Fletch's Moxie

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Oh. That again.”

  “—who’s spent years on a book about some artist—”

  “Edgar Arthur Tharp.”

  She grinned wickedly. “How’s the book coming, Fletch?”

  “Slowly.”

  “Slowly! Have you started Chapter Two yet?”

  “There have been a lot of distractions.”

  “I need the house in California, Fletch, for my work. I live there. I need the apartment in New York. For my work. I live there. Neither place is a sun-and-sport palacia in Italy!”

  “Well, I’ve had my troubles with the Internal Revenue Service, too.”

  “No more of your sympathy, thank you. I do believe the Internal Revenue Service, in this case, is right. In New York, I go over to Steve’s office, even though I’ve been told he’s not there. Everybody recognizes me, of course. They’ve been dealing with my stuff for years. I request a quiet office and all the books, all the figures which relate to me and my affairs.”

  “They had to give them to you.”

  “They did.”

  “But why did you ask?”

  “Why not? I had to.”

  “Moxie, there is no way you can understand such books and figures, as you call them, without training. You needed a professional accountant.”

  “I could understand enough.”

  “You could understand nothing.”

  “For years Steve has been telling me I must borrow money, I must borrow money, being in debt was good for me, paying interest greatly improved my tax situation. I hated the whole thought of being in debt. He explained to me it was just paper debt. So every time he shoved papers in front of me, I signed them. Fletch, I discovered that he had borrowed millions of dollars in my name.”

  “Entirely possible. Probably right… I think. I don’t know either.”

  “Fletch, what’s a tax shelter?”

  “It’s a little stick house where you go to live once the Internal Revenue Service is done with you.”

  “He had borrowed money in my name from foreign banks. Geneva, Paris, Mexico City.”

  “That seems odd. I really don’t know.”

  “He bought stock with my money, all of which seemed to diminish rapidly in value.”

  “Bad luck.”

  “Real estate in Atlantic City. A horse farm somewhere, film companies…”

  “Moxie, the figures mean nothing to you. They wouldn’t mean anything to me either. The way these business types do up their figures is meant to baffle all normal human beings.”

  “Fletch,” she said like a scared child. “I am millions of dollars in debt. To the banks. To the Internal Revenue Service.”

  She turned her chair and looked out the window.

  Fletch gave her the moment of silence.

  Frederick Mooney had opened another bottle from his flight bag and had poured into a champagne glass.

  “Oh, look,” Moxie said finally. “The moon is rising.”

  “It is?” Fletch said.

  “Perfect timing.”

  He leaned forward to look through the window. The moon really was rising. “How very romantic of me.”

  “Right in the right spot in my window, too,” she said. “Mister Fletcher, are you trying to seduce me?”

  “No. You’re too drawn and haggard.”

  She shrugged. “It’s always the ones I’m attracted to who won’t have me.”

  After a while, Fletch asked, “What did Steve Peterman say when you confronted him with all this?”

  “Just what you said. That I didn’t know what I was talking about, everything was too complicated for me to understand, that after principal photography of the film was over he’d go over the books with me and explain everything.”

  “And the Internal Revenue Service?”

  “He said he’d take care of that.”

  “And you left everything that way?”

  “I spent a week trying to find you. I asked you to come down.”

  “I’m not an accountant. I wish I were. I see three figures together and suffer vertigo.”

  “I needed a shoulder to cry on.”

  “I’ve got two of them.”

  “Also, Fletch, I hate to speak well of you to your face but you did have one or two successes as an investigative reporter.”

  “Only recognized as such in retrospect, I fear.”

  “You’ve told me a few things you’ve done.”

  “Anything to while away the time.”

  “I thought maybe I’d get your opinion of Steve Peterman.”

  “He was an annoying son of a bitch.”

  Frederick Mooney swiveled around in his chair, to face them. “How could I have been seeing Broadway?” he asked.

