Fletch’s Moxie f-5

by Gregory Mcdonald

  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.

  “A bust?”

  “Shut up. Get up. Get rid of whatever shit you have.” Fletch pulled up on one side of the hammock and Gerry fell out the other side landing like a panther on braced fingers and toes. “Down the toilet, Gerry. Pronto.”

  In the bedroom Fletch put on his shorts and shirt.

  “What’s happening?” Moxie said into her pillow.

  “You might get dressed. The cops are here.”

  Instantly she sat up. Instantly there was no sign of sleep in her face. Instead there was the look of someone cornered, frightened but who would fight.

  “I know,” Fletch said. “You didn’t kill Steve Peterman. Ho-hum.”

  And three policemen were standing on the front porch. When Fletch opened the front door to them they seemed surprised. They had not rung the bell or knocked.

  “Good morning,” Fletch said. “Welcome to the home of the stars. Donations are tax deductible.”

  The policemen seemed shy. There were five police cars in the street. The roof lights of three were flashing. Despite the demonstration the day before, the street was clean.

  Fletch held his hand out to them, palm up. A policeman put a folded paper into Fletch’s palm. Nevertheless, he said, “May we come in?”

  Fletch held their own paper up to them. “Guess this says you may.”

  In the front hall one of the policemen said, “I’m Sergeant Henning.”

  Fletch shook hands with him. “Fletcher. Tenant of this domicile.”

  “We have to search this domicile.”

  “Sure,” Fletch said. “Coffee?”

  The sergeant looked around at all the other policemen coming into the house, through the front and back and verandah doors, and said, “Sure.”

  In the kitchen Fletch put a pan of water on the stove and got out two mugs. “Thanks for your help yesterday.”

  “Actual fact, we weren’t much help. Got here late. Things had gone too far. Things like that don’t happen here in Key West anyway.”

  “Not on your daily agenda, huh?”

  “Actual fact, sort of hard to know what to do. Those bimbos are citizens, too. Sort of got the right to demonstrate.”

  “Were there any actual arrests?” Fletch spooned instant coffee into the two mugs. From upstairs he could hear people moving around. Furniture being moved. Then he could hear Edith Howell’s voice pitched high in indignation.

  “Nine. They’ll be released this morning.”

  “No one threw that rum bottle at Mrs. Littleford, huh?” The water in the pan was bubbling.

  “None of the people we arrested did.” The sergeant smiled ruefully. “We asked every one of ’em, we did. Politely, too.”

  Fletch poured the water into the mugs and handed one to the police sergeant.

  “Any sugar?” the sergeant asked. Fletch nodded to the bowl on the counter. “I need my sugar.” The sergeant helped himself. “Coffee and sugar. It’s what keeps me bad-tempered.”

  Two other policemen came into the kitchen and began searching through it.

  “Appreciate it if you wouldn’t make too much of a mess,” Fletch said. “Know Mrs. Lopez?”

  “Sure,” a cop said.

  “She’ll have to clean up.”

  He went out onto the back porch with his coffee. The sergeant followed him.

  “Can you tell me why you’re searching the house?” Fletch asked.

  The sergeant shrugged. “Illegal substances.”

  “Yeah, but why? What’s the evidence you had to get a warrant?”

  “It was good enough for the judge. That sure is a nice banyan tree. I haven’t been in this house in years.” He grinned at Fletch. “You in the movies, too?”

  “No.”

  “Just one of those cats who likes to associate with movie people, huh?”

  “Yeah. A hanger-on.”

  “It must be sort of disappointin’, seein’ these people up close. I mean, when no one’s writin’ their lines for ’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 Easy River.”

  “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.”

  “Yeah? You had a rave-up down there just yesterday, didn’t you? Nasties and the bedsheet bunch. Saw it on television, I did. What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

  “That’s always the question, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what makes a horse race.”

  “Damn,” said Fletch. “I didn’t think you knew what makes a horse race.”

  * * *

  And Fletch did not mind telephoning Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman at that early hour. Police stations are supposed to be open for twenty-four-hour-a-day service. If she wasn’t there yet he should be able to leave a message.

  But she was there.

  “Aren’t you getting any sleep at all, Chief?”

  “Thank you for your concern, Mister Fletcher.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Staging that drug bust this morning. Here at The Blue House. I’m sure I’ll figure out why in a minute. Trying to discover who’s sleeping with whom? You could have asked. You did before.”

  “How’s the weather in Key West?”

  “Nice.”

  “It’s nice here, too.”

  “Having John Meade busted in Key West for a few qualudes is not nice of you.”

