Fletch’s Moxie

Steve Peterman. Whoever got Steve was no dope.”

“I guess you’re right.”

The nurse brought in a vase of roses. There were no other flowers in the room.

“Ah!” Fletch got off the window sill. “You didn’t eat ’em.”

“I had supper at home,” the nurse said. “Daffodils.”

Fletch was at the door. “Coming back to the house, Gerry?”

“Sure,” he said. “Later.”

28

In the cool night, Fletch walked around Key West for awhile. He found himself in the center of the old commercial district so he went down the alley to Durty Harry’s. Frederick Mooney was not there. Few were. There was no band playing either.

He sat at the bar and ordered a beer. A clock he had seen said ten minutes past eleven but clocks in Key West are not expected to tell the real time. Clocks in Key West are only meant to substantiate unreality.

A dog, a black dog, a large black dog walked through the bar at the heels of a man who came through a door on the second storey and down a spiral staircase.

“What’s that dog’s name?” Fletch asked the young woman behind the bar.

“That’s Emperor. Isn’t he a nice dog?”

“Nice dog.” Fletch sipped his beer. He did not want the beer. The early morning phone call from Satterlee, the demonstrations, the day of sailing and swimming in the wind and sun made him glad to sit quietly a moment. He thought about Global Cable News and how quickly his phone call had been answered and he was allowed to speak to that hour’s producer because he was a stockholder. It should be the story that counts, not who is calling it in. Anything can be checked out. Your average stockholder is not any more honest or accurate than your average citizen. Fletch decided if he ever had a big story again he’d call it into Global Cable News under a phony name. It would be an interesting experiment—for a stockholder. He wanted to sleep. He left the rest of his beer on the bar. “Nice dog,” he said.

29

Something woke him up. It was dawn. Fletch remained in bed a minute listening to the purposeful quiet. It was too purposeful.

He got out of bed and went out onto the balcony.

There were two policemen in the sideyard. They looked back up at him.

In the dawn he could see the flashing blue lights of police cars at the front of the house.

“Shit,” Fletch said.

He ran along the balcony against the wall to the back of the house and around the corner. Gerry Littleford was curled up asleep in a hammock.

Fletch shook his shoulder. “Gerry. Wake up. It may be a bust.”

Gerry opened one eye to him. “What? A what?”

Were the police there to arrest someone for murder? No, there were too many of them. There were now three cops in the backyard. Were they there because they had been tipped off there would be another demonstration? No, they were in the yard. Some judge had given them a warrant to be on and in the property.

“It sure looks like a bust to me,” Fletch said quietly.

“A bust?”

“Shut up. Get up. Get rid of whatever shit you have.” Fletch pulled up on one side of the hammock and Gerry fell out the other side landing like a panther on braced fingers and toes. “Down the toilet, Gerry. Pronto.”

In the bedroom Fletch put on his shorts and shirt.

“What’s happening?” Moxie said into her pillow.

“You might get dressed. The cops are here.”

Instantly she sat up. Instantly there was no sign of sleep in her face. Instead there was the look of someone cornered, frightened but who would fight.

“I know,” Fletch said. “You didn’t kill Steve Peterman. Ho-hum.”

And three policemen were standing on the front porch. When Fletch opened the front door to them they seemed surprised. They had not rung the bell or knocked.

“Good morning,” Fletch said. “Welcome to the home of the stars. Donations are tax deductible.”

The policemen seemed shy. There were five police cars in the street. The roof lights of three were flashing. Despite the demonstration the day before, the street was clean.

Fletch held his hand out to them, palm up. A policeman put a folded paper into Fletch’s palm. Nevertheless, he said, “May we come in?”

Fletch held their own paper up to them. “Guess this says you may.”

In the front hall one of the policemen said, “I’m Sergeant Henning.”

Fletch shook hands with him. “Fletcher. Tenant of this domicile.”

“We have to search this domicile.”

“Sure,” Fletch said. “Coffee?”

The sergeant looked around at all the other policemen coming into the house, through the front and back and verandah doors, and said, “Sure.”

In the kitchen Fletch put a pan of water on the stove and got out two mugs. “Thanks for your help yesterday.”

“Actual fact, we weren’t much help. Got here late. Things had gone too far. Things like that don’t happen here in Key West anyway.”

“Not on your daily agenda, huh?”

“Actual fact, sort of hard to know what to do. Those bimbos are citizens, too. Sort of got the right to demonstrate.”

“Were there any actual arrests?” Fletch spooned instant coffee into the two mugs. From upstairs he could hear people moving around. Furniture being moved. Then he could hear Edith Howell’s voice pitched high in indignation.

“Nine. They’ll be released this morning.”

“No one threw that rum bottle at Mrs. Littleford, huh?” The water in the pan was bubbling.

“None of the people we arrested did.” The sergeant smiled ruefully. “We asked every one of ’em, we did. Politely, too.”

Fletch poured the water into the mugs and handed one to the police sergeant.

“Any sugar?” the sergeant asked. Fletch nodded to the bowl on the counter. “I need my sugar.” The sergeant helped himself. “Coffee and sugar. It’s what keeps me bad-tempered.”

Two other policemen came into the kitchen and began searching through it.

“Appreciate it if you wouldn’t make too much of a mess,” Fletch said. “Know Mrs. Lopez?”

“Sure,” a cop said.

“She’ll have to clean up.”

He went out onto the back porch with his coffee. The sergeant followed him.

“Can you tell me why you’re searching the house?” Fletch asked.

The sergeant shrugged. “Illegal substances.”

“Yeah, but why? What’s the evidence you had to get a warrant?”

“It was good enough for the judge. That sure is a nice banyan tree. I haven’t been in this house in years.” He grinned at Fletch. “You in the movies, too?”

“No.”

“Just one of those cats who likes to associate with movie people, huh?”

“Yeah. A hanger-on.”

“It must be sort of disappointin’, seein’ these people up close. I mean, when no one’s writin’ their lines for