“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.”
“Yuck.”
“Midsummer Night’s Madness.”
“It plays upon people’s worst emotions, Moxie. It really does.”
“Oh, come on, Fletch. People don’t think that way anymore. Gerry Littleford’s wife is white.”
“Yeah. In recent years, miscegenation has been made legal. Most places.”
“You mean it’s still illegal some places?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, Fletch. I’ve read there is no such thing as an American black person without some white blood.”
“We’re talking about rape again. Aren’t we.” Fletch sat up on the bed and put his back against the tall, carved wooden backboard.
“I wasn’t even thinking of those things.” Moxie rolled over and put her chin in her elbow. “I just think as a movie it stinks. It’s badly written. I think the whole thing was written between drinks in The Polo Lounge. By people who don’t know anything about boys and girls, men and women, human beings, The South, The North, or America.
The World. Scene for scene, it just doesn’t reflect how people regard each other.”
“Moxie?”
“I’m still here. In case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m just thinking. The hit-and-run. Peterman.
A question some reporter asked, at the police station. Is it possible some one, or some group is trying to stop this film from being made?”
Her one visible eye looked up and down the wrinkled sheet between them. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Commit murder to stop a film?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“People are more sophisticated than that.” She curved her back and leaned on her elbows. “It’s a bad film, Fletch. It will never be released. No one will ever see it.”
“Yeah, but no one knows that, yet.”
“I’ll tell them, if they ask me.”
“You will like hell. In fact, let me ask you this: if filming resumes on this turkey film, will you go back on location and continue starring in it?”
“I have to, Fletch. I have no choice.”
“Thanks to dear old Steve Peterman.”
“Thanks to dear old Steve Peterman,” she repeated quietly.
Somewhere in the house a door slammed. A heavy door.
“What was that?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” Fletch said.
He jumped off the bed. “Oh, no.”
He ran down the stairs and opened the front door of the house and stepped out onto the porch. He looked down toward the center of Key West.
There was no one in the street except two men walking directly in front of the house.
“Come on all the way out, beautiful!” called one man.
“You’re gorgeous!” screamed the other one.
The first one belted the second one, hard. Fletch heard a bottle drop.
He realized he was naked. “Sorry,” he said.
He went back in the house and closed the door. Looked in the kitchen. Upstairs, he looked in Frederick Mooney’s room.
Returning to his own bedroom, he said, “I guess your father went out for a walk.”
“He went out for a drink and some conviviality,” Moxie said. “‘Conviviality’, he calls it.”
“Damn.”
“What time is it?”
“Stop asking that question in Key West.”
“Is it possible to get a drink in Key West at this hour?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I guess it’s early yet anyway. I thought you were putting Freddy to bed a little early.”
“Damn, damn,” Fletch said. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“Nice line,” Moxie said. “Up there with O, O, O, O. What’s the matter with Freddy going out for a drink? Can’t keep him in anyway.”
“In case it hadn’t dawned on you, O, Luminous Two, I was trying to keep your presence in Key West a deep, dark secret.”
“Oh,” she said.
“The minute Freddy’s famous face hits the light of any bar, up goes the telephone receiver to the press.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Freddy here: Moxie here. Simple equation.”
From the bed, she said, “Nice try, sport. Best laid plans, and all that.”
“Damn.”
“Damn,” she said, looking at him as he stood in the middle of the room. “I think you have an American build.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I was made in the U.S.A.”
11
“So how come,” Moxie asked very early in the morning in the bright kitchen, “you get to borrow such a nice big house in Key West at a moment’s notice?”
Frederick Mooney was asleep in his room. Fletch had checked.
“It belongs to someone I do business with.” Carefully, Fletch was trying to make individual omelettes. “A little business. Well, what it comes down to is that I give him money which he feeds to race horses.”
“Sounds like a great business.”
“The horses like it, I guess.”
“Get any manure in return?”
“Nothing but.”
“Even in daylight The Blue House is white. First thing I did this morning was run out and check.” Moxie was not wearing the only dress she had brought with her. The large backyard of The Blue House was completely walled. “Are you ever going to tell me why it’s called The Blue House?”
“Probably.”
“But not now, right?”
“Got to be a little mystery in our relationship.”
She was squeezing orange juice. “Seems we have quite a big enough mystery to deal with already.”
The omelette was sticking to the pan. Fletch turned down the heat.
“So who owns The Blue House?”
“Man named Sills. Ted Sills.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Come to think of it, I met him at a party at your apartment.”
“You did?”
“Tall guy. Beer belly. Hair plastered down.”
“Right. Sounds like everybody who comes to my parties.”
