28
“W H E R E’ S T H E T H O U S A N D dollars?”
“Hell of a way to greet me.” At nearly midnight Moxie stood in the doorway of the apartment and dropped her airline’s bag onto the floor. The zipper of the bag was broken and sticking out of it were the playscript, a sneaker, and a towel.
“Hello,” Fletch said from the divan.
“Hello.”
“You look bushed.”
“I am bushed. Been rehearsing since noon. You look bushed with a sunburn. Oh, no! You have a sunburn!”
Through the dim light of the livingroom she was looking at him like a cosmetician.
“I have a sunburn. I fell asleep on the beach.”
“Do you have it all over?”
“All over what?”
“All over your bod.”
“No. Thank you for asking.”
“That’s all right. I guess it will fade before opening night. You’ll just look funny tomorrow, that’s all. At rehearsal.”
“I’m not going to rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Fletch, you have to.”
“I do?”
“Sam is just impossible in the role. His manners are just so heavy. He’s so self-conscious.”
“And don’t forget he’s cursed with thick thighs or something.”
“You’d think he was playing
“Paul the director?”
“Paul the director. He’s good to give you the chance, seeing you’ve never really acted before. I mean, in the theater.”
“I will not be at the theater tomorrow absolutely. Or tomorrow or tomorrow or tomorrow. Isn’t that a line from somewhere?”
“Almost. I told you you can act.”
“I’ve already done the strip-tease once today. And that was without music.”
Moxie was taking things out of her airline’s bag and spreading them around the floor. “Tell me: you were kidnapped and raped by a gang of Mexican Girl Scouts—right?”
“Almost. Customs. Coming back. The United States Customs. They hustled me into a little room, made me strip, and proceeded to prod and poke in my every crevasse and orifice.”
“Serious?”
“I thought it was serious. I didn’t like it much. They X-rayed my boots, my suitcase, my teeth.”
“That’s terrible.”
“They spent over two hours on me. Or in me.”
“What for?”
“They were unwilling to believe anyone my age flew on three airplanes to Puerto de Orlando, Mexico, and back on three airplanes for thirty hours on the beach. I told them I had some time off.”
“They thought you were smuggling drugs or something.”
“Something.” Fletch flicked a finger at the letter from the Mayor’s Office on the coffee table. “Hardly the way to treat the Good Citizen of the Month.”
Moxie knelt on the divan next to him and took Fletch’s head in her arms. “Aw, my poor Fletch. Were you able to fart on cue?”
“Of course it didn’t help convince them of my innocence that I was carrying over one thousand dollars in cash in my pocket.”
“Did they finally apologize to the Good Citizen?”
“They said they’d catch me next time. Now may I ask where the thousand dollars is?”
“What thousand dollars?”
“The thousand dollars you took from the wallet.”
“Oh, that thousand dollars.”
“The very same.”
“I bought a sweater.”
“A thousand dollar sweater?”
“A skirt. Some records. And some baloney. Want a baloney sandwich?”
“We’re living higher on the hog.”
“And a car.”
“A car!”
“A little car. Even smaller than yours.”
“What kind of a car?”
“Yellow.”
“
“And it does beep-beep nicely.”
“A small yellow car with a horn. Have I got it right so far?”
“I suppose it has an engine. It has an ignition key, which works.”
“What a relief. No one should look at the engine until the ignition key doesn’t work. Might be bad luck.”
“I needed a car. You know, to get around.”
“So the thousand dollars is gone.”
“No such thing! I have a skirt, a sweater, some records—some nice records—a car, and some baloney. That’s not
“Sure.”
At the kitchen counter Moxie spread the mustard so thin the baloney didn’t even look slippery.
“Are you trying to make it last until all men are free?” he asked.
“What?”
“The mustard.” He took the jar and knife from her and slathered it on properly.
Sitting at the kitchen table, she asked, “What were you doing in Mexico? I mean, other than smuggling diamonds and drugs and cruising in your yacht?”
