Fletch's Moxie

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Why did you throw the knife into Peterman’s back just after Moxie walked behind him?”

  “Did I? I didn’t know that. I wasn’t watching, you see, I couldn’t without being seen. I threw the knife at exactly that moment the breeze split the curtain.”

  “And then walked in a Z back to the water’s edge.”

  “Yes. And by the time you found me in that bar I had been doing my drunk act for a good two hours or more. And I had convinced the bartender that I was drunk when I arrived.”

  “And no one thought you capable of such a thing.”

  “Not even you.”

  “And how did you get on and off location so easily?”

  “After all,” said Frederick Mooney, “I am Frederick Mooney.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard.”

  “Making me stop and identify myself, sign in, sign out—really. Not all the rules have to apply to me, you know.”

  Fletch shook his head and chuckled. “There is a big black dog named Emperor who goes in and out of Durty Harry’s. I went back the next night. I had thought it was something you had seen instead of a pink elephant.”

  “Fletch… it is all right if I call you Fletch, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I was getting sort of used to Peterkin.”

  “Would you mind having a drink with me?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “In that flight bag there’s another bottle. The real stuff. There are two glasses in the bathroom.”

  “Sure.”

  When he was done pouring the drinks Fletch left that bottle on the bureau, too. He handed one glass to Mooney.

  “Here’s to you, Mister Mooney. It’s real interesting knowing you.”

  “Here’s to you, Mister Fletcher. You tried your best, I think.”

  After the cognac cleared in Fletch’s throat, he asked, “Did you mean to get away with it?”

  “No.” Mooney seemed quite certain on that point. “Of course I expected to be found out.”

  “Then why did you commit such a clever crime?”

  “I like doing things well. Furthermore, puzzling everyone has given me a little more time with Marilyn. Not much.”

  “What did you expect to do once you were found out?”

  “Fade into the background, Fletch, fade into the background. Disguise myself as a pink-kneed, short-pants tourist, or an aged beach bum, or a bewhiskered priest, and slither into the common human pool. I rather fancied retirement for myself in some out of the way place within walking distance of a good, warm, friendly pub, where people care not for theater or films.”

  “You can’t do that now. They’ve arrested Moxie.”

  “I couldn’t do that anyway, now, you bastard.” Mooney grinned ruefully. “You ruined that. You put me on an airplane and landed me on a spit of sand at the end of the world. There’s no way off Key West for Frederick Mooney. Frederick Mooney couldn’t charter a boat or a plane out of Key West disguised as a bedbug. Such people look too closely at you. The first night I was here I went out to investigate. And found there was no way off this damn place for me. I walked so much, I got so tired, I went into a bar and did my drunk act. Had the cops drive me home. One road out of here, and Edith Howell has told me about all those bridges between here and the mainland.” Affection was in Mooney’s look and his chuckle. “You bastard.”

  “Sorry. Do you know Peterman killed McKensie’s wife? Ran her down with a car.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. He was wrecking a lot of people, and would wreck many more. What was this all about? A drug scam?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” said Mooney, “when the corner candy and newspaper store isn’t selling candy and newspapers, you know it must be in some other business.”

  Fletch put his empty glass on the bureau. “Guess you and I have to fly back to Fort Myers together.”

  Mooney said, “We don’t want to keep Marilyn under duress too long.”

  “By the way,” Fletch asked. “Why didn’t you come clean downstairs—before they took her away?”

  “Would you believe I was stunned? I had heard so many murder theories floating around, I thought we had plenty more time to be together. I didn’t know that Moxie had crossed behind Peterman. Truly stunned. I couldn’t think how to handle it downstairs. Here I had successfully passed myself off as a sick old man. What was I supposed to say—I’m sober and I did it? Moxie would have said, Oh, hell!”

  “O.L.”

  “It will take them a moment to believe this one.The curtains will have to close and the lights will have to come up. Young man, I know my audience.”

  Fletch said, “I’ll go phone around to charter a plane.”

