Fletch’s Moxie

high failure ratio.”

Mooney’s smile was sardonic. “There are many ways this business operates. The simple answer to your question is that just often enough the right materials come together with the right talents. The miracle of art happens. Even people like you put down your barbells and rush out, money in hand, crazed to see what mammon has wrought. And its payday for the hindustry. A single flash of light in the night makes safe the dark.”

“I’m just reading this filmscript.” Fletch jiggled his knee under it. “I don’t know, of course. Never read a filmscript before. It strikes me as pretty terrible. The characters all seem to be like people you meet at a cocktail party—all fronts and no backs. They don’t talk the way people really talk. I do a little writing myself—on days when there are hurricanes. It seems to me, in this filmscript much time and space are wasted while the author is floundering around trying to arrive at an idea. All that should be cut away. Don’t you think writing should begin after the idea is achieved?” Mooney was looking at him like a bull bored with the pasture. “It treats controversial old issues in an insulting, offensive way. Instead of trying to create any sort of understanding, my reading of it is that it is trying to provoke hatred—deliberately.” Again Mooney was surveying the ground around his chair for the bottle bag. “Not a critic of filmscripts, of course,” Fletch said. “But I think anyone would have to be crazy to invest a dime in this rubbish.”

“Ah, Peterkin,” said Mooney, obviously sitting on his own restlessness. “You just said the magic word: dime. Like any other business, the film hindustry is about money. Lots of it. Consider this: never does so much money come together over the creation of an illusion.” Mooney moved to get out of his chair but did not make it. “Think about that, if you will. Count your illusions, Mister Peterkin.” Finally, Mooney succeeded in standing up. “The time for a nap has passed,” he announced to the banyan tree, which never napped. “I need a drink to smooth the wrinkles of my day. May I bring you one, Peterson?”

Slowly, he hoped in a theatrical manner, Fletch squinted all around him before asking, “Who’s Peterson?”

“Why, you’re Peterson, aren’t you? Oh, I’m sorry. Peterkin. You’re Peterkin. You just said that, I believe. You should have seen an early film of mine, Seven Flags.”

“I have.”

“Cast of thousands,” said Mooney. “And I kept every one of them straight.”

16

Lopez called from the back door. “Telephone, Mister Fletcher.”

Fletch hesitated. The phone had been ringing all day. Fletch had told the Lopezes to try not to answer it. He dropped the filmscript of Midsummer Night’s Madness onto the cistern and trudged to the back door.

“Sorry.” Lopez’s eyes sought sympathy, understanding. “It is the police. The woman insists you come to the phone. She threatened me.”

A babble of voices was coming from inside the house.

“Okay.”

Stella Littleford passed Fletch on her way out the back door. “Watch out,” she whispered.

In the corridor, Edith Howell asked, “Where’s Freddy?”

“Don’t know. Here somewhere.”

“Where’s John Meade?”

“Gone on an errand. He’ll be back.”

In the front hall, dressed only in bikini underpants, Gerry Littleford stood with his back against the wall. “I don’t know.” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t know.”

Through the open front door, Fletch saw the waiting, staring crowd across the street had grown.

Frederick Mooney was coming down the stairs. He held a bottle by its neck.

Behind Fletch, Edith Howell exclaimed, “Freddy! Why, I do declare! As I live and breathe!”

Halfway down the stairs, Mooney focused on her. He pointed at her. “This old moon wanes…”

“Come make me a drink, lover. I’m parched.” She took his arm as he came off the stairs. “A gin and tonic would be nice.” She walked him into the living room. “I found some supplies in here. Sorry I spoke so harshly to you, when you burst into my bedroom, but, Freddy, it’s been so many years since you did such a thing…”

As they passed him, Gerry Littleford said to the floor, “I don’t know.”

“Madame,” Mooney’s voice rang regally from the living room. “I do not burst. I enter.”

In the billiard room, Moxie was turning in circles. “Fletch! I’ve got to get out of this house!”

“You can’t.”

“I can’t stand it!”

“You’d be mobbed. It wouldn’t be safe.”

She emphasized every word. “I have to get out of this house!”

Fletch went into the study and picked up the telephone receiver. “Hello?”

“Irwin Fletcher?”

Fletch sighed. “This is Fletcher.”

“One moment, please.”

From overhead came Sy Koller’s heavy voice. He was saying something about the Gulf Stream.

“Mister Fletcher,” a voice stated through the telephone.

“Yes.”

“This is Chief Nachman. How are you today?”

“Fine. Thank you. Yourself?”

“Fine. Hard works always makes one feel better, don’t you think?”

“Glad to hear you’re working hard.”

“Are you?”

“You bet.”

“My hard work may result in some conclusions you’re not going to like.”

“No way.”

“Which is why you flew Ms Mooney to the ends of the earth last night.”

“We’re not that far away.”

“You’re in a place where it is very simple for you to skip the country.”

“You noticed that.”

“Yes and no. Don’t push me too far, Irwin.”

“You don’t need to call me Irwin.”

“You don’t like the name Irwin?”

“Kids in school used to call me earwig.”

“All right, I’ll call you earwig.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“If, for example, you and Ms Mooney were to leave the state of Florida, or worse, much worse, continental U.S.A.—”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

“—you would find out what a little ol’ Chief of Detectives can do. Your disappearing to Key West with a good many of my suspects in this murder case is an inconvenience for me—only that. Understandable, considering the people involved.”

“You’re being reasonable.”

“Furthermore, I think you may have done the right thing.”

“I have?”

“Yes. Maybe. I have a funny feeling you’ve done exactly the right thing. Now, if you’ll be good enough to tell me exactly who is with you down there in—what’s it called—The Blue House?”

“Moxie.”

“Did you know The Blue House is the name of the Korean presidential residence?”