“We called ahead,” Fletch said to the counterman. “Three pizzas in the name of Ralton.”

The sweating counterman did not smile at him. “It will be a few minutes.”

The counterman then picked up a phone between two ovens. He dialed a number, and turned his back.

There were six other people waiting for pizzas. Four men, two in shorts, one in work clothes, one in a business suit. A teenaged boy in a tuxedo. A young teenaged girl in shorts, a halter, and purple high-heeled shoes. She also wore lipstick and eye shadow.

“Aren’t you afraid of spilling pizza on your dinner jacket?” the man in running shorts asked the teenaged boy.

The boy answered him, apparently courteously, in rapid French.

“Oh,” the man said.

Fletch opened the door to the vertical refrigerator and took out a six-pack of 7-Up. He put it on the counter.

“Schwartz?” the counterman called.

The boy in the tuxedo paid for his pizza and left.

The man in working clothes got his pizza next. Then one of the men in shorts. A woman in tennis whites entered and gave the name Ramirez. The young girl clicked out of the store on her high heels carrying her pizza like a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“We must have called a half-hour ago,” Fletch said to the counterman. “Name of Ralton?”

Again the counterman did not smile at him. “It will be a few minutes.”

The man in the business suit picked up his pizza.

Two policemen strolled in. Their car was parked just outside the front door. They didn’t give a name.

They looked at the counterman.

The counterman nodded at Fletch.

The cops jumped at Fletch, spun him around, pushed him.

Fletch found himself leaning against the counter, his hands spread, his feet spread. One cop had his hand on the back of Fletch’s neck, forcing his head down. The other’s fingers felt through Fletch’s T-shirt, his shorts, checked the tops of his atheltic socks.

“What did he do?” the man in running shorts asked.

The eyes of the woman in tennis whites widened. She stepped back.

“He was robbing the store,” a cop answered.

“He was not!” the man said. “He’s been standing here fifteen minutes!”

“He was about to rob the store.”

“He gave a name! He was waiting for pizza!”

They pulled Fletch’s arms behind his back.

He felt the cool metal of the handcuffs around his wrists, heard the click as they locked.

“He’s robbed lots of stores,” the cop said. “Liquor stores, convenience stores. Once he got his pizza, he’d rob this store.”

“Oh,” the man said.

The other cop said, “Even a robber’s got to eat, you know.”

“He doesn’t look like a bad guy,” the man in running shorts said. “Fast. You’d never catch him, once he started runnin’.”

“Well,” a cop said. “We caught him.”

The man said to Fletch, “Your name Ralton?”

“No.”

“That does it for me,” the man said. “He gave the name Ralton. Phony name.”

“His name’s Liddicoat,” said a cop. “Alexander Liddicoat.”

“That’s probably phony, too,” said the man.

“Ramirez?” the counterman called.

The woman in tennis whites paid for her pizza.

“Let’s go,” the cop said.

Both hanging on to Fletch, they waited for the woman to go through the door with her pizza.

“Can we take my pizza with me?” Fletch asked. “I’ll let you have some.”

“Thanks anyway,” a cop answered. “We just had Chinese take-out.”

Outside they put him in the back of the police car carefully and slammed the door.

As they settled in the front seat, the cop in the passenger seat looked at his watch. “Eleven-forty. We take him all the way downtown, we’ll never get back in time to go off duty at twelve.”

“What’s so special about him?”

“Dispatch said take him straight downtown to headquarters.”

“Yeah.” The driver started the car. “We run a taxi service.”

“I could save you the trip,” Fletch said. He was trying to fit his handcuffed hands into the small of his back against the car seat. “My name’s not Liddi-whatever. I’ve got identification in my wallet.”

“Sure. I bet you have. Might as well get goin’, Alf.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Fletch said.

The cop in the passenger seat said, “Twelve years on the force and I’ve never yet arrested the right guy.”

The car started forward. “We didn’t read him his rights.”

The other cop looked through the grille at Fletch.

“You know your rights?”

“Sure.”

“That’s good. He knows his rights, Alf.”

“Cruel and unusual punishment already,” Fletch said. “Lettin’ a guy smell pizza for fifteen minutes, then not lettin’ him have any.”

“Tell your lawyer.”

The police car bumped over the curb from the pizza store’s parking lot onto the road.

Fletch said, “Next stop, the guillotine.”