  Mooney’s empty glass was on the arm rest of his chair. His fingers were folded in his lap.

  At the door, Fletch said, “One more question, Mister Mooney. When you and I first met, in that bar on the beach, you told me that Moxie—Marilyn—might have murdered someone, a teacher, a drama coach, when she was fourteen.”

  Mooney nodded.

  “Why did you tell me that—if you knew she hadn’t killed Peterman?”

  “To keep suspicion—particularly your suspicion—away from me. I knew Marilyn had sent for you. I knew who you are—an old friend and lover of Marilyn’s. I knew it would be most difficult for you to believe Marilyn guilty of murder. I made it easier for you. I planted a doubt in your mind.”

  “You blinded me,” Fletch said. “I haven’t thought straight since.” Fletch’s hand was on the door knob. “What was true about the story—anything?”

  “Did you ask Marilyn about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did she assure you she did not kill Mister Hodes?”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  “Ah, that Marilyn.” Smiling, Mooney shook his head. “She sure knows how to keep an audience.”

  38

  It took Fletch longer than he expected to charter a plane to Fort Myers. He finally found a charter service in Miami willing to fly down to Key West to pick them up. It would be a while before the plane arrived.

  Going back into the front hall, Fletch saw through the open front door that Geoffrey McKensie was in the street putting his luggage into the small yellow car.

  A dozen or so people were watching the house from across the street.

  Fletch went out to the sidewalk. He stood quietly a moment. Then he said to McKensie: “I’m sorry everything has worked out so rotten for you.”

  A garbage truck went by. Painted on its side was WE CATER WEDDINGS.

  His head in the trunk, McKensie said, “Every time us Aussies leave Australia we get used as cannon fodder.”

  “History doesn’t say so.”

  McKensie slammed the trunk. “You won’t see this lad on these shores again.”

  “Sorry you feel that way. You ran up against one cheap crook, a murderer—”

  “That’s not all, brother.” McKensie got into the car, closed the door, rolled down the window, started the engine. “I’ve had my experience with the American film industry. My first and my last.”

  He drove off.

  In the front hall, Edith Howell said, “I’m so sorry, Fletcher. Geoff told us all about the police dragging Moxie away. Not that I blame her for doing in that Steve Peterman. Awful man! I always said so, didn’t I, John?” John Meade had carried luggage down the stairs. Stella and Gerry Littleford were coming down the stairs with luggage, as was Sy Koller. Everyone was carrying luggage except Edith Howell. “We were just hoping she’d have a little more time before she was incarcerated. She’s been working so hard.”

  In the street a rubber-neck wagon was going by….arrested this afternoon the actress, Moxie Mooney, for first-degree murder. Another tale of Key West…

  Fletch decided not to trouble anyone with the facts. Let these people go. Getting Frederick Mooney out of the house and to the airport would be much easier without his being encircled by the shock and clucking of these people.

&n
bsp; “Where’s Freddy?” Edith asked. “Getting as drunk as he can as fast as he can, I expect.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, I know my Freddy,” said Edith. “I wouldn’t have that man for all his millions. Scrambled eggs for brains.”

  “You’d get employed faster, Edith, as Mrs Frederick Mooney,” Sy Koller said.

  All the people carrying luggage were trying to get around the person not carrying luggage. Edith Howell centered herself nicely in the front hall.

  “I don’t think Freddy’s the great actor people make him out to be, either,” said Edith. “In Time, Gentlemen, Time, he jumped on my every line. Most annoying. ’Course I knew how much he wanted to get back to his dressing room for a drink.”

  Fletch watched them go through the process of leaving. It was as if they were leaving a hotel. Edith Howell jabbered to John Meade about getting to Miami, over those bridges, before dark. The Littlefords said they had to go back to Vanderbilt Beach where they had left luggage. Sy Koller was grumbling that he supposed he had to go back to Bonita Beach to oversee the shutting down of the Midsummer Nights Madness location. “If I don’t at least go through the motions,” Sy said, “I suