Fletch’s Moxie

“Be nice,” Fletch answered, helping Mooney up the three steps.

“Mister Peterson,” Mooney said at the top of the stairs. “You are a nice young man, but if you don’t stop helping me, I will brain you.”

“Sorry.” Fletch let go of him.

Mooney swayed on the verandah. “You’re up-setting my balance.”

Moxie followed them through the doorway. “Why is this Blue House white?”

“Jeez,” Fletch said. “You couldn’t call it The White House. Wouldn’t be respectful.”

The Lopezes, who took care of The Blue House, were not in the house. Fletch knew they lived in their own house behind the garden wall. The front door had been left unlocked, the lights on. In the dining room a tray of cut sandwiches had been set out along with a fancy ice bucket full of cans of beer. Lights were on even at the back of the house, in the billiard room.

Fletch zipped around the house turning out the lights. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

Moxie said, “It’s not even nine o’clock.”

“Time means nothing in Key West.” He started up the stairs. “Never believe a clock in Key West.”

Mooney attacked the stairs. “Charge!” he said.

Plodding after him, Moxie said, “Dear O. L.

Your allusion to Arsenic and Old Lace under these circumstances is decidedly in poor taste.”

Fletch pointed to the first door on the right. “This is your room, Ms Mooney. I think you’ll find everything in order. Towels in the bathroom.”

She looked into the room and then across the wide corridor at him. “Do I give you a tip?”

“If you have trouble with the air conditioner, just call downstairs.”

Fletch pushed open another door. “This room is your’s, Mister Mooney. See? Nice big double bed.”

“Very good.” Frederick Mooney staggered through the door to his room. “What time do I go on?”

“Not to worry,” Fletch said. “We’ll call you in plenty of time.”

“Just did Lear,” Fletch heard Mooney muttering through the door. “Must be Richard III tonight.”

Moxie was standing in the doorway. Even in her black dress, even standing still, her chin tilted slightly up, the light behind her made her presence, her being, exciting.

“Good night, Ms Mooney. Sleep well.”

“Good night,” she said. “Thanks for bringing my luggage.”

Fletch said, “I didn’t, did I.”

In his own room, Fletch walked out of his moccasins, dropped his shirt and his shorts and his undershorts in a heap on the floor, walked through a warm shower in no time at all, and then walked into bed, fell down, and pulled the sheet over him.

Then he laughed.

10

“I can hardly wait to get old.” On the bed, Moxie ran her legs down his and stretched. “Wrinkled and baggy.”

“That’s what we all want for you,” Fletch said.

“I don’t mean old,” Moxie said. “Just old enough to have an excuse to get fat and ugly.”

“Can hardly wait for the day.”

She rolled onto her side and faced him, as he was on his side, and their naked bodies were together all the way up and down except for their stomachs. “I can hardly wait to get some roles with some real character in them.”

“Belly rolls, uh?”

“Married women, mothers, nuns, grandmothers, business executives. You know what I mean—women who’ve lived a little, have some dimension to them and it shows in their faces.”

The long door-windows were open to the second-floor balcony and the breeze coming in was slightly humid over their slightly sweaty bodies.

Being Moxie, she had come into his room naked and walked around the room slowly, turning on every light. Her body was totally tanned, as it had to be for her role in Midsummer Night’s Madness. She had jumped onto his bed, reached down and torn the sheet off him, and then fell on him, flat, jumping to as great a height as she could manage to do so.

Which is why Fletch had turned on his side and they had come to embrace in that position.

“Not like this damned role in Midsummer Night’s Madness. You know how the scriptwriter wrote in the character for my role? I quote: Beautiful blond female, American build, in twenties, dash Moxie Mooney question mark unquote.”

“You sound a natural for the role.”

“You call that writing character?”

“Well, you’re beautiful, and you’re blond, all the way up and down, and you’re female, all the way up and down. What’s an American build?”

“Guess you’re lookin’ at it, baby.”

“I’m not seeing anything but your eyes, forehead, nose, and cheekbones.”

“You’re feelin’ it, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. I’m feeling it.”

“Feel it some more,” she said. “Arr.”

“Wait a minute.”

“No. Let’s not.”

*   *   *

Then he was on his back and the breeze seemed cooler to him.

“There are good roles for young people,” he said. “There must be.”

“Not in Midsummer Night’s Madness. In Midsummer Night’s Madness I am body, pure and simple, wide-eyed, innocent, staring, and stupid. All I do is say O! and look alarmed. There are more O’s in that script than in ten kilos of Swiss cheese.”

“Must be tough bein’ just another beautiful face. Body.”

Each was spread-eagled on the huge bed, cooling off. Only the tips of their fingers touched.

“Knock it off, Fletcher. I was brought up, trained to do more than stand there and say O! Freddy and I saw to that. I’m not giving you talk-show interview motif number one.”

“Sounds it.”

For a long moment, she looked at the ceiling. Then she said, “I guess I am. Oh, dear.”

“First time you’ve ever called me dear.”

“I didn’t call you dear. I called the ceiling dear.”

“Watch those expressions of affection, Moxie. Remember, I’m going to have to write to you in the slammer, and our mail will be censored.”

“What I’m saying is all this trouble over this film, and the film stinks. Wooden scenes, turgid dialogue, stereotyped characters. All it really is about is people chasing each other along a moonlit beach at night and whumpin’ each other.”

“Should be a hit.”

“Staring Moxie Mooney.”

“And Gerry Littleford.”

“And Gerry Littleford. Not up to his talents either.”

“If this film is so bad, Moxie dear, why are you doing it?”

“Steve said I had to. Fulfill some contract or other.”

“Fulfill some contract you signed?”

“I signed. Or he signed.”

“Seems to me you handed over a large slice of your life to Steve Peterman.”