Fletch’s Moxie

“What happened?” she choked. “What happened to Steve?”

Buckley looked up at Fletch. Then he sat back in the chair. His eyes ran along a heavy-duty cable strung over the parking lot.

He said nothing.

The young woman in the halter came forward and put both her hands on Marge Peterman’s shoulders. “Come on,” she said.

Marge stood up and staggered on the flat ground.

The man in the blue T-shirt took her arm.

Together, the man and the young woman walked Marge Peterman through the trailers to the front of the parking lot.

“What did happen?” Fletch asked Buckley.

Buckley focused on Fletch. “Who are you?” he asked. Fletch was wearing sailcloth shorts, a tennis shirt, and no shoes. “The Ambassador from Bermuda?”

“Sometimes I get coffee for people,” Fletch said.

Buckley looked over the bits of Styrofoam on the sand. “He got stabbed.” He shook his head. “He got a knife stuck in his back. Right on the set. Right on camera.”

“He was quiet about it,” Fletch commented.

Buckley was looking at his fingers in his lap as if he had never seen them before. “It could not have happened. It absolutely could not have happened.”

“But it did though, huh?”

Buckley looked up. “Get me a cup of coffee, willya, kid? Black, no sugar.”

“Black no sugar,” Fletch repeated.

Fletch walked toward the canteen, past it, through the security gate, got into his rented car and drove off.

3

The first phone call Fletch made was to Global Cable News in Washington, D.C. His call got through to that hour’s producer quickly. It was, ‘Yes, sir, Mister Fletcher’, ‘Yes, sir, Mister Fletcher’ all the way through the switchboard and production staff.

Recently Fletch had bought a block of stock in Global Cable News. Just ten days before he had toured their offices and studios in Washington.

He had allowed everyone to know he was a journalist and they might be hearing from him from time to time.

“Yes, sir, Mister Fletcher,” said that hour’s producer.

Fletch looked down at his bare feet on the rotten, sand-studded floorboards of the porch outside the mini- mart. When he was working full time as a journalist, no one in power had ever called him sir. They had called him many other things. He had always known, of course, that behind the power of the free press was the power of the buck. He had never felt the sensation of the power of the buck before. He decided he liked the sensation and that he must work to deprive himself, and others, of any such sensation. A barefoot boy with cheek should be listened to because he’s got a story, not because he was able to buy a few shares in the company.

“‘Sir’?” Fletch said. “To whom am I speaking, please?”

“Jim Fennelli, Mister Fletcher. We met last week when you were here. I’m the bald guy with the big side whiskers.”

“Oh, yeah,” Fletch said. Jim Fennelli looked like a stepped-on cotton pod. “The gumdrop fetishist.”

“That’s me,” Fennelli chuckled. “A box a day keeps the dentist healthy, wealthy, and sadistic.”

“You know The Dan Buckley Show?”

“Sure. My mother-in-law fantasizes she’s married to the creep.”

“They were taping down here on Bonita Beach this afternoon. On location for a movie called Midsummer Night’s Madness.”

“Cute. Prospero’s Island in Florida.”

Fletch said nothing. No matter how long he lived, he would be amazed at the great mish-mash of information, and misinformation, all journalists carry around in their heads.

“Have I got it right?” Fennelli asked.

“Sure, sure. On the set of the television show were Buckley, Moxie Mooney, and her manager, Steve Peterman.”

“So? Mister Fletcher, are you trying to get a publicity shot for somebody? I mean, are you invested in the film, or something? I mean, anything regarding Moxie Mooney will fly, she’s gorgeous, but where’s Bonita Beach, anyway, north of Naples?”

“Yeah. More south of Fort Myers. Call me Fletch. Makes me feel more like me.”

“That’s a hike. We’d have to send people over from Miami. You stockholders, you know. Like us to keep our expenses down.”

“Send people over from Miami. Steve Peterman was murdered.”

“Who?”

“Peterman. Steven Peterman. Not sure if Steven is spelled with a v or a ph. On television, it doesn’t matter how his name is spelled anyway, right?”

“Who is he again?”

“Some sort of a manager, a friend, of Moxie Mooney. Some kind of a producer of Midsummer Night’s Madness.”

“Yeah, but so what? Nobody knows who he is.”

“You haven’t got the point yet.”

“My father lives in Naples. It’s nice down there.”

“He was stabbed to death on the set of The Dan Buckley Show while they were taping. While the cameras were running.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Yeah, that’s good,” Fennelli said. “You mean they don’t know who did it yet? They will as soon as they look at the tapes. Fast story. A six-hour wonder. I’m not saying it’s a bad story.”

“Someone was murdered on camera.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a live show. It should be reported, of course.”

“Obviously, both Moxie Mooney and Dan Buckley are suspects. They were the only ones within reach.”

There was another pause while Fennelli marshalled in his mind his own camera/sound crew, on-camera reporter, his visuals, his story approach, his electronic pick-up.

The mini-mart was off the only road leading into Fort Myers Beach. Several of the cars and vans Fletch had seen in the parking lot of the Midsummer Night’s Madness location had gone by on the road while he was on the telephone. As he was leaving the beach, police loudspeakers had been ordering everyone present to report to the local police station. Because of security on location, police would have the identities of everyone who had been there, of every potential witness. Among these names, they would have to have the identity of the murderer.

“When did this incident occur?” Fennelli asked.

“Three twenty-three P.M.

“Can we go on the air with this right away?”

“I’m sure AP radio news has already run it.”

“What do we have they don’t have?”

“Beg pardon?”

“You got a new angle to the story? Like, I mean, new news?”

On the road, a white Lincoln Continental went by. Moxie was in the front passenger seat. Fletch couldn’t see who was in the back seat.

“Yeah,” Fletch said. “One of the prime suspects is about to disappear.”