The acidly funny first book starring the subversive sleuth in one of the most successful mystery series of all time. Fletch is an investigative reporter whose methods are a little unorthodox. Currently he’s living on the beach with the strung-out trying to find to the source of the drugs they live for. He’s taking more than a little flack from his editor. She doesn’t appreciate his style. Or the expense account items he’s racking up. Or his definition of the word deadline . Or the divorce lawyers who keep showing up at the office. So when multimillionaire Alan Stanwyk offers Fletch the job of a lifetime, which could be worth a fortune, he’s intrigued and decides to do a little investigation. What he discovers is that the proposition is anything but what it seems. “The toughest, leanest horse to hit the literary racetrack since James M. Cain, and it’s sheer pleasure to watch him make his run.” --Pete Hamill “A top-rate thriller told in stripped down language that races to a climax.” -- The Washington Post Fletch He's an investigative reporter whose methods are a little unorthodox. Currently he's living on the beach with the strung-out trying to find to the source of the drugs they live for. Fletch He's taking more than a little flack from his editor. She doesn't appreciate his style. Or the expense account items he's racking up. Or his definition of the word "deadline. Or the divorce lawyers who keep showing up at the office. Fletch So when multimillionaire Alan Stanwyk offers Fletch the job of a lifetime, which could be worth a fortune, he's intrigued and decides to do a little investigation. What he discovers is that the proposition is anything but what it seems. “The toughest, leanest horse to hit the literary racetrack since James M. Cain, and it’s sheer pleasure to watch him make his run.” --Pete Hamill “A top-rate thriller told in stripped down language that races to a climax.” -- The Washington Post Gregory Mcdonald is the author of twenty-six books, including eleven Fletch novels and four Flynn mysteries. He twice won the Mystery Writers of America’s prestigious Edgar Allen Poe Award for Best Mystery Novel, and was the first author to win for both a novel and its sequel. He died in 2008. 1 "What's your name?" "Fletch." "What's your full name?" "Fletcher." "What's your first name?" "Irwin." "What?" "Irwin. Irwin Fletcher. People call me Fletch." "Irwin Fletcher, I have a proposition to make to you. I will give you a thousand dollars for just listening to it. If you decide to reject the proposition, you take the thousand dollars, go away, and never tell anyone we talked. Fair enough?" "Is it criminal? I mean, what you want me to do?" "Of course." "Fair enough. For a thousand bucks I can listen. What do you want me to do?" "I want you to murder me." The black shoes tainted with sand came across the oriental rug. The man took an envelope from an inside pocket of his suit jacket and dropped it into Fletch's lap. Inside were ten one-hundred-dollar bills. The man had returned the second day to the sea wall to watch Fletch. Only thirty yards away, he used binoculars. The third day, he met Fletch at the beer stand. "I want you to come with me." "Why?" "I want to make you an offer." "I'm not that way." "Neither am I. There's a job I might like to have you do for me." "Why can't we talk here?" "This is a very special job." "Where are we going?" "To my house. I'll want you to know where it is. Do you have any clothes on the beach?" "Just a shirt." "Get it. My car is a gray Jaguar XKE, parked at the curb. I will be waiting in it for you." "I want to drink my beer first." "Bring it with you. You can drink it in the car." Walking away through the beach crowd, the man looked as out of place in his dark business suit as an insurance adjuster at a jalopy jamboree. No one appeared to notice him. Keeping his shirt over it, Fletch picked up the plastic bag off the sand. He sat a few feet away from his group, his shirt over the plastic bag beside him. Looking at the ocean, he drank some of the beer he held in his left hand. With his right hand he dug a hole in the sand under his shirt. "What's happening?" Bobbi asked. She was belly-down on a towel. "Thinkin'." He put the plastic bag into the hole and covered it over with sand. "I guess I'm splittin'," he said. "For a while." "Will you be back tonight?" "I dunno." Slinging his shirt over his shoulder, he started away. "Gimme a swallow before you go." Bobbi jacked herself on her elbow and took some of the beer. "That's good," she said. "Hey, man," Creasey said. Fletch said, "Splittin'. Too much sun." The license plate of the car was 440-001. In the car, Fletch sat with the can of cold beer between his knees. The man drove smoothly and silently. Below sunglasses, the man's face was expressionless. On his left hand was a college ring. He used a gold cigarette lighter from his jacket pocket rather than the dashboard