Fletch’s Moxie f-5

by Gregory Mcdonald

“An independent film company. A company set up to invest in films. The world’s full of ’em.”

  “Forgive me for never having heard of it. Has it made many films?”

  “I don’t think so. I think it has some others in pre-production. Most likely it has. I don’t know, Fletch. It could be a bunch of dentists who have pooled their money to invest in movies. Jumping Cow Productions could be a subsidiary of International Telephone and Telegraph, for all I know.”

  Half the big red sun had sizzled into the Gulf. A black, ancient-rigged sloop was sailing up the harbor toward them.

  “Don’t you care who’s producing your film?” Up the dock-edge Moxie was causing widening interest among the group of young people. “I mean, if the source of the money is so all-fire important…”

  Moxie sighed. “Steve Peterman was producing this film.”

  The top of the sun bubbled on the horizon and was extinguished.

  In the harbor, in front of the dock, the Sloop Providence fired her cannon and ran down the stars and stripes prettily.

  And the people on the dock cheered.

  Evening in Key West had been declared.

  Fletch swung his feet onto the dock and stood up. “Let’s go home.”

  “But, Fletch, after the sunset is better than before. That’s when the clouds pick up their colors.”

  “There aren’t any clouds.”

  She looked at the sky. “You’re right.”

  The young people down the dock had stood up, too.

  “Come on,” Fletch said. “We can walk slowly. Look back.” Moxie got to her feet. “You see the sun set in the ocean all the time anyway,” he said.

  The girl in cut-offs was facing Moxie. “I know what you’re trying to do,” the girl said.

  Her friends were all around her.

  Moxie said nothing. She stepped closer to Fletch and took his arm.

  “You’re trying to look like Moxie Mooney,” the girl laughed.

  Moxie said, “Actually, I’m not.”

  The young people around the girl laughed. One said, “Oh yeah.”

  The girl said, “Moxie doesn’t wear all that crap on her face.”

  “She doesn’t?” Moxie asked.

  “She’s natural,” the girl said. “She don’t wear no make-up at all.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “Naw. But she’s stayin’ somewhere here in Key West.”

  “She’s over on Stock Island,” said the boy. “In seclusion.”

  “Yeah,” said another boy. “She murdered somebody.”

  Moxie’s arm flexed against Fletch.

  “You really think Moxie Mooney killed somebody?” she asked.

  “Why not?” shrugged a boy.

  “What are you—a look-alike contest?” asked another girl.

  “I want to see her,” the girl in cut-offs said. “I’m gonna see her.”

  “Well,” Fletch said. He tugged Moxie’s arm. “Good luck.”

  The girl in cut-offs called after Moxie. “You look sorta like her.”

  “Thanks,” Moxie called back. Miserably, she said, “I guess.”

  They were walking back on Whitehead Street. There was some color in the sky.

  “Anyway,” Fletch said in a cheery tone, “I enjoyed talking with your father this afternoon.”

  “You like him, don’t you.”

  “I admire him,” Fletch said. “Enormously.”

  “I guess he’s a brilliant man,” Moxie admitted.

  “He’s funny.”

  “After all these decades of acting,” Moxie said, “he speaks as if every line were written for him. He says Good Morning and you have to believe it’s a good morning—as if nobody had ever said it before.”

  “How come he’s all-of-a-sudden so attentive to you?”

  “He’s not. He just landed on me. Can’t find work, I guess. Nobody else wants him.”

  “Did he call you, did he write you, did he arrange to stay with you?”

  “Course not. He had taken up residence in my apartment in New York. I didn’t even know it. When I went there a few weeks ago—you know, to talk to Steve Peterman—there he was at home in my apartment. His clothes and his bottles all over the place. He was nearly unconscious. Looking at cartoons on the television. I had to put him to bed.”

  “Jesus,” Fletch said. “Frederick Mooney looking at cartoons on television. All the bad satires of himself.”

  “I was pretty upset anyway. Yelling into the phone, trying to find Steve.”

  “Had you given him a key to the apartment?”

  “No. He had never been there before.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “The doorman gave him a key. He is Frederick Mooney, after all.”

  “I heard someone else say that.”

  “I mean, everyone knows he’s my father. I had never told the doormen to keep him out. What else could they do—have a legendary genius raving in their lobby?”