“Trouble is, I found myself having a drink with him later, talking about investing in his race horses. Then, later, spent a week with him at his horse farm, and the weekend here in Key West, where I actually signed some papers.”
“How come you’re rich?” Moxie asked.
The phone rang.
Automatically, Moxie picked it up. “The Blue House,” she said. “Mister Blue isn’t here.” Then she said, “Hi, Gerry! How did you know I was here?” She looked across the kitchen at Fletch.
“It’s on the news this morning?… They even say The Blue House, Key West? Rats…” She listened and then
said to Fletch, “Gerry Littleford says it was on Global Cable News at six o’clock last night that I had disappeared.” She said into the phone, “That’s impossible, Gerry. I didn’t disappear until eight o’clock.” She shook her head at Fletch. “These reporters,” she said. “Aren’t they awful? … Yeah, I know. Freddy was out on the town in Key West and spilled all. He’s a very convivial man, Freddy is…” She turned her back to Fletch. “… Sure, Gerry… sure… Sure you’re not just being paranoid, Gerry? Coke does that to you, you know… Sure… Okay, that would be great.” She turned to Fletch. “What street are we on?”
“Duval.”
“Duval,” Moxie said into the receiver. “Oh, by the way, Gerry, will you bring a script of Midsummer Night’s Madness? I didn’t bring one, and I’d like Fletch to read it. … What’s a Fletch?” With dancing eyes she looked up and down Fletch’s naked body. “A Fletch is a short order cook. He burns eggs in short order. See you.”
She hung up and went back to squeezing orange juice. “That was Gerry Littleford. Wants to come down. Says the police and press are hounding him. I said okay. Lots of orange juice.”
In the pan, the omelette had gone limp. Fletch turned the heat up again.
They had breakfast at the table on the cistern in the backyard.
“After Key West wakes up a little,” Fletch said, “I’ll go down and buy you some clothes. Make a list of what you need.”
She nodded. “These eggs are interesting,” she said. “Cooked in layers. Overcooked, undercooked, overcooked, undercooked, all at once. Never had eggs like these before.”
“Hope the Lopezes will rescue us, sooner or later.”
While Moxie was in the shower, the phone rang again. Fletch answered it.
“’Allo?”
“Ms Moxie Mooney, please. This is Sergeant Frankel, Bonita Police.”
“Ms Oxie Hooney? No one here that name. Good bye.”
“Where did Ernest Hemingway live?”
“On the street parallel to this. Whitehead Street,” Fletch answered. “Great writer. No sense of humor.”
Moxie chalked her cue-tip. “What handicap will you give me?”
Fletch triangled the billiard balls. “Have you been playing very much?”
“None at all.”
“You play very well. Ten point in a hundred?”
“You flatter me.”
“Fifteen?”
“That would be fine but you will beat me.”
“Should we play for a stake? You always wished to play for a stake.”
“I think we’d better.”
“All right. I will give you eighteen points and we will play for a dollar a point.”
Moxie commenced to clear the billiard table. “What have you been reading?”
“Nothing,” Fletch said. “I’m afraid I am very dull.”
“No. But you should read.”
“What is there?”
“There is The Green Hills of Africa. There is A Farewell to Arms.” “No, he didn’t.”
“What?”
“He didn’t say a farewell to arms.”
“Then you have been reading?”
“Yes, but nothing recent.”
“I thought The Old Man and The Sea a very good story of acquivitiveness.”
“I don’t know about acquivitiveness.”
“Poor boy. We none of us know about the soul. Are you Croyant?”
“At night.”
It became her turn again and she pocketed three balls. “I had expected to become more devout as I grow older but somehow I haven’t,” she said. “It’s a great pity.”
“Would you like to live after death?”
“It would depend on the life. This life is very pleasant. I would like to live forever.”
“I hope you will live forever.”
“Thank you.”
Moxie pocketed the last ball. She had won. “You were very kind to play, Tenente.”
“It was a great pleasure.”
“We will walk out together.”
* * *
She was putting the telephone receiver back on the cradle when he came back into the bedroom.
“That was Geoff McKensie,” she said. “He’s driving down. He called from Key Largo. Guess he was feeling woebegone.”
She was wearing the black dress. She looked hot. He had put on his shorts.
They had heard the Lopezes come into the house.
“I’ll go get you some clothes,” he said.
In the foyer of The Blue House, the Lopezes greeted Fletch.
“Mister Fletcher,” said Mrs Lopez. “Good to have you here again.”
Mister Lopez smiled and shook hands and said nothing.
“Thank you for having everything so nicely arranged when we arrived last night.”
