Author Gregory McDonald might not have been one of nature's series writers, because he often tried to create Fletch novels that were either subtly or radically different from one another. In fact, his own website has him admitting that he never saw the first book as being the start of a series and lamented Fletch's theft of a small fortune and flight from the USA because it made it hard to follow that book up. But the book was popular, people wanted more, and I'm sure McDonald's lit agent told him he'd be a fool not to write more in the same world. So Fletch became a bit of a chameleon whose situation at the start of each book could come across as absurdly different from each time that came before.
And then we end up here, in a book that almost ended the series for me. While it sets up several interesting threads, it fails to do much with them for the first half of the book, which reads like McDonald musing about a newfound love and respect of Brazil. I think he was smuggling in his thoughts about the culture through Fletch's point of view, and this isn't uninteresting material, but it's at odds with progressing a story and resolving plot threads in an efficient manner. It's very similar to McDonald's loose political theory that threatened to overtake Fletch and the Man Who, leading both books to have long stretches of plotless yet meaningful dialog. Like I said, it's not uninteresting in its own way, but it's less engaging for existing in conflict with the progression of the story.
We'll get back to that, but for the sake of encapsulating this book the story definitely picks up at almost precisely the halfway point, and becomes a wild ride in the final third that almost redeems the free jazz literature that leads up to it.
The story begins with Fletch in Brazil with a new woman and a new situation, rewinding time in the series chronology and taking place shortly after he fled the US with the stolen fortune of a slain man. The immediate premise is very interesting, because that dead man's widow has come to Brazil looking for Fletch. The novel promptly drops this plot, revisiting it briefly here and there, before tying it up at the end in a way that's once more philosophical but slightly disengaged from everything else.
What is going on here, Greg? You literary beatnik.
The bulk of the story, when present, concerns an older Brazilian woman who spots Fletch and swears he's the reincarnation of her husband, murdered 47 years prior and returned to tell her who killed him. Fletch thinks this is nonsense and spends most of the novel dodging her while his new friends and family calling plan seems to take it unusually seriously. This plot is more present throughout the novel, but still takes several leaves of absence as Fletch mostly hangs out with a group of flippant young dandies who mostly fool around and have fun.
And here's a slight problem I have with McDonald's prose. He always writes pretty well and can be descriptive in that spare way that makes his books easy and fast to read, but he does this thing that drives me a bit wild. See, an author can overwrite and be good, or an author can underwrite and be good, but there's a line between these two things that either style should not cross. And specifically what I'm talking about here is the writer who introduces a character and doesn't describe them physically... until 70 pages later, forcing you to rewire the neurons you've dedicated to imagining that character.
As with so many people, when I read a Fletch novel I'm stuck with Chevy Chase as the lead in my head. I know this wasn't completely accurate because the original novel casts him as blonde and fit. That's fine, that amount of description can be either ignored or reconciled. But now, six novels later, he's hanging out with what a bunch of guys who are definitely in the 18-25 range and it makes my brain hurt having to de-age Chevy Chase with imaginary CG. This is kind of a Me Problem, but every time I meet a writer going forward, I'm going to beg them unprompted to never do this.
Back to the plot, because the most interesting and frankly intense parts of the book involve the 50-year-old murder plotline. The novel never quite picks up enough steam because the premise is ridiculous to Fletch and he refuses to contemplate solving the crime, so by necessity the whole mystery part of the book foists itself upon him by force when the supposed murderer (it's never made completely clear if the character IS the murderer,) also starts to believe that Fletch is the reincarnation of the dead man, stalking him and attempting to finish or redo the job. This point of the book, 2/3rds of the way in, is as intense a sequence as I've read in decades. Fletch is underslept, badly beaten, and in the middle of the most vivid, lurid cultural event possible, and his hallucinations as he tries to save his own life are written with genuine talent. From this scene on, the novel is fantastic. If everything before it were at least half as good, this would be a classic book. As it is, I could only recommend it if you're willing to sit through some mildly interesting but drowsy cultural anthropology in order to get a big payoff.
McDonald's more cerebral pursuits might mar the pacing and plot of these latter Fletch novels, but I want to stress that he does have interesting observations and themes if you're willing to spend the time thinking about what's written here. This book does a better job than Fletch and the Man Who of encapsulating and making clear these themes, and there's more of a catharsis to that brief summary. In the end, I'll definitely read the next novel, but I remain ambivalent about continuing past that point.