  “Different rules,” said Fletch. “This may seem strange to you, Moxie, put me down with those kids on the dock, but I’m proud and pleased to know your father. I find him damned interesting. I mean, for me to really see him and talk with him and know him. Even though he keeps confusing me with a corpse.”

  “You’re not a corpse, Fletcher.” Moxie stroked his arm. “Not yet, anyway. Of course, if you get me to sign any more papers in the dark…”

  “Think of all he’s done.”

  “I had to bring him down here with me. What else could I do with him? Couldn’t leave him sitting there in New York.”

  “So you packed him up and poured him onto the plane.”

  “He entertained everybody in the first-class section. He had a few drinks, of course. There was a little girl, about twelve years old, sitting across the aisle from him. He started telling her the story of Pygmalion. He got everybody’s attention by making all Eliza Doolittle’s mouth noises. Began playing all the parts at once. Henry Higgins, the father. Then he began singing all the songs from My Fair Lady. People were standing in aisles. Get me to the church, get me to the church, get me to the church on time…” Moxie sawed out flat and guttural. “People crowded up from the coach section.”

  “Marvelous,” Fletch said.

  “It’s nuts!” she exclaimed.

  “Yeah, nuts. But the little girl will never forget it. No one aboard will. Frederick Mooney doing Shaw at thirty thousand feet.”

  “Nuts!” she said. “Nuts! Nuts! Nuts!”

  “I think it’s nice.”

  “Against safety regulations,” Moxie said. “Have that many people in the aisles. Utterly nuts.”

  “The obligations of talent,” Fletch said. “Different rules.”

  “He’s a drunk,” Moxie said easily. “He’s a mad, raving drunk.”

  “But you love him.”

  “Hell,” she said. “I love him about as much as I love Los Angeles. He’s just very big on my landscape.”

  18

  Dinner at the Blue House was conch chowder, red snapper and Key lime pie. Mrs. Lopez provided the best Key West dining.

  Before dinner, Lopez told Fletch Global Cable News had called several times and would like him to return the call. Fletch thanked him and did not return the call.

  During dinner Frederick Mooney said to Moxie, “But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter—or rather a disease that is in my flesh, which I must needs call mine.”

  “Oh, no,” Moxie said. “More Lear.” Edith Howell said,

  “Freddy’s a learing old man.”

  “And you, Madame,” said Frederick Mooney, “are a bag of wind.”

  And during dinner, Sy Koller said, “I knew something was going on between Dan Buckley and Steve Peterman. Buckley was not happy with Peterman…” He ran through his theory of the murder again, adding the idea this time that may-be Peterman had gotten Buckley into something illegal…

  Moxie said nothing.

  Stella Littleford, looking even smaller and mor
e bedraggled than usual, said, “Marge Peterman.” As she spoke, she kept giving sad glances at her husband, who, after his swim, was still acting a little jumpy and at first kept his smiles perfunctory and his conversation to the mannerly minimum. “Wives can get to the point,” Stella said, “where divorce isn’t adequate. How long had the Petermans been married—ten years? And this was the first time I’ve ever seen Marge Peterman with her husband. I didn’t even know there was a Marge Peterman. And all this time Peterman’s been runnin’ all over the world, going to bed with people, doin’ what he wanted…”

  “I don’t know,” Fletch said. “Did Peterman jump in and out of bed with people, Moxie?”

  “Steve was interested in only one thing,” Moxie said, performing fine surgery on her fish. “Money. And talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. About money.”

  “A wife gets tired of gettin’ shoved aside,” Stella Littleford insisted. “Of everybody tellin’ her she’s not important. Of bein’ told to do this, do that, do the other thing, and otherwise shut up and stay in the background. That could drive anybody to murder.”

  “Stella killed Peterman,” giggled Gerry Littleford. “Out of respect for his wife.”

  Stella colored. “Okay,” she said. “Why was Marge Peterman there? She’d never shown up before. There was no weekend planned, or anything. Our work schedule gave Peterman no more time off than it gave us. We had weeks to go before a break.”

  “Is what you’re saying, Stella,” Fletch asked. “Is that Marge Peterman showed up on location with the intention of killing her husband?”

  “Sure.”

  “Does anybody know if she was expected?” Fletch looked around at the faces at his table.

