Fletch Page #5

JABBAR (V.O.)

Here I am dishing off to Fletch....

Fletch raises an eyebrow.

74 TELEVISION

There's Fletch, his hair in an Afro, dressed in Laker gold. He's on the receiving end of a Jabbar pass, making an easy layup.

HEARN (V.O.)

Gosh, he makes it look so easy!

75 FLETCH

asleep, smiling.

77 PRICATICE COURT - DAY

Gail Stanwyk is on the other side of the net, loading tennis balls into the automatic serve machine. She is in her late twenties and quite attractive., but in a much more natural way than other women we see here. She is good natured and effervescent. Fletch steps up to the entrance of the court.

FLETCH:

Gail Stanwyk!

She looks up. He enters the court with great delight.

FLETCH:

(continuing)

I haven't seen you since the wedding,

Jeez, you look great.

MRS. STANWYK

(genuinely pleased)

I do? Oh, isn't that sweet, thank you. I have to confess

something to you. I must have been pretty plowed at your wedding.

I really don't have the faintest idea who you are.

FLETCH:

Huh? No, not my wedding. Yours.

MRS. STANWYK

Oh, mine! Thank God.

(furrows her brow)

Actually, that doesn't make it any better, does it?

Are you a friend of Alan's?

FLETCH:

We used to fly together. I'm...John.

MRS. STANWYK

(snaps her fingers in happy recognition)

John! You used to fly together!

Her smile segues right into an "I'm sorry, bit I give up" expression.

MRS. STANWYK

John who?

FLETCH:

John Ultrarelamensky.

MRS. STANWYK

(bursts out in laughter)

Oh, I'm sorry. It's a beautiful name, really.

FLETCH:

It's Scotch-Rumanian.

MRS. STANWYK

(still loading tennis balls)

That's a strange combination.

FLETCH:

So were my parents.

MRS. STANWYK

Mind if I keep practicing? I need to work

on my ground stroke a little.

FLETCH:

Please.

As Mrs. Stanwyk crosses to the other side of the net, a waiter approaches Fletch.

WAITER:

Excuse me sir. Are you a guest of the club?

FLETCH:

Yes, I'm with the Underhills.

WAITER:

They just left, sir.

FLETCH:

They'll be back. He had to go in for a urinalysis.

WAITER:

Would you care for a drink while you're waiting?

I can put it on the Underhill bill.

FLETCH:

Great. I'll have a Bloody Mary and a steak sandwich.

WAITER:

Very good sir.

The Waiter leaves, and Fletch watches as Mrs. Stanwyk tries to return the serving machine's serves. She swings so goofily that she can't even get the racket on the ball. She has clearly never taken a lesson in her life, and it is doubtful if she will ever make contact with a tennis ball in this century.

MRS. STANWYK

Damn, I thought I had that one.

FLETCH:

You should play with much larger tennis balls. So how's Alan?

MRS. STANWYK

What are you asking me for? He's so busy lately I hardly see him.

And he's been so preoccupied.

FLETCH:

Preoccupied with what?

MRS. STANWYK

Oh, personal stuff. Look! I hit one!

Indeed, she has. Strait up. She and Fletch crane their necks upward to follow it's flight.

FLETCH:

Good. Lobs are a very important part of the game.

She completely misses the next one.

FLETCH:

Why do you keep doing this?

MRS STANWYK:

I love the outfits.

The next one she hits with the handle.

FLETCH:

Try stepping into the ball with your left foot.

He demonstrates a swing. She puts on a determined face, makes an awkward step and swings at the next ball, missing it completely, and letting the racket fly.

FLETCH:

There, much better.

Mrs. Stanwyk laughs happily and dodges the machine-served balls to walk over to Fletch. When she's almost up to him, she turns back to the serving machine and points a finger at it, as if addressing a pet dog.

MRS STANWYK:

Stay!

(to Fletch)

I must be having an off day. I'm really a fabulous player.

FLETCH:

I have this effect on lots of women.

MRS STANWYK:

I bet you do.

FLETCH:

Say, the reason I asked about Alan is that I bumped into

him this morning and you know what I can't figure out?

MRS STANWYK:

(catching him in his lie)

Alan's in Utah.

FLETCH:

(after a beat)

I can't figure out why I went to Utah for the morning.

MRS STANWYK:

Okay. I'm delighted to have someone to talk to,

and you're very cute, so I'm very flattered, but

I'm also very married so you may as well forget --

You are trying to hit on me, aren't you?

FLETCH:

(thinks, then nods)

I'm such a heel. How'd you guess?

MRS STANWYK:

If I had a nickel for every one of Alan's flyboy buddies

who tried to pick me up, I'd be a rich woman.

FLETCH:

You are a rich woman.

MRS STANWYK:

See what I mean?

She trots back to her ball machine. Fletch calls after her.

FLETCH:

What's he doing in Utah?

MRS STANWYK:

None of your business, now go away.

You're throwing my game off.

Fletch chuckles -- he likes this woman -- and exits.

78 BOYD AVIATION - DAY - ESTABLISHING

A sprawling, Hughes-like complex.

FLETCH:

(O.S.)

...then who walks in but George Bush.

He took one look around the room...

79 INT. JOHN BOYD'S OFFICE - DAY

A Secretary is serving coffee to Fletch (now dressed in a three piece suit) and John Boyd, Gail Stanwyk's father. At seventy, he is probably Chairman Emeritus now; no longer running the day-to-day operations of the company, and thus somewhat grateful from the company.

FLETCH:

(continuing)

...and said 'Sorry Mr. President, I

thought it was Saturday.'

Boyd Laughs.

FLETCH:

I thought I was going to die.

SECRETARY:

Sugar, Mr. Poon?

FLETCH:

Thank you.

Fletch notices a framed wedding photograph on the credenza behind Boyd. It is of Alan and Gail Stanwyk, Alan beaming a $hit-eating grin and holding a happy thumbs-up.

Fletch waits as the Secretary leaves the room, then begins speaking confidentially.

FLETCH:

Okay.

He opens his attache case, allowing Boyd to see an airline ticket, a Washington Post, and a file stenciled "Confidential/S.E.C. Use only."

FLETCH:

First of all, let me just reiterate that this is not a formal

investigation. I'm not going through formal channels here, because

if Alan Stanwyk is not involved in any improprieties, then nobody

has to know I was even ---

BOYD:

Alan Stanwyk is not involved in improprieties. Where

the hell does the S.E.C. come off ---

Fletch is nodding sympathetically and holds up a quieting hand. Boyd stops in mid-tirade, and watches as Fletch reaches into his briefcase and seemingly turns off a tape recorder.

FLETCH:

Look. You know that and I know that, but somebody's bucking

for a promotion. I think it's that bozo, Hanrahan, I can't be sure.

Anyway, unless I go back there with something, you and your

son-in-law are next week's scapegoats.

BOYD:

Unbelievable.

FLETCH:

I feel like dirt. They even want to know what he's doing in Utah?

BOYD:

Utah?

(laughs)

Jesus Christ! First of all, Alan Stanwyk does not own one

share of stock.The three million dollars for the ranch

in Provo comes from my daughter who converted some of her

personal holdings, not company holdings. Now if anybody

in DC wants to make something of that, bring 'em on.

Until then, get the hell out of my face.

FLETCH:

(stands and closes briefcase)

God I admire you.

BOYD:

By the way:
what kind of name is Poon?

FLETCH:

Comanche Indian.

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