  “That’s a good question,” Fletch answered.

  “We’ve been flying over Broadway,” Frederick Mooney told his daughter. “The Great White Way. The Star Spangled Street. The Magnificent Road Of Light In An Ocean Of Darkness.”

  “Oh,” Fletch said. “We’ve been flying over the Florida Keys.”

  “Well, young man.” Frederick Mooney burped. “I suspect we’re about to land on Herald Square.”

  9

  “Fletch! What have you done?”

  “What do you mean, what have I done?”

  In the dark, Moxie was squinting at the airport where they had landed. “Where are we?”

  “Here.”

  “We’re not in Fort Myers.”

  “We aren’t?” He was trying to hustle Moxie and Frederick Mooney from the airplane to the taxi stand. Unfortunately there were signs in all the appropriate places saying KEY WEST.

  “We’re in Key West!” Moxie said.

  “We are?” Fletch took Mooney’s clanging flight bag from him. “Darned pilot. Must have landed us in the wrong place.”

  “Union Square?” enquired Mooney.

  “What are we doing in Key West?”

  Fletch was walking them around the terminal rather than through it. “You said you were tired of Route 41.”

  “So?”

  “All roads end in Key West. Usually in a pile-up.”

  There were two taxis at the stand.

  “Fletch,” Moxie said seriously. “That woman. The Chief of Detectives. She told us not to leave the Fort Myers area. At least she told me not to leave the Fort Myers area.”

  “She mentioned something of the same to me, too.”

  Moxie faced Fletch on the sidewalk. “Then what are we doing in Key West?”

  “Escaping.”

  “We were told—”

  “That has no force in law, you know.”

  “It hasn’t?”

  “No. It hasn’t. We’re not out on bail, or on parole. We haven’t been charged with anything.”

  Frederick Mooney was climbing into the backseat of a taxi.

  “Are we fugitives from justice?” she asked.

  “Ah, that we may be. It’s just that if you run away under such circumstances people are more apt to think you’re guilty.”

  “And we’ve run away. Great.”

  “Well, hell, Moxie, aren’t you guilty?” Her eyes went from him to the patient taxi driver to Mooney’s dark bulk in the backseat. “Not too many people had the opportunity, given the unique circumstances which then prevailed, of sticking ol’ Steve. Up there—” Fletch pointed to the sky, “—you gave heavy enough reasons for killing him to bring the airplane down anywhere. Opportunity,” Fletch said. “Motive,” Fletch said.

  “You mean I shouldn’t have told you all that?”

  “Justification,” Fletch said. “Sounded a milimeter away from a confession, to me.”

  For a moment under the arc lights, Moxie Mooney almost looked drawn and haggard.

  “Come on,” Fletch said. “Let’s go with Freddy. Otherwise, he might not know where he’s going.”

  Moxie sat between them in the backseat of the taxi.

  “The Blue House,” Fletch said to the driver. “On Duval Street.”


  The taxi started off.

  To Moxie, Fletch said, “I’ve borrowed a house. From a friend.”

  Mooney took a drink.

  “Listen,” Fletch said to Moxie. “A few days of peace and quiet…”

  Moxie got out of the taxi while Fletch was paying the driver through the side window. She looked up at the lit house.

  “Irwin,” she said. “This Blue House is not blue.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Am I going crazy? Even in this light I can tell this Blue House is not blue.”

  Fletch helped Frederick Mooney out of the taxi.

  “Key West is an eccentric town,” Fletch said.

  “Doubt you’ll be here long enough to get used to it.”

  Moxie hesitated on the sidewalk. She raised her head and spoke to the sky. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Be nice,” Fletch answered, helping Mooney up the three steps.

  “Mister Peterson,” Mooney said at the top of the stairs. “You are a nice young man, but if you don’t stop helping me, I will brain you.”

  “Sorry.” Fletch let go of him.

  Mooney swayed on the verandah. “You’re up-setting my balance.”

