Alston,” Fletch said. “Listen.”
“Never mind. Take your time,” Alston said. “We’re just having duck Curaçao for dinner. Those little onions.”
“I have a son.”
For a moment, Fletch thought the line went dead. It hadn’t.
“I suppose you do,” Alston said. “I never thought about it. A new son, or an old son?”
“An old son.”
“How old?”
“You remember Crystal Faoni?”
“I remember your talking about her. That was two million years ago.”
“Two and a half.”
“You were never romantically involved with Crystal what-ever-is-her-name. Were you? She’s the one female in your life I thought you weren’t romantically involved with.”
“She had a son and never told me.”
“How did she do that? Just by standing close to you? Did she catch your fumes or something?”
“We bumped into each other. Once.”
“Wasn’t she impossibly obese?”
“Corpulent.”
“You could reach?”
“Apparently.”
“Good for you. As I remember, you loved her mind, her wit, her good spirits …”
“I guess she saw something in me, too.”
“What?”
“God knows.”
“You mean, she wanted a kid by you? She set you up?”
“I could have resisted.”
“Not you.”
“I acted without forethought.”
“What, did she sneak into your bed one night when you were half drunk, or something?”
“She tumbled out of my shower. Actually, she landed on me.”
“Ah,” Alston said. ‘The oppressed male.”
“I’ve wondered why I haven’t heard from her in years.”
“Legally—”
“I don’t care about legally.”
“You never do. Where is this scion of sin?”
“Here.”
“Where?”
“At the farm.”
“And he’s locked you in the smokehouse in the pouring rain?”
“Not quite.”
“What does he look like?”
“I haven’t really seen him yet. He’s so dirty—”
“You mean ‘dirty’ as in so dirty you can’t even see what he looks like?”
“He came through this storm,” Fletch said, “under adverse circumstances. Over hill and dale, as it were. Through woods and streams.”
“Does he have a brain?”
Fletch considered. “I think he knows what parthenogenesis means.”
“Tell me what it means.”
“It means a world without lawyers.”
“Fletch, is this kid making some claims upon you?”
“I don’t know his intentions.”
“Because, besides checking such things as dates, if you can remember, if you have any records, there are such things as DNA tests—”
“I don’t think there’s much doubt about it. Crystal wasn’t exactly the town pump.”
“I suppose not.”
“I remember realizing, belatedly, that Crystal probably had done this on purpose.”
“Used you as stud.”
“Ah … We only came together in this way once, Alston.”
“Some guys have all the luck. Now that I think about it, I wonder just how many kids you do have. Probably half the younger generation are your brats. God, they all act like you. As soon as I figure out where they are, and what they’re thinking’ and doin’, damn-all if they’re not thinkin’ and doin’ somethin’ else.”
“Be nice.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m about to ask you for two favors. The situation here is a little difficult.”
“Reheated roast duck is never as good,” Alston said.
“The house phones are dead. I’m making this call on the cellular phone on the sly, you see.”
“In the smokehouse. In the pouring rain. You mean the kid hasn’t really locked you out of your house yet?”
“I can’t make many calls. Any other calls, for right now. I’m depending upon you, Alston.”
“For what?”
“To find out where Crystal is. Her last name is spelled F-A-O-N-I.”
“You want to send flowers? A little late.”
“Address. Phone number.”
“Can’t you get that from the kid?”
“Will you do it for me, please?”
“After I don’t let this duck go to waste. You know she never married?”
“I infer she hasn’t.”
“Where was she the last time you knew where she was?”
“Boston.”
“When was that?”
“Twenty years ago. Twenty years plus.”
“Great. By now she could be a man named McGillicuddy.”
“Also, there was ajailbreak, earlier today, last night, yesterday. From the federal prison in Tomaston, Kentucky.”
“That’s not too far from you.”
“Not too far. Four escapees.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Know anything at all about them?”
“Their crimes. Murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, and drug violations of some sort.”
“Sweethearts.”
“I know their names.”
“But you’re not going to tell me. What is this, some kind of a pass/fail test?”
“Leary, Moreno, and Kriegel.”
“That’s three.”
“John Fletcher Faoni.”
“What?”
“Spelled F-A-O-N-I.”
“Jesus Christ. You poor sod. To think a moment ago I was envying you. You discover you have a son … a big bundle of joy … an escapee from the federal pen … a convicted— what?”