Fletch’s Moxie

“Is it possible to get a drink in Key West at this hour?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I guess it’s early yet anyway. I thought you were putting Freddy to bed a little early.”

“Damn, damn,” Fletch said. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“Nice line,” Moxie said. “Up there with O, O, O, O. What’s the matter with Freddy going out for a drink? Can’t keep him in anyway.”

“In case it hadn’t dawned on you, O, Luminous Two, I was trying to keep your presence in Key West a deep, dark secret.”

“Oh,” she said.

“The minute Freddy’s famous face hits the light of any bar, up goes the telephone receiver to the press.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Freddy here: Moxie here. Simple equation.”

From the bed, she said, “Nice try, sport. Best laid plans, and all that.”

“Damn.”

“Damn,” she said, looking at him as he stood in the middle of the room. “I think you have an American build.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was made in the U.S.A.”

11

“So how come,” Moxie asked very early in the morning in the bright kitchen, “you get to borrow such a nice big house in Key West at a moment’s notice?”

Frederick Mooney was asleep in his room. Fletch had checked.

“It belongs to someone I do business with.” Carefully, Fletch was trying to make individual omelettes. “A little business. Well, what it comes down to is that I give him money which he feeds to race horses.”

“Sounds like a great business.”

“The horses like it, I guess.”

“Get any manure in return?”

“Nothing but.”

“Even in daylight The Blue House is white. First thing I did this morning was run out and check.” Moxie was not wearing the only dress she had brought with her. The large backyard of The Blue House was completely walled. “Are you ever going to tell me why it’s called The Blue House?”

“Probably.”

“But not now, right?”

“Got to be a little mystery in our relationship.”

She was squeezing orange juice. “Seems we have quite a big enough mystery to deal with already.”

The omelette was sticking to the pan. Fletch turned down the heat.

“So who owns The Blue House?”

“Man named Sills. Ted Sills.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Come to think of it, I met him at a party at your apartment.”

“You did?”

“Tall guy. Beer belly. Hair plastered down.”

“Right. Sounds like everybody who comes to my parties.”

“Trouble is, I found myself having a drink with him later, talking about investing in his race horses. Then, later, spent a week with him at his horse farm, and the weekend here in Key West, where I actually signed some papers.”

“How come you’re rich?” Moxie asked.

The phone rang.

Automatically, Moxie picked it up. “The Blue House,” she said. “Mister Blue isn’t here.” Then she said, “Hi, Gerry! How did you know I was here?” She looked across the kitchen at Fletch.

“It’s on the news this morning?… They even say The Blue House, Key West? Rats…” She listened and then said to Fletch, “Gerry Littleford says it was on Global Cable News at six o’clock last night that I had disappeared.” She said into the phone, “That’s impossible, Gerry. I didn’t disappear until eight o’clock.” She shook her head at Fletch. “These reporters,” she said. “Aren’t they awful? … Yeah, I know. Freddy was out on the town in Key West and spilled all. He’s a very convivial man, Freddy is…” She turned her back to Fletch. “… Sure, Gerry… sure… Sure you’re not just being paranoid, Gerry? Coke does that to you, you know… Sure… Okay, that would be great.” She turned to Fletch. “What street are we on?”

“Duval.”

“Duval,” Moxie said into the receiver. “Oh, by the way, Gerry, will you bring a script of Midsummer Night’s Madness? I didn’t bring one, and I’d like Fletch to read it. … What’s a Fletch?” With dancing eyes she looked up and down Fletch’s naked body. “A Fletch is a short order cook. He burns eggs in short order. See you.”

She hung up and went back to squeezing orange juice. “That was Gerry Littleford. Wants to come down. Says the police and press are hounding him. I said okay. Lots of orange juice.”

In the pan, the omelette had gone limp. Fletch turned the heat up again.

They had breakfast at the table on the cistern in the backyard.

“After Key West wakes up a little,” Fletch said, “I’ll go down and buy you some clothes. Make a list of what you need.”

She nodded. “These eggs are interesting,” she said. “Cooked in layers. Overcooked, undercooked, overcooked, undercooked, all at once. Never had eggs like these before.”

“Hope the Lopezes will rescue us, sooner or later.”

While Moxie was in the shower, the phone rang again. Fletch answered it.

“’Allo?”

“Ms Moxie Mooney, please. This is Sergeant Frankel, Bonita Police.”

“Ms Oxie Hooney? No one here that name. Good bye.”

“Where did Ernest Hemingway live?”

“On the street parallel to this. Whitehead Street,” Fletch answered. “Great writer. No sense of humor.”

Moxie chalked her cue-tip. “What handicap will you give me?”

Fletch triangled the billiard balls. “Have you been playing very much?”

“None at all.”

“You play very well. Ten point in a hundred?”

“You flatter me.”

“Fifteen?”

“That would be fine but you will beat me.”

“Should we play for a stake? You always wished to play for a stake.”

“I think we’d better.”

“All right. I will give you eighteen points and we will play for a dollar a point.”

Moxie commenced to clear the billiard table. “What have you been reading?”

“Nothing,” Fletch said. “I’m afraid I am very dull.”

“No. But you should read.”

“What is there?”

“There is The Green Hills of Africa. There is A Farewell to Arms.” “No, he didn’t.”

“What?”

“He didn’t say a farewell to arms.”

“Then you have been reading?”

“Yes, but nothing recent.”