  “I don’t think she was,” Sy Koller said. “When you’re on location, directors—at least some of us—prefer not to have wives around…” He looked quickly at Geoffrey McKensie and then away. “Extraneous people.” He looked at Frederick Mooney who was blinking drunkenly over his plate. His eyes settled on Stella Littleford. “Apt to be damned distracting. It’s tough enough, you know, dealing with the emotions, the feelings, of the people working on a film. When those people have wives around, and husbands around to back them up, echo everything they say: lovers, retainers, and the odd relative …” Again Koller glanced at Mooney. “All telling them they’re right, they’re wrong, they’re this, they’re that, they look tired this morning—” Koller’s voice went to a bitchy falsetto, “—and is that a pimple coming under your nose? And tell that Sy Koller that scene will never be right until he gives you a stronger exit line… Makes it damned tough for the director.” Sy Koller laughed at himself. “Didn’t mean to take advantage of a simple question and climb on my hobby horse. No,” he said to Fletch. “I don’t think Marge Peterman was expected. I think Peterman and I were of one mind on this topic. I bribed my own wife off with a trip to Belgium. I think if Steve knew his wife was coming he could have asked her not to.”

  “And she would have stayed home in her closet,” Stella said with disgust.

  “Stroking her chinchilla,” put in Edith Howell.

  “Well, this time Marge Peterman didn’t stay home,” insisted Stella Littleford. “She showed up on location and stabbed the bastard.”

  Gerry snickered.

  “Well, where was she during the taping of The Dan Buckley Show?” Stella asked.

  “With me,” Fletch answered.

  “And who the hell are you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “He’s our host,” said Edith Howell. “Would somebody please pass the wine?”

  “And later,” said Stella, “where was she? We found her over there behind those trailers.”

  “With me,” Fletch said.

  “Looked to me like she was hiding,” said Stella.

  “It’s decided.” Gerry Littleford put down his knife and fork. “Stella killed Steve Peterman and thus struck another blow for the equality of women.”

  Mooney’s eyes kept closing and his head kept bobbing and he kept eating. He was napping during dinner.

  “Investors,” said Geoff McKensie.

  “Yeah,” mocked Moxie. “Let’s hear it from the investors.”

  McKensie wrinkled his eyebrows at her. Apparently, like most taciturn men, when McKensie spoke, he expected to be heard. He waited for attention and then spoke in a tone far friendlier than what he had to say to the people present: “I’ve been thinking it out. Who had the most reason to kill Steve Peterman? He was really muckin’ this film up, he was. Here the company had hired a first class director—me. I only took on the job with the understandin’ I could have a free hand with the script. I spent months goin’ over that script. My wife and I flew halfway ’round this spinnin’ earth. I spent a week in California, thrashing the new script out with Talcott Cross. He approved everything I wanted to do. ’Course, he’s a professional, he is. I come out here to this American boot camp for heaven—”

  “I think he means Florida,” Fletch whispered to Moxie.

  “—and here’s this Peterman bloke rollin’ ’round on his back like a pig turnin’ everything on the menu into garbage.”

  Sy Koller’s color was deepening. “You mean, he fired you.”

  “Right he did,” said McRensie. “And he hires a second-rate, has-been director—” McKensie jerked his thumb at his directorial table mate. “—who proceeds to film the original lousy script as if it was half-good. As if it was any good.”

  “Excuse me for living,” said Sy Koller. He was a deep crimson.

  “Come on, Geoff,” said Edith Howell. “Be fair. You were the victim of a terrible, terrible tragedy. Your wife was killed. You couldn’t expect to carry on—”

  “I’m not used to yankee-land,” said McKensie. “With a little luck, I never will be, I now think. But where I come from—Down Under—when something like that happens a decent interval takes place. A chap’s allowed to take the blow and recover.”

  “Come on, McKensie,” Gerry Littleford said. “You were in no shape to direct after your wife’s death. You still aren’t. How could you be?”

  McKensie’s eyes attacked Littleford. “I’ll tell you, sonny, your best chance was to film my script. With me directing.” He made another disparaging gesture toward Koller. “You haven’t got a lawyer’s chance in heaven doin’ things they way you’re doin’ ’em.”

