Fletch and the Widow Bradley by Gregory McDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

What store did we buy something in? Who cares except Charley?”
    Looking at the hamburgers, Fletch said, “Are all these for me?”
    “Can’t you eat them?”
    “Of course.”
    “I’ve eaten. Want milk?”
    “Yes. Please.”
    Happy brought a glass to the refrigerator and filled it with milk. “Mary’s more like me. More happy-go-lucky. Of course next to Charley the Statue of Liberty looks like a stand-up comedian.”
    “These are good,” Fletch said munching. “Has Charley worked twenty years with Wagnall-Phipps?”
    “No. Just the last four. Before that he was with I.B.M.” Happy brought the glass of milk to the table and sat down across from Fletch. “You don’t know Charley very well.”
    “I don’t know him at all,” Fletch said.
    “He’s one of those people, you know, you make a joke and instead of laughing he analyses it. And then he explains it back to you—the person who made the joke in the first place. I like Charley. He makes me wonder. I think he has the body chemistry of a mica schist.”
    “What’s a mike-a-shits?”
    “A kind of rock. I should have said basalt. Enough ketchup?”
    “Thanks. Do you know the Bradleys, Happy?”
    “Charley’s boss? Yeah. Met them two or three times when Charley first went to work at Wagnall-Phipps. Haven’t seen them in two or three years. I don’t think they socialize much. I suspect that after Mary and Charley and Tom and Enid had dinners back and forth when Charley first went to work for Wagnall-Phipps—you know, did the necessary boss-new employee drinks and dinner things—and then everybody retreated into their own little holes. They’re all a bunch of deadheads. Except Mary.”
    “Did you go to Tom Bradley’s funeral?”
    “How can you tell when a guy like that is dead?” Happy laughed. “I don’t mean to be unkind. No, I buried my younger daughter only a year and a half ago. I knew Tom Bradley had been sick—in and out of hospital—had gone east to the specialists. He was so sick his wife, Enid Bradley, was running the company. Wouldn’t think her capable of it, even with the help of Charley and Alex. That’s Alex Corcoran, president of Wagnall-Phipps. Alex has got some life. You know—what’s your name—Fletch?—when you go through three deaths of your own, as I did, people aren’t apt to rush at you with news of every other death. Invite you to every funeral, you know?”
    Fletch bit into his third hamburger. “Good.”
    Her eyes were smiling at him. “It’s very nice watching a man eat.”
    “Wish you’d popularize that notion.”
    “Not married yet, Fletch?”
    “Divorced.”
    “At your age? What happened? Couldn’t your wife figure out how to work your diaper pin?”
    “Something like that.”
    “She didn’t feed you. Girls today. It’s against their pride to feed a man. It’s also against their pride a man should pick up a restaurant check. So everybody’s starving.”
    “Tell me about Enid and Tom Bradley, Happy.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You said he was sick. Sick with what?”
    “I forget. One of those long-range things. What would that be?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Not a very big man. No bigger than his wife. He used to tell dirty jokes I liked. There was something especially dirty about them when he told them. I don’t know. I suppose it was because he was the boss. And I always felt the dirty jokes sort of embarrassed Enid. She’d laugh, but only as if she had to.”
    “Maybe she’d heard them before.”
    “I suppose so. I really didn’t know them very well.” Happy looked at the wall clock. “I’ve got to get going.”
    “Oh. Okay.” Fletch drained his glass of milk. “Anything I can do for you, Happy? Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
    “No, thanks.” She took Fletch’s empty plate and glass to the sink. “I’ll just get my guitar and be on my way.”
    “Guitar?”
    “Yeah, I always bring it when I go to the Senior Citizens’ Home. I play for them, and we sing. Some