Fletch and the Widow Bradley

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“H E L L O,” F L E T C H  S A I D. “My name is Armistad.”

Behind his desk in his office, the manager of the Park Worth Hotel neither stood nor answered. His eyes telegraphed cold rejection of Fletch’s sweater, with no shirt under it, jeans and sneakers. Clearly, in the manager’s eyes, Fletch was not up to being a guest in the Park Worth Hotel, or a worthy candidate for a job. Dressed that way, he was not particularly welcome in the hotel lobby.

“Your name is Cavalier?” Fletch asked. A triangular piece of wood on the man’s desk said the visage you’d see upon raising your eyes a mite would be that of Jacques Cavalier. Besides the olive wood desk in the manager’s office was a large safe, opened, odd stacks of printouts, and a plaster cast of Donatello’s David perched on a bookshelf full of National Social Registers.

The manager twitched his head as if recovering from a flick on the nose. “Yes?”

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