  Fletch was looking at Moxie. His eyes were repeating, Having two directors in the house is like having two ladies wearing the same expensive dress.

  “What happened here?” McKensie asked rhetorically, dropping his h’s onto his plate. “The day after my wife was killed there was no filming—of course. That same damn day this failed director—” Again, he jerked his thumb at Koller. “—is flown in by Steven Peterman. Named the director of Midsummer Night’s Madness. My script is thrown into the hopper and the day after that, you all start filming the original pile of garbage. He didn’t even wait until after the funeral.”

  “I know, Geoff,” Moxie said. “I spoke to Steve about that. I thought it was rotten. I tried to get him to hold off filming for a few days—”

  “It wasn’t respectful, for one thing,” said McKensie. “My wife was a lady who deserved a little respect, you know.”

  “I’m sure she was,” Edith Howell said quickly. “I wish we had all known her.”

  “But Steve said,” continued Moxie. “Oh, you know what he said. He said, how many thousands of dollars filming costs a day. How many thousands of dollars it cost to have the whole crew idle.”

  “‘Idle’,” scoffed McKensie. “Respect for the dead, I’d call it. A little respect for the bereaved.”

  “Steve read me the figures,” Moxie said. “Said the investors would have every reason to raise hell if we closed down for a few days.”

  “Exactly,” McKensie said. “Investors. Maybe your investors have got more sense than Peterman gave ’em credit for. Maybe in the old days in Hollywood you could pull the line investors don’t want the movie good—they
want it Thursday. But films cost a bit too much for that, these days. From my experience with investors, they’d rather have a piece of somethin’ that has a chance of makin’ a profit than a piece of somethin’ that stinks so bad it’ll have to be buried at sea.”

  Koller’s face was going through the whole color spectrum. “Tell me, McKensie,” he said. “If you think Misdummer Night’s Madness is basically such a lousy script, how come you agreed to direct it in the first place?”

  “You don’t expect me to be honest about that, do you?” McKensie said.

  Koller raised and dropped his hands in despair. “Right now, I don’t know what to expect.”

  “It was my chance to direct in America,” Geoffrey McKensie said. “I thought I could make a silk slipper out of a dog’s paw. I could have, too.” He sat back on his chair. Lopez was clearing the table. “If I were an investor in Midsummer Night’s Mad-ness, and I knew what was going on on location, I would have murdered Steve Peterman ruddy fast. The bastard deserved it.”

  “But there was no one on location, Geoff,” Gerry Littleford said, “except those of us actively making the film. The location had been secured.”

  “Bullsdroppings,” said McKensie. “At that moment, there were several alleged members of the press on location. You can’t tell me one of them couldn’t have been a kill artist.”

  “Me again,” said Fletch.

  “You,” said McKensie. “You’re a member of the press? I haven’t been able to find a typewriter anywhere in this house. I spent the afternoon lookin’. In your own room, there isn’t a pad of paper, or a pencil, a camera…”

  “Good point,” said Fletch.

  “What the hell were you doin’ on location then?” McKensie asked.

  “I admit,” said Fletch, “getting on location wasn’t that difficult. I expect anybody who really wanted to, could have. But… they’d have to show some identification.”

  Finally, Koller’s cholera caroomed. “McKensie,” he said, “you’re full of down-under dung. So far you’ve made three small—very small—films, somewhere in the Outback, a million miles from nowhere, no pressure on you, with all the time in the world. Artsy-smartsy films. For God’s sake, they haven’t even really been released outside Australia. Your world-wide audience would fit into a mini-bus. And everyone in the back seat would only pretend to understand what you’re tryin’ to do. And suddenly you’re God Almighty. The Grand Auteur. Listen to me, babe—I’ve made more films that you’ve ever seen. You know how many films I’ve made? Thirty eight! Okay, so the last five didn’t do so well. Three is all you’ve made, buster! Hell, my wife knows more about directing than you’ll ever know, just from listenin’ to me talk. And I’ve made better films than you’ll ever make. Damn it all, at least when I film night scenes like in Midsummer Night’s Madness, I give the audience enough light to see what’s goin’ on. You make that film and the last third of the picture would be so dark, the audience wouldn’t even be able to find their way out of their seats to go home.” Koller took a deep breath. “Just because some of us are courteous to you, kid, don’t think you’re such a hotshot.”