Fletch's Moxie

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “I decided to use the money to help out, instead of hinder. I heard General Motors was having such a tough time nobody was buying its stock.”

  “So you bought General Motors?”

  “So I bought General Motors. And the cable-electronic companies looked risky, so I put some money into them.”

  “Good Lord, Fletch. God! You’re so incompetent!”

  “Well, I never said I was any good with money.”

  “You should have taken a course. How To Invest.”

  “Yes,” Fletch said. “I suppose I should have.”

  “You just never cared about money!”

  “No,” said Fletch. “I don’t.”

  When they got to the Gulf Stream she went overboard and he lowered the sails and, except for the light lines to the boat he tied to his ankles, he got naked, too, and went overboard and they played and made love in the water, only the light, drifting boat kept pulling him away from her by the ankles and he kept getting too much water up his nose and they both laughed so hard they ran out of breath and nearly drowned but they did succeed, but they were slow to leave the water and climb back into the boat anyway.

  “As long as we’re talking about money,” he said.

  “Is this still nice talk?”

  “Jumping Cow Productions, Incorporated,” he said.

  They had sailed back to an empty beach and run the catamaran up onto the fine sand. They took their food and drinks ashore and had a picnic. The drinks were very warm but they drank them anyway, for the sake of putting fluid into their bodies. The sandwiches had dried out. Mostly they ate the fruit.

  After eating, they lay in the sand. It was late enough in the afternoon and there were enough passing clouds so the sun would not burn their tanned skin. Fletch waited a long while. Finally she put herself on her side and she put her hand on his hip and he put himself on his side as well and put his head on his hand. Her face told him he had her attention, but she did not expect to talk about money at this time.

  “Tell me, Moxie,” he said. “What does the cow jump over?”

  “The moon,” she answered easily. Then her face changed. She looked at him as if he had struck her. Then she rolled over onto her back. She covered her eyes with one hand. “Mooney,” she groaned.

  “Right. Moxie Mooney.” She continued to lay flat on her back beside him on the sand, her hand covering her eyes from the sun. “You are sole proprietor of Jumping Cow Productions, Incorporated. Martin Satterlee called me this morning.”

  “Good.” She rolled onto her stomach. “I’ll close that Goddamned movie down faster than anything you ever saw.”

  “Midsummer Night’s Madness?”

  “Fini to Midsummer Night’s Madness. To Edith Howell, Sy Koller, Geoff McKensie, Gerry Littleford, Talcott Cross, the whole damned bunch of ’em. Goodbye to that stupid script. Goodbye to Route 41.”

  “I take it you did not know you are sole proprietor of Jumping Cow Productions?”

  “I did not. I certainly did not.”

  “Moxie, when you went into Peterman’s office—a couple of weeks ago—what did you actually learn? What did you actually find out that upset you so, you know, enough to cause you to ask me to meet you here?”

  “I couldn’t find any real tax reports. I kept asking the staff for the tax files. They kept bringing me folder after folder with all this crazy stuff in them, loan agreements with banks in Honduras and Switzerland and Mexico. I didn’t know what it all meant, but I got madder and madder.” Her voice dropped. “Or more and more scared.”

  Fletch lay back on the sand, folding his hands behind his head. “Marty couldn’t do a very thorough job of looking at your financial records. Four o’clock this morning the police came in and took them all.”

  “Oh, God! The police have my financial records?”

  “You knew they—”

  “I didn’t know anything, Fletch!” Moxie snapped. She pounded her fist on the sand. “Damn!”

  She got up and walked at an angle down the beach to the water’s edge and then kept walking along the water.

  After a long while, when she didn’t come back he took their garbage back to the boat and turned it around in the light surf and otherwise prepared for departure.

  Then he sat on one of the hulls and waited while Moxie walked back down the beach.

  They launched the boat together.

  “Moxie?” Again they were sailing, the low sun at their stern. She sat, the picture of dejection, chin on hand, elbow on knee. “You know the guy who owns The Blue House?”

  “No. How could I?”

  “His name is Ted Sills. You said yesterday you don’t know him.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Apparently you are a co-owner with Ted Sills of a Florida horse farm.”

  She wrinkled her face at him. There was salt on her skin and a small dab of sand on one cheekbone. “We’re partners in something?”

  “Five Aces Farm. Ocala, Florida.”

  She shrugged. “News to me.”

  “I guess he was a friend of Steve Peterman’s.”

  “Listen, Fletch.” She sounded tired and angry and tired of being angry. “Why don’t you just give it to me in simple?”

  “Wish I could. As I told you, Marty didn’t get very far into your records when the cops arrived. He seems to agree with your two main fears: that you are in tax trouble; that you do owe huge and unlikely sums of money to banks all over the world.”

  Moxie Mooney looked all over the horizon. “Which way did you say Cuba is?”

  He pointed. “That way.”

  “You want to come with me, or should I start swimming?”

  “An awful lot of inexplicable financial activity has been going on under your name.”

  “Inexplicable… and you expect me to explain?”

  “Marty couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t understand it.”

  “Is it your friend Marty’s opinion that something crooked has been going on?”

  “He was trying not to have an opinion.”

  “But he had to try hard, right?”

  “Right.” Fletch hitched in the main sheet. “He seemed to feel all that much activity couldn’t have been going on without your knowing about it.”

  The red light from the setting sun full in her face, Moxie just stared at Fletch.

  Fletch said, quietly: “In other words, Moxie, chances are pretty good your average judge is going to believe you’re lying.”

  “Lying,” she said.

  “About everything.”

  She looked at the paper sandwich wrappers and empty soda cans on the deck of the cockpit. “The way you were lying this morning? About all your money?”

  Fletch chuckled. “Yeah.”

  “Come on, Fletch. Games are games. This isn’t fun.”

  She studied the junk in the bottom of the boat a long time.

  Then she put her hand on his knee. “Hey, Fletch. Thanks for the nice day.”

  “Nice to make your acquaintance,” he said.

  He was sailing for the right beach. Leaving that morning he had lined the beach up with the martello towers.

  “In other words,” Moxie said, “going through my financial records, the cops are going to find I had tons of reasons for killing Steve Peterman.”

  “It looks that way.”

  The centerboard was up. Near the beach, Fletch was looking for the heads of late swimmers on the water.

  “Fletch.” Moxie shivered. “Please find someone else to pin this murder on.”

  “I’m tryin’, babe,” Fletch said. “I’m tryin’.”

  * * *

  It was dark and walking through the side streets in her loose beach wrap, her head down, Moxie attracted no attention.

  Fletch said, “There’s one other small matter…”

  “Boy, you’re really giving it to me today. I thought we were just going to talk about happy things.”

  “I got you out of the house just so we could talk.”
<
br />   “You took me sailing so you could beat up on me.”

  “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 Midsummer Night’s Madness seriously was being threatened by any of these groups? Like to the point of murder?”

  “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 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 a
nd 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.