’em, no one’s directin’ how they act. I’d rather leave ’em on the screen.”
“I’m sure they’d rather be left on the screen.”
“That Mister Mooney sure is one big drunk. Seen him downtown. He needs a keeper.”
“He’s a great man.”
“One of our patrolmen drove him home the other night. First night you were here.” “Thank you.”
“Chuck said Mooney recited all the way home.” The sergeant chuckled. “Something about Jessie James being due in town. Better watch out for him.” The sergeant drank some coffee. Upstairs Edith Howell was exclaiming, proclaiming, declaiming. “This whole country’s drunk. Stoned on something.”
“Whole world.”
“The people have discovered drugs. Not enough to do any more. Machines do the hard work. Recreational drugs, we’re callin’ ’em now. Baseball is recreation… fishin’. Too much time.”
“Not everyone can go fishin’. Not everyone can go to baseball.”
“The whole damned world’s stoned on one thing or another.”
Saying nothing, a policeman held the back door open. His eyes were bloodshot.
The sergeant left his coffee mug on the kitchen counter. The kitchen was really very clean.
John Meade was standing in the front hall. A policeman was standing beside him. John Meade was wearing gray slacks and brown loafers and a blue button-down shirt and handcuffs.
He smiled at Fletch. “Ludes.”
“Sorry, John,” said Fletch. “I never thought of you.”
“Brought ’em back from New York.”
The sergeant took a tin container from the policeman. “Qualudes,” the sergeant said. “A controlled substance. You have a prescription, Mister Meade?”
“My doctor died,” John Meade said. “Eleven years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. I sure liked you in
“So did I,” said John Meade.
The sergeant was examining the tin box. “You sure didn’t get this from any legitimate source, Mister Meade. You’re supportin’ the bad guys, actual fact.”
Other police were coming into the front hall.
“Hey, Sergeant,” Fletch said. “Does this have to happen? Do you have to take Mister Meade in?”
“Yeah,” Sergeant Hennings said. “Too many witnesses. Too many cops around.”
30
Fletch retreated to the small study at the back of The Blue House.
On the front stairs Edith Howell was screaming her rage that the police had taken John Meade away in handcuffs. She was screaming at Frederick Mooney to go do something about it. There had not been a sound from Frederick Mooney. Fletch wasn’t even sure he was in the house. Edith Howell was dressed in blue silk pajamas, blue silk slippers, and a blue silk robe. Her hair was in pin curls and her face clotted with cream. Sy Koller’s head had appeared over the second-floor bannister looking painfully hung-over. Lopez and Gerry Littleford were in the backyard throwing a tennis ball back and forth. Mrs. Lopez was in the kitchen making real coffee, starting breakfast. Neither Geoffrey McKensie nor Moxie had come down.
Fletch did not mind telephoning Five Aces Farm that early in the morning. Horse people are always up early.
The phone rang so long without being answered Fletch sat at the desk.
Finally a man’s voice answered.
“This is Fletcher. May I speak with Mister Sills, please?”
“Not here, Mister Fletcher. This is Max Frizzlewhit.”
“Mornin’, Max. Ted must have been off pretty early. Is there a race somewhere?”
“Yeah, there’s a race. But he’s not at it. I’m just about to go with the trailer. ‘Cept the phone kept ringin’ and ringin’ down here at the stables. One of your horses, too, Mister Fletcher,” Frizzlewhit sped along in his English accent. “Scarlet Pimple-Nickle. Call to wish her luck?”
“Does she have a chance?”
“No. If she had half a chance we would have moved her to the track yesterday. She’s not worth stable fees.”
“Then why are you running her?”
“She needs the exercise.”
“Oh, good.”
“She needs the experience.”
“Will she ever be any good, Max?”
“No.”
“Then why do I own her?”
“Beats me. She may have looked good that week you were here.”
“Never again?”
“And never before, I think.”
“Maybe I brought something out in her.”
“Maybe. You ought to come by more often, Mister Fletcher.”
“To buy more horses?”
“You ought to go to the track.”
“It’s too embarrassing, Max.”
“Maybe if you went to the track ol’ Scarlet Pimple-Nickle would perform for you, keep her eye on the finish instead of on a bunch of horses’ asses.” If only the horses he trained ran as fast as Frizzlewhit talked…
“This horse has an anal fixation, is that it?”
“I’m not sure she’s an actual pervert, Mister Fletcher. It just may be that she’d never seen anything but other horses’ asses.”
“Very understanding of you, Frizzlewhit.”
“Hey, you have to be, in this business. Horses are just like people.”
“No,” Fletch said. “They’re smarter. They don’t invest in people and make ’em run around a track.”
“That’s true. They are smarter that way.”
“So where did Mister Sills go?”
“He left the country.”
“Ah. Was this a sudden trip, would you say?”
“He packed and left last night. He was plannin’ to go to the race today.”
“A sudden trip. Did he mention which country he’s favoring?”
“France. He mentioned France.”
“And which way was he going?”
“By airplane, Mister Fletcher.”
“I mean, through Miami? New York?”
“Atlanta, I think.”
“Then he’s gone. Left the country.”
“Can’t be sure. Cousin Heath, from Piddle—you know I had a cousin lives in Piddle?—came to see me and got into that Atlanta airport and wasn’t heard from Tuesday noon till Saturday teatime. Said he kept expectin’ somethin’ to happen, and nothin’ did.”
“I’m going to tell people to keep their eye on you, Frizzlewhit.”
“Wish you would. Sometimes it gets lonely down here with the horses.”
“Even you can outrun ’em, huh?”
“Some of ’em are no improvement over stayin’ still.”
“Will Mister Sills call you?”
“Prolly.”
“You might tell him The Blue House was busted this morning. For drugs.”
