“News-Tribune resource desk. Code and name, please.”
“Seventeen ninety dash nine,” Fletch answered into the car phone. He was driving toward The Heights.
“Fletcher.”
“I haven’t had a call from you before.”
“They don’t let me out much.”
“We have some messages for you.”
“I want the address for Mr. and Mrs. Donald Edwin Habeck. I believe that’s H-A-B-E-C-K, somewhere in The Heights.”
“That’s 12339 Palmiera Drive.”
“Mapping?”
“It’s a little road northwest of Washington Boulevard. There are lots of little roads in there. Winding roads. Your best bet would be to stop at intersection of Washington and Twenty-third and get exact directions. You’ll be turning onto Twenty-third there.”
“Okay.”
“Messages are, call Barbara Ralton. She wants lunch with you. Says she has things to discuss.”
“Like how many babies we’re gonna have?”
“My, my. This old mother suggests you have lunch before you pick up on that heavy topic.”
“Thank you.”
“See how much it costs to feed just two mouths.”
“It doesn’t cost much to feed a kid. Just squirt orange juice into him a few times a day. Peanut butter.”
“Ha.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Ha.”
“How much does peanut butter cost?”
The bumper sticker on the car in front of Fletch read: NASTINESS WILL GET YOU EVERYWHERE.
“Should have taken my own advice and stayed in bed. One more message for you, Fletcher. From Ann McGarrahan, society-page editor. She said if you phoned in to tell you to report to her immediately. Your assignment has been changed.”
“Oh.”
“So it looks like you don’t need that address in The Heights after all.”
“One more question: Who is Pilar O’Brien?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“A personal answer. Why do you want to know?”
“Just heard of her. Does she work for the News-Tribune?”
A hesitation slightly longer than normal before the News-Tribune resource-desk person said, “You’re talking to her.”
“Ah! Then you’re the lady who found Habeck this morning.”
“Who?”
“The guy dead in the parking lot.”
“Is that his name? I thought you just asked for the address of—”
“Forget about that, will you?”
“How can I? How can a reporter I never heard of before be asking for the address of—”
“I said, please forget about that. I never asked.”
“Mrs. McGarrahan—”
“I’ll call her. Tell me about finding Habeck.”
“I’m not permitted to talk to any reporters until after the police question me. Then I may only report what I told the police.”
“Jeez, you know the rules.”
“That’s what Mr. Starbuck said.”
“When you found him, was the car door opened or closed?”
“I can’t answer you.”
“It’s important.”
“Maybe that’s why I can’t answer you.”
“Did you see a gun?”
“What’s-your-name… Fletcher. Shall I tell Mrs. McGarrahan you’re returning to the office?”
“Sure,” Fletch said. “Tell her that.”
“Would you please give me directions to Palmiera Drive?”
The eyes of the man behind the counter of the liquor store at the intersection of Washington Boulevard and Twenty-third Street shifted from Fletch through the store window to Fletch’s Datsun 300 ZX outside the front door, motor running, and back to Fletch. There was a hole in the car’s muffler. The engine was noisy.
“I’m looking for the twelve-thousand block of Palmiera Drive, if there is such a thing.”
Looking Fletch full in the face, the man behind the counter whistled the first few bars of “Colonel Bogey’s March.”
“Do I turn right on Twenty-third Street?”
The man raised a .45 automatic pistol from beneath the counter. He pointed it at Fletch’s heart.
“Jeez,” Fletch said. “I’m being held up by a liquor store!”
Fletch was grabbed from behind. Muscular brown arms, fingers clasped just under Fletch’s rib cage, pinned Fletch’s own arms to his side.
“Hey!” Fletch yelled. “I asked politely!”
The gun kept Fletch’s heart as its target.
The man holding the gun called toward the back of the store, “Rosa! Call the cops!”
“I’ll get the muffler fixed!” Fletch said. “I promise!”
“Report a robbery in progress!” the man behind the counter shouted.
“All I did was ask for directions! I didn’t even ask for change for a parking meter!”
“He ain’t got no gun,” the voice behind Fletch’s ear rumbled.
The man behind the counter looked at Fletch’s hands and then the pockets of his jeans.
“Let me point out to you,” Fletch said with great sincerity, “you can’t shoot me with that cannon without blowing away the guy behind me.”
The gun wavered. The steel bands clamping Fletch’s arms to his sides slackened just slightly.
“Workmen’s Compensation won’t cover!” Fletch yelled as he ran backward, pushing the guy holding him.
Within a meter, they crashed into a tall, wire bottle rack.
Instantly, as bottles smashed, there was the reek of bourbon.
The guy’s hands disappeared from in front of Fletch. “I’m gettin’ cut,” he yelled.
Sitting on the guy’s lap, Fletch bounced up and down once or twice, then he leaned back against his chest.
“Ow!” the guy yelled.
Bottles were raining down on them. One landed on Fletch’s left knee, causing more pain than Fletch thought possible.
The bottles that hit the floor smashed and splashed bourbon over both of them.
The guy with the gun was moving along the counter trying to get a bead on Fletch that did not include the guy Fletch was sitting on.
Fletch rolled through broken glass and bourbon puddles to the door. “Last time I’ll ask you guys for directions!”
As he stood up he grabbed the door open.
Halfway through the door the gun banged. The breakproof glass in the door shattered.
Opening his car door, Fletch shouted back at the store, “If you don’t know where Palmiera Drive is, why don’t you just say so?”
At a sedate pace, he turned right off Washington onto Twenty-third.
Sirens filled the air.