“Your father told me about your going to school in England…”
Quietly, Moxie said, “You knew I went to school in England. Almost two years.”
“I never knew why.”
“Freddy was being paternal that year. Wanted me near him.”
“But he wasn’t in England that year.”
“He was supposed to be. His schedule got changed.”
“Moxie…” Fletch took her hand. “Hey,” he said. “Your father said something about your drama coach at school getting murdered.”
Her hand went limp in his. “I was only fourteen.”
“God! What does that mean?”
She pulled her hand from his. “It means Freddy didn’t think I needed all that pressure on me at the age of fourteen!”
“‘Pressure’! ‘Pressure’?”
She veered on the rough sidewalk. They were then on a dark, empty sidestreet. She was walking a meter away from him. “Do you think I murdered Mister Hodes?”
“‘Think’, I don’t think anything. I didn’t even know the guy’s name.”
“He was a little shit,” Moxie muttered.
“I think you were gotten out of town damned fast. Way out. Out of the country. And you went.”
“I was fourteen, for God’s sake.” They had stopped walking. “I didn’t mind going to school in England. It sounded cool.”
“I ask you if you murdered somebody and all you say is you were fourteen!”
“Is that what you think? You think I murdered the birdy drama coach?”
“I don’t know what to think. I hate what I think. Why don’t you answer me?”
Across the sidewalk her eyes glowered.
“Think what you want, Fletcher.”
She began to walk. She walked with her fists clenched at her sides.
She walked ahead of him all the way to the house.
They approached The Blue House from the rear.
Moxie, well ahead of him, head down, zipped through the back gate into the garden.
When Fletch got to the back gate Lopez was coming through with a rubbish barrel.
“Ah,” Fletch said. “Tomorrow’s the day the rubbish gets picked up.”
Lopez grinned at him. “A lot of broken glass, Mister Fletcher. They threw a lot of stones.”
“I know. Any real damage?”
“No. It’s all cleaned up. Tomorrow I will start replacing the windows which were broken.”
On top of the barrel that Lopez had just set down were three empty apple juice bottles.
“Sorry about this morning,” Fletch said. “All the noise. Damage. Mess. Guess I’m not a very good tenant.”
Lopez’ grin grew even broader. “It’s fun,” he said. “This house is empty so much. The excitement is good. Don’t think about it.”
27
“How many stitches?” Fletch asked.
In the hospital bed Stella Littleford didn’t look any more sallow than usual. The surgical dressing on her forehead was not as big as Fletch expected.
“Six.” She did not smile.
Gerry Littleford sat in a side chair, his feet propped up on the bed. On top of his shorts he was wearing a hospital johnny. He had left The Blue House that morning without a shirt. Apparently he had not been back to the house since. He also wore paper slippers on his feet.
“They’re keeping her overnight,” Gerry said. “Concussion.”
“I brought you some flowers,” Fletch said. “Nurse ate them.” He crossed the room and leaned his back against the window sill. “What happened this morning anyway? I didn’t see… I was on the phone.”
“There was a riot,” Gerry Littleford said drily.
“I went out into the front yard and shook my fists at those dirty bastards and called them dirty bastards,” Stella said. “Dirty bastards.”
“Does it hurt to talk?”
“It does now.” She tried not to laugh. “It didn’t this morning.”
“She got bonked,” Gerry said. “Someone threw a rum bottle at her.”
“Someone must have really cared,” Fletch said. “There was still rum in the bottle.”
“Good.” Stella again tried not to laugh.
“I’ve never seen you laugh before,” Fletch said to her.
“She does everything she’s not supposed to do,” Gerry said, “when she’s not supposed to do it. Like marrying me.”
Stella’s eyes moved slowly to Gerry’s face. Fletch could not read the expression in them.
“Question,” Fletch said. “Have either of you heard before from these groups? Threatening letters, phone calls, anything?”
Neither answered him.
“I’m just wondering,” Fletch said, “how much these groups wanted that film stopped.”
Still, neither answered him.
“Hey,” Fletch said. “There’s been a murder. Maybe two. Stella’s in bed with a concussion. Stitches in her forehead. This morning we saw demonstrations demanding the film be stopped. It’s a reasonable question.”
Gerry asked, “Has the film been stopped?”
And Fletch didn’t answer. “Have you heard from any of these groups before?”
Gerry put his feet flat on the floor and sat straight in his chair as if about to give testimony in court. “To be honest—yes.”
“Letters?”
“With pamphlets enclosed. Keep-the-white-race-pure pamphlets. You know? So you honkies can go a few more centuries without soul.”
“There have been phone calls, too, Gerry,” Stella said.
“Phone calls,” Gerry said.
“Threats?”
“My black ass will get burned, if I make the film. I’ll get a shot in the head.” Gerry’s eyes roamed over Fletch’s face. “It’s hard for a black man to tell a real threat from normal white man’s conversation.”
“Did you tell anybody about these threats?”
“Like who?”
“Anybody in authority. Steve Peterman. Talcott what’s-his-name. Sy Koller. The cops.”
“You think I’m crazy? Making this film is my employment. I’m not lookin’ to get unemployed.”
“Do you still have any of these letters, pamphlets?”
“’Course not. Throw ’em away. Gotta throw ’em away.”
“Do you remember any of the names, groups that sent you these letters?”
“They all have these long, phony names. You know: My Land But Not Your Land Committee Incorporated; Society To Keep ’em Pickin’ Cotton.”
“You got a call from a black group, too, Gerry.”
“Yes, I did.” Gerry smiled. “Some of the brothers want to keep soul to ourselves a few more centuries.”
“Gerry,” Fletch asked, “sincerely—do you think the production of
“I don’t know. They’re madmen. How can you tell when madmen are serious?” More quietly, he said, “Yeah. I think there were murderers in that group this morning that attacked the house. People capable of murder. Plenty of ’em. That rum bottle coulda killed Stella. I just doubt they’re up to organizing anything as clever as the murder of
