23

“A R E   Y O U   T H E manager of this bank?” Fletch asked the skinny man in a worn out suit who sat at a big desk the other side of a railing.

“Indeed I am.” The man smiled at him warmly. “You look like someone who could use a car loan. We can do very well for you on a car loan.”

“No, thanks. I have a car loan.” Fletch waved a thousand dollar bill. “I want to know if this is real.”

The manager saw the bill and gestured Fletch around the railing to his desk. The manager took the bill in the fingers of both hands and felt it as would a clothing merchant feeling material. He examined it closely through his eye-glasses. Especially did he examine closely the engraving of Grover Cleveland.

“Do you have any reason to doubt its authenticity?” the manager asked.

“Sure. I’ve never seen one before.”

“You don’t see too many pictures of Grover Cleveland.”

“Is that who it is? I thought it might be Karl Marx.”

The manager looked at him in shock. “Karl Marx?”

Fletch shrugged. “Don’t see too many pictures of him, either.”

The manager chuckled. “It looks okay to me.”

“Will you cash it for me?”

“Sure.”

Fletch took another thousand dollar bill out of the pocket of his jeans. “This one, too?”

The manager examined the second thousand dollar bill even more closely. “Where did you get these?”

“My employer is a little eccentric. Hates to write checks.”

“You must be well paid.” The manager looked closely at Fletch. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Have you?”

“Your picture. I’ve seen your picture—very recently.”

“Oh, that,” said Fletch. “I’m on the five-thousand dollar bill.”

“Maybe on a Wanted Poster?” The skinny man laughed. “How do you want these bills broken up?”

“Hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens, fives.”

The manager stood up. “You just want it spendable, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll be right back.”

The fistfulls of money the manager brought back to Fletch were bigger than Fletch expected. The manager counted it out again, on the desk in front of Fletch.

“Thank you.” Fletch was having difficulty stuffing the bills into the pockets of his jeans.

“I’m just slightly uneasy.” The manager looked closely again at Fletch’s face. “I’ve seen a picture of you somewhere—I think, this morning.”

“Did you read the funnies?”

“Yes,” the manager answered. “I read the funnies on the bus.” Fletch said, “That must be it, then.”

“When will the suit be ready?”

“Ten days.”

“Not soon enough.”

“When do you need it?”

“Wednesday.”

“This is Monday.”

“Thursday morning then.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Besides the well-cut, serious blue business suit, Fletch had bought, in the very expensive men’s shop, shirts, shoes, neck-ties, tennis sneakers, shorts, sport shirts, and, a suitcase.

“Going on a vacation?” the salesman asked.

“Yes,” answered Fletch. “I’d like to take everything with me, except the suit.”

“Certainly, Mister Fletcher. How do you choose to pay? We’ll accept your check.”

“Cash.” Fletch took a mess of bills from the pocket of his jeans.

“Very good, sir. I’ll have everything wrapped for you.”

“No need. I’ll just put everything in the suitcase.”

“If that’s what you wish.”

While the salesman added up the bill and made change, Fletch packed the suitcase.

“Mister Fletcher,” the salesman said slowly. “I wonder if you’d accept a gift from the store.”

“A gift?”

“That was quite a wonderful thing you did last night—talking that woman off the bridge.”

“You know about that?”

“Everyone knows about that.” The salesman’s eyes studied the deep carpeting. “Our cashier, last year, found herself in similar straits. You see, no one knew, understood …”

“So people do read newspapers.”

“We’re proud to have you a customer of our store.”

Other salespersons, Fletch now noticed, were standing around watching him.

The salesman handed Fletch a boxed silver-backed brush and comb.

“Wow,” said Fletch.

“They’re made in England,” the salesman said.

“Real nice.” Fletch shook the salesman’s hand. “Real nice of you.”

“People make efforts so seldom for other people …” The salesman seemed embarrassed.

“Thank you,” said Fletch.

With suitcase in one hand and the boxed brush and comb in the other, Fletch proceeded to leave the store.

All the salespersons smiled at him as he went by, and applauded him.

“You don’t want to go to San Orlando,” the heavily made-up woman in the tight-fitting jacket said. On the wall of the travel agency posters recommended Acapulco, Athens, Nice, Naples, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, and Rio de Janiero. Fletch wanted to go to all of them.

“I must,” Fletch said.

“No one must go to San Orlando.” She had the phone to her ear, waiting for information from the airline. “You know where Puerto de San Orlando is? Way down the Mexican coast. Takes forever to get there. They haven’t finished building it yet. Barely started. One hotel. The place is insuperably hot, dusty—hello?” She noted information from the airline. “That’s terrible,” she said, hanging up. “Terrible connections all the way through. It’s a far more expensive trip than it’s worth, at this point. If you waited a few years, until after they’ve developed the place a little …”

Leaning on the counter she told Fletch about the bad connections to San Orlando, and the expense.

“Fine,” said Fletch. “Reservations for one, please.”

“For one?” The woman looked truly shocked.

“One,” Fletch said.

“Boy,” the woman said. “Is being a hero that bad?” She sat down at the small desk behind the counter. “Return when?”

“Wednesday.”

“Wednesday? This is Monday.”

“Got to pick up a new suit,” Fletch said. “Thursday morning.”

She put the airline’s ticket form into the typewriter. “Some people’s idea of fun. It’s all right, I suppose, as long as they have the travel agent to blame.”