  Moxie followed them through the doorway. “Why is this Blue House white?”

  “Jeez,” Fletch said. “You couldn’t call it The White House. Wouldn’t be respectful.”

  The Lopezes, who took care of The Blue House, were not in the house. Fletch knew they lived in their own house behind the garden wall. The front door had been left unlocked, the lights on. In the dining room a tray of cut sandwiches had been set out along with a fancy ice bucket full of cans of beer. Lights were on even at the back of the house, in the billiard room.

  Fletch zipped around the house turning out the lights. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

  Moxie said, “It’s not even nine o’clock.”

  “Time means nothing in Key West.” He started up the stairs. “Never believe a clock in Key West.”

  Mooney attacked the stairs. “Charge!” he said.

  Plodding after him, Moxie said, “Dear O. L.

  Your allusion to Arsenic and Old Lace under these circumstances is decidedly in poor taste.”

  Fletch pointed to the first door on the right. “This is your room, Ms Mooney. I think you’ll find everything in order. Towels in the bathroom.”

  She looked into the room and then across the wide corridor at him. “Do I give you a tip?”

  “If you have trouble with the air conditioner, just call downstairs.”

  Fletch pushed open another door. “This room is your’s, Mister Mooney. See? Nice big double bed.”

  “Very good.” Frederick Mooney staggered through the door to his room. “What time do I go on?”

  “Not to worry,” Fletch said. “We’ll call you in plenty of time.”

  “Just did Lear,” Fletch heard Mooney muttering through the door. “Must be Richard III tonight.”

  Moxie was standing in the doorway. Even in her black dress, even standing still, her chin tilted slightly up, the light behind her made her presence, her being, exciting.

  “Good night, Ms Mooney. Sleep well.”

  “Good night,” she said. “Thanks for bringing my luggage.”

  Fletch said, “I didn’t, did I.”

  In his own room, Fletch walked out of his moccasins, dropped his shirt and his shorts and his undershorts in a heap on the floor, walked through a warm shower in no time at all, and then walked into bed, fell down, and pulled the sheet over him.

  Then he laughed.

  10

  “I can hardly wait to get old.” On the bed, Moxie ran her legs down his and stretched. “Wrinkled and baggy.”

  “That’s what we all want for you,” Fletch said.

  “I don’t mean old,” Moxie said. “Just old enough to have an excuse to get fat and ugly.”

  “Can hardly wait for the day.”

  She rolled onto her side and faced him, as he was on his side, and their naked bodies were together all the way up and down except for their stomachs. “I can hardly wait to get some roles with some real character in them.”

  “Belly rolls, uh?”

  “Married women, mothers, nuns, grandmothers, business executives. You know what I mean—women who’ve lived a little, have some dimension to them and it shows in their faces.”

  The long door-windows were open to the second-floor balcony and the breeze coming in was slightly humid over their slightly sweaty bodies.

  Being Moxie, she had come into his room naked and walked around the room slowly, turning on every light. Her body was totally tanned, as it had to be for her role in Midsummer Night’s Madness. She had jumped onto his bed, reached down and torn the sheet off him, and then fell on him, flat, jumping to as great a height as she could manage to do so.

  Which is why Fletch had turned on his side and they had come to embrace in that position.

  “Not like this damned role in Midsummer Night’s Madness. You know how the scriptwriter wrote in the character for my role? I quote: Beautiful blond female, American build, in twenties, dash Moxie Mooney question mark unquote.”

  “You sound a natural for the role.”

  “You call that writing character?”

  “Well, you’re beautiful, and you’re blond, all the way up and down, and you’re female, all the way up and down. What’s an American build?”

  “Guess you’re lookin’ at it, baby.”

  “I’m not seeing anything but your eyes, forehead, nose, and cheekbones.”

  “You’re feelin’ it, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m feeling it.”

  “Feel it some more,” she said. “Arr.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “No. Let’s not.”