  “John Meade?”

  “He could end up with a jail sentence, you know. He’s a big name. Make good headlines for the authorities in Key West.”

  “Was he in illegal possession of a controlled substance?”

  “That’s why he’s being held.”

  “I’m sorry. Loved him in Easy River.”

  “So did he. He won’t be able to use his talents to give you much more pleasure if he’s in the hoosegow.”

  “So I’ll see Easy River again. It’s on the T.V. all the time. Now—regarding that question you asked? Regarding Steven Peterman’s car?”

  “Yes?”

  “We had it checked out. The car was in the parking lot on Bonita Beach. A blue Cadillac.” “A rented car?”

  “Yes. No damage. Not a scrape. So that’s the end of that great line of investigation.”

  “What date did he rent the car?”

  There was a long silence from Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman. “That’s a good point. Are you trying to get ahead of me, Mister Fletcher?”

  “Would you expect him to keep a damaged car? A damaged rented car?”

  “I wonder what date he actually arrived in Florida.”

  “I don’t know. I should think you’d know by now.”

  “I would, too. Okay …”

  “So that line of investigation is still open?”

  “We’ll check further.”

  “Another thing. You must know that yesterday we had sort of a riot here. A demonstration. Some violence.”

  “It was in all the papers. On T.V. Everybody’s name mentioned but your’s. Who are you, Mister Fletcher?”

  “Chief, one of these groups might really have been trying to stop this film. I mean, to the point of murder. Gerry Littleford said last night that he had received threatening letters and phone calls—”

  “Does he have any of the letters?”

  “No. But the riot yesterday—Stella Littleford did get hurt. Some of these people can be vicious. Insanely vicious.

  “Vicious but not smart. I don’t think your average bigoted tub-of-lard is up to getting on location and then making a knife magically appear between the ribs of somebody sitting on a well-lit stage in daylight surrounded by cameras. … Do you, earwig?”

  “No.”

  “Keep trying, earwig. Things are looking worse and worse for your Ms Moxie Mooney. I need a devil’s advocate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, all those film experts we hired—they’re coming down pretty heavily on her. That dance she did.”

  “What dance?”

  “Didn’t you see her? Thought you were there.” “What dance?”

  “Just before the, you know, murder. Moxie Mooney got up from her chair and did a little dance. She was showing Dan Buckley some little dance step she did in A Broadway Hit.”

  “In her bathrobe?”

  “Make-up robe, dressing gown, whatever you want to call it. It’s terrycloth. We have it. I should think it would be too big for her.”

  “So she couldn’t have done it.”


  “So she could have. After she did her little dance step, she went back to her own chair, crossing behind where Peterman and Buckley were sitting.”

  “She crossed behind them.”

  “Yes. Behind. It’s in all the videotapes. In fact, it looks a little unnatural. From where she finished her dance, she could have walked directly back to her chair, or behind Peterman and Buckley. She chose to walk behind them.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “The experts have drawn lines all over the stage floor. They talk in cubes. Do you understand that?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. Upshot of it is they said it would have been more direct, and more natural for her to walk in front of the men. It looks a little unnatural to me. But, keep tryin’, earwig. Believe me, I’d rather find some group of crazies guilty of murder than Moxie Mooney. This is not the way I want to become a famous detective.”

  “Are there any other leads you’re following?”

  “Sure. But let me keep a few secrets, will you? Again I warn you, Fletcher: don’t you and Ms Mooney leave Key West, except to come back here.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Some people were a little nervous when you went sailing yesterday.” “You know about that?”

  “The Coast Guard did a helicopter over you.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. They said you were real cute together. Said it was just like watching a movie.”

  31

  “Cats will bark before I ever accept an invitation to stay in your house again, Mister What’s-your-name Fletcher,” Edith Howell stated at breakfast.

  “What Katz?” asked Sy Koller. “Sam Katz or Jock Katz?”

  They were crowded at the white iron framed glass table on the cistern in the backyard of The Blue House. Moxie had not yet come down to breakfast.

  “A riot out of control one morning. People throwing rocks at the house. Bopping poor Stella with a bottle. Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Jock Katz always barked,” Sy Koller said. “He barked all the time.”

  “A police raid this morning, at dawn. They came right into my bedroom while I was sleeping! I threw my aspirin bottle at the damned cop. Hit him, too, right on the cheek.”

  “Sam Katz never barked. Sam was a pussy cat.”

  “And they yank John off and charge him with being in possession of medicine, or something…”

  “Are you saying we were raided by the police this morning?” Frederick Mooney asked.