“I’d never met the son of a bitch. First I’d heard about it was when Sonny Fields told me he’d heard it was going on.” Koller lit another cigarette, his lighter flaring in the dark garden. “So, one night after more to drink than was good for me, I met Peterman in a Los Angeles bar, pulled him out to the sidewalk by his coat collar, proceeded to hit him upside the head. He fell to the sidewalk. I sat on top of him and proceeded to throttle him. It felt real good. His neck was soft. No muscle at all. Wonder I didn’t kill him before nosey people interfered.”
“Why didn’t Peterman press charges?”
“Why didn’t I have him arrested for fraud?”
“I don’t know.”
“We came to an amicable settlement. Peterman said he was just using this scam to raise money for a real film, somewhere down the road. My career wasn’t looking too good. Aforementioned frantic need to gain employment. So…”
“So… ?”
“I agreed that if he ever had a real film to direct, I would direct it. We laid the fight off on a woman.”
“You blackmailed him.”
“We blackmailed each other. It’s the way much of this business works, old son.”
“And what happened to the half a million dollars?”
“It went into Peterman’s pockets. And then into his shoes and his wife’s furs.”
“So
“And Talcott Cross hires Geoffrey McKensie to direct. I called Steve Peterman.”
“Had you seen the script?”
“No. But I had a pretty good idea it wasn’t much good.”
“Why would you want to direct a loser?”
“Well. … In the three intervening years my career had sunk so low I was getting the bends. You understand?”
“How would directing a stinker help your career?”
“It would prove I could get employed. It would also provide me with some much needed money. You know about money?”
“I’m learning.”
“End of story,” said Koller. “As long as Peterman was producing, Koller was directing. Peterman dead: Koller dead.
“Fletch?” Moxie’s voice came from the upper balcony of the Blue House. “Are you out there?”
“Yo.” He stepped under the balcony.
She said, “If you give me any of that Romeo crap, I’ll spit on your head.”
“If only your fans could hear you now.”
“Go find Freddy for me, will you? I was sort of rough on him.”
“Yes, you were.”
“If I want criticism,” she said irritably, “I’ll ask for it.”
“You’re asking for it.”
22
After a long silence, while Fletch waited, the man’s voice drawled over the phone, “Sorry. Chief Nachman says she can’t come to the phone now.”
“Please,” said Fletch, with as much dignity as he could enlist. “Tell her it’s her earwig calling.”
“Earwig? You mean that little no-see-’um bug?”
“Right.” Alone in the study at the back of The Blue House Fletch smiled. “Earwig.”
There was another long silence before Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman picked up. “Yes, Fletcher?”
“Thank you for answering, Chief. You’re working late.”
“Has one of your house guests become overwhelmed with remorse and confessed to murder?”
“It’s a classier crime than that.”
“I know it is.”
“I have a line of investigation for you, though. Just a suggestion, really.”
“Suggest away.”
“Steve Peterman must have had some kind of a car. A rented car or something. Everyone was up and down that Route 41 so much, between the two beaches.”
“I suppose so.”
“I suggest you check Peterman’s car to see if it’s been in an accident. A hit-and-run accident.”
Nachman did not pause long. “You talking about McKensie’s wife?”
“Just a thought. Wouldn’t take much to check it out.”
“I see.”
“For what it’s worth,” Fletch said. “All right.”
“Is there still nothing showing up on all that film?”
“Nothing.”
“And the experts aren’t discovering anything funny about the set?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a real significant fact in itself.”
“Good night, Irwin. I’m busy.”
23
The inside, the bar area of Durty Harry’s, was virtually empty, but there was a huge crowd sitting and standing on the patio, all facing into the same corner.
Fletch got a beer from the bar and went out to the patio.
Quite a diverse collection of people had gathered. There were the tourists in the best light colored clothing one can really only buy in a big city but never really wear in one. Their faces and arms and legs were red and stiff with sunburn. There were the genuine denizens of Key West, the Conchs, who prefer to keep themselves as pale as Scandanavians in deep Scandanavian winters. They think of the sun as enemy, and run through it from building to car and car to house. There were some art-folk of all ages, their faces and bodies looking as if they’d lived plenty, their bright, quick eyes showing they wanted to live plenty more. There were the cocaine cowboys in their stringy leather and denim; the girls in their full skirts and full blouses and dead hair. And there were the drunks, with the weird blue in their skin which results from mixing too much constant alcohol with too much constant sun.
And sitting in the corner, the object of everyone’s attention, sat and spoke Frederick Mooney. With his gray hair, stubble of beard, broad face and big eyes, he easily could have been the reincarnation of the person whom the people in Key West would most like to see reincarnated—Ernest Hemingway. Mooney was Papa, all right, and these were his children gathered around him.
Sipping his beer, Fletch leaned against the door jamb and listened.
“… not glorious, not glamorous at all,” Mooney was saying. “Anyone who thinks so knows nothing. Anyone who thinks acting is simply a matter of popping the eyes in surprise…” Mooney popped his eyes in surprise at the crowd; there was a titter of admiration. “… of doing a double-take …” Mooney did a doubletake; the people laughed. … “quivering the chin …” Mooney’s chin quivered apparently uncontrollably; the people laughed harder. “… to weep…” Tears swelled in Mooney’s eyes and dribbled down his cheeks; the people applauded. “… don’t know what acting is.” The virtuoso wiped his instrument dry and thrust it forward at his audience. “An actor must learn his craft. And his skill is not just in learning to control every muscle of his face. Not just in learning how to set his shoulders expressively. Not just in learning that how he places his feet—even when they are out of sight, off- camera—invariably is more important than anything he does with his face, because how you place your feet, how you balance yourself, how you posture yourself says more about who you are, your attitudes than anything else.”