Mrs Lopez took his head in her hands and kissed him. “But you ate nothing. You left the sandwiches and drank none of the beer.”
“We had something on the plane.”
“And this morning I did not make breakfast. Someone else did.”
“We tried to clean up our mess.”
“I can tell.”
“Upstairs is a young woman and her father. And I guess one or two more will be coming for lunch. We can use the sandwiches you made.”
“I’ll make something fresh.”
“I’m going down to the stores,” Fletch said.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Lopez asked.
“No,” Fletch said. “Just picking up a few things. Until later.”
“Until later,” said Mrs Lopez.
12
When he returned, walking slowly down Duval Street in the sunlight and warm wind, his arms ladened with packages, there were two cars with their trunks open in front of The Blue House. It had taken Fletch much longer to shop for Moxie than he had expected. Originally, there was confusion in the salesman’s mind. Clearly he wanted to think Fletch was buying this feminine clothing for himself, and clearly he wanted to play with Fletch in the process.
The short, weather-beaten man Fletch had seen in the police station was unloading a small yellow car. Apparently he had travelled alone. A large blue sedan was disgorging Edith Howell, the actress who could and did look like everybody’s mother, and John Meade, who could not stop looking like a hayseed even when he wasn’t being paid to do so. They had much luggage. Fletch had not been told to expect Edith Howell and John Meade.
Across the street a small group of tourists, cameras around some necks, stood in a loose group, to watch and chat with each other over what they were and were not seeing. A tourist road-train was crawling by in the street. The tour guide was saying through his amplifier:… Blue House. In residence now in The Blue House is the actress, Moxie Mooney, and her father, the legendary Frederick Mooney. Now the Blue House is being used as a hide out for these celebrities who just yesterday were present when someone literally, really, troo-ooly got murdered on The Dan Buckley Show. Arrived late last night in time for old Frederick to grab a few quick ones in the local bistros. Maybe I shouldn’t point out their hideout to you, but the fact that they’re there is in all the morning newspapers. Coming up on your left…
The front door of The Blue House was wide open.
Moxie was in the dining room stacking a tall pile of napkins. “Thank God,” she said, seeing the packages in Fletch’s arms. “I’m broiled and baked.”
“You have more guests arriving,” Fletch said. “Edith Howell. John Meade.”
“Yeah. They called from Key Marathon.”
“Geoff McKensie. I think.”
“You knew he was coming.” She was tearing through the packages on the diningroom table.
“More in the backyard. Gerry Littleford and his wife. Sy Koller flew down with them.”
“Sy Koller? We have two directors in the house? Isn’t that like having two ladies wearing the same expensive dress?”
Moxie was holding the bottom of a yellow bikini against her black dress. “I think i
t will fit.”
“I just ordered for the American build. Where is everyone going to sleep?”
“There are couches, hammocks, swings on all the balconies.”
“Where’s Oh, Luminous One?”
“Gone out for some conviviality.”
“This house lacks conviviality? It’s about to burst with conviviality. Moxie, my idea of getting you away for a few days—”
“I am away. I don’t need to hide out.” Vexed, she was pincering all the packages from the table against her breasts. “I didn’t murder anybody, you know.”
“Then we’d better find another suspect,” said Fletch. “Damned quick. And it’s not going to be easy to find a better suspect than you are.”
“I’ll go change.” She dashed out of the dining room and headed for the stairs. “You go meet the people.”
Fletch carried a glass of orange juice into the backyard.
Gerry Littleford was the first to see him. “You’re a Fletch,” he said.
“Right.”
“I’m Gerry.” He stood up to shake hands. “This is my wife, Stella.”
Stella was the young woman who the day before had taken Marge Peterman in hand.
“You know Sy Koller?”
The heavy man in the stressed T-shirt had also been kind to Marge Peterman the day before. Today’s stressed T-shirt was green. He did not rise for Fletch or offer his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said to Fletch.
“You’re a cook?” Gerry sat down again.
“Moxie only said that before she tried my omelette.”
“Not afterwards?”
“No. Not afterwards.”
Everyone in the group had a Bloody Mary.
“I really am sorry,” Roller said again. His eyes said he was sorry.
“Sorry for what?” Fletch sat in one of the white, wrought-iron, cushioned love seats. It was cooler in the walled garden, without the warm Gulf wind.
“For turning you down for that part.”
“You never did.”
Koller looked relieved and grinned. “I was sure I had. By my age, son, a director has turned down almost everybody. What have you done?”
“Done?”
“What films have you been in?”
“I’m not an actor.”
“But I’ve seen your work.”
“You saw me yesterday. On Bonita Beach. I was with Marge Peterman.”
Koller continued to stare at him.
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