Fletch Reflected by Gregory McDonald Read Free Book Online

watch,” Jack said. “I’ll listen. I’ll think.”
    A man in his mid-twenties dressed only in tank trunks entered the pool area. He was heavily muscled. He waved at Shana.
    Jack said, “I doubt I’ll accomplish anything.”
    The young man climbed to the highest diving platform. Without hesitation, he dove, did a double back flip and entered the water hardly rippling the surface.
    “Is that Chet?” Jack asked.
    “Yes. Class valedictorian and All-American quarterback.”
    “Not what I was expecting.”
    “The National Football League made him an offer to play. He could buy his own team, of course. Oxford offered him a full fellowship.”
    “Can he buy Oxford?”
    “If his Daddy cosigned the note.”
    In one smooth movement as if continuing his swimming stroke, Chet popped out of the pool and landed on his feet on the deck. Dripping, he stood on the pool deck arms akimbo. He said to Shana, “Time to go.”
    He did not appear to realize she and Jack had been talking to each other.
    “Where?” she asked.
    “You’ve had enough sun.”
    “Just resting after doing my laps. I’ve only been here a few minutes.”
    Although Chet put his hand out to Shana, he was looking at Jack.
    Slowly he looked Jack up and down as if wondering how much he cost.
    “All right.” Lazily, Shana got up from the long chair.
    When they left the pool area, Shana and Chet were walking a meter apart. He was chattering about some dance step. Twirling on the flagstone, he showed her how it was done.
    At the gate, Chet looked back at Jack.
    Frowning, Jack continued vacuuming the pool. The way Chet had looked at him made Jack uneasy.

6
    I nstead of answering the phone in the front seat of the van with a simple “hello” when it buzzed, Fletch sang to it, “‘Hello, America, how’s by you …?’”
    “Mister Fletcher? This is Andy Cyst.”
    “How’re you doin’, Andy?”
    “I’m fine, Mister Fletcher. How’re you doin’?”
    “Just gettin’ by,” Fletch sang, “Dancin’ side by side …”
    “You sound pretty relaxed, Mister Fletcher.”
    “Is modern man ever more relaxed than when whizzing along a highway at the speed of a hurricane?”
    “I’m afraid not, Mister Fletcher.”
    “Terrifying, isn’t it?”
    “I never heard you sing before, Mister Fletcher.”
    “Now you know what you’ve missed.”
    “I have the information you requested on Chester Radliegh. Aren’t you in the northwest somewhere?”
    “Headed for Wyoming, Andy. Shall I sing ‘Git Along Little Dogies’?”
    “If you want to.”
    “Maybe later.”
    “Chester Radliegh lives in Georgia.”
    “Ah, the state that originally banned lawyers. And slavery. First came the lawyers. Then slavery. Things haven’t changed much since.”
    “On an estate called Vindemia. Very large, I gather. It has its own golf course, employees’ village—it’s near a town called Ronckton. Are you on vacation or something, Mister Fletcher?”
    “From what?”
    “I mean, you’re nowhere near Georgia.”
    “Just transporting a friend who once transported me.” Fletch heard Crystal laugh on her bed in the back of the handicap van. Through the dashboard speaker she could hear the whole conversation.
    “Okay.” Andy took a big breath and began reading. “Chester Radliegh, aged fifty eight, second son of Randolph and Melissa Radliegh, born in Lincoln, Massachusetts, to a well-off, established American family.”
    “What does ‘established’ mean? Aren’t we all ‘established,’ one way or another?”
    “Establishment. His family showed the
Mayflower
where to anchor, or something.”
    “Ah! Native Americans!”
    “His family always had been in either the ministry or banking.”
    “There’s a difference?”
    “Although he was a professor at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, his undergraduate, Master’s and Ph.D. in physics were from Harvard. Incidentally, as an undergraduate at Harvard he was a two-letter man, fencing and baseball. He taught at