  * * *

  Then he was on his back and the breeze seemed cooler to him.

  “There are good roles for young people,” he said. “There must be.”

  “Not in Midsummer Night’s Madness. In Midsummer Night’s Madness I am body, pure and simple, wide-eyed, innocent, staring, and stupid. All I do is say O! and look alarmed. There are more O’s in that script than in ten kilos of Swiss cheese.”

  “Must be tough bein’ just another beautiful face. Body.”

  Each was spread-eagled on the huge bed, cooling off. Only the tips of their fingers touched.

  “Knock it off, Fletcher. I was brought up, trained to do more than stand there and say O! Freddy and I saw to that. I’m not giving you talk-show interview motif number one.”

  “Sounds it.”

  For a long moment, she looked at the ceiling. Then she said, “I guess I am. Oh, dear.”

  “First time you’ve ever called me dear.”

  “I didn’t call you dear. I called the ceiling dear.”

  “Watch those expressions of affection, Moxie. Remember, I’m going to have to write to you in the slammer, and our mail will be censored.”

  “What I’m saying is all this trouble over this film, and the film stinks. Wooden scenes, turgid dialogue, stereotyped characters. All it really is about is people chasing each other along a moonlit beach at night and whumpin’ each other.”

  “Should be a hit.”

  “Staring Moxie Mooney.”

  “And Gerry Littleford.”

  “And Gerry Littleford. Not up to his talents either.”

  “If this film is so bad, Moxie dear, why are you doing it?”

  “Steve said I had to. Fulfill some contract or other.”

  “Fulfill some contract you signed?”

  “I signed. Or he signed.”

  “Seems to me you handed over a large slice of your life to Steve Peterman.”

  “Fletch, a person in my shoes has to trust somebody.”

  “You’re not wearing shoes. I noticed.”

  “One cannot be one hundred percent creative sharp and one hundred percent business sharp at the same time. It is mentally and physically impossible. Some people pi
ck wonderful business managers in the talent garden, and live happily ever after. I picked a bad apple.”

  “And if the District Attorney don’t get you, the I.R.S. will.”

  “You make everything sound so cheery.”

  “Everything is cheery. It’s all in the point of view.”

  “Want me to tell you about this dumb movie?”

  “Yeah. Tell me a story.”

  “Girl. Got it so far?”

  “Yeah. American build. I can see her now.”

  “Small town.”

  “Anywhere, U.S.A.”

  “Anywhere. Gets raped by son of chief of police.”

  “Opening scene?”

  “Opening scene.”

  “Beats the aerial view of the Empire State Building.”

  “Of course she doesn’t tell.”

  “Why not?”

  “Girls frequently don’t tell when they’ve been raped, Mister Fletcher.”

  “Why not?”

  “It embarrasses them,” Moxie said uncomfortably. “It’s the psychology of the whole thing. For some crazy reason they think it lowers them in the esteem of others.”

  “Does it?”

  “You tell me. Does it?”

  “I hate the whole thought.”

  “Have you been raped?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Have you told?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It comes up in conversation so seldom,” he said. “You’re not letting me get to the point of the movie.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Girl is pregnant. Girl is truly in love with young black male.”

  “American build?”

  “You’ve seen Gerry Littleford.”

  “Handsome man. Looks like a Greyhound. Racing dog, I mean. Not the bus.”

  “White girl and black man get engaged to be married.”

  “Does he know she’s pregnant by another man?”

  “Sure. These people really love each other.”

  “And what happens?”

  “Town finds out they intend to get married. Town not pleased. Give black man a hard time. Town discovers girl is pregnant already. And then on midsummer’s night town goes crazy and pursues black man through countryside, swamp, woods until he comes to the edge of the ocean where they catch him and beat him to death. Needless to say, rapist-son-of-police-chief deals the killing blow, right into the black man’s head while the black man’s head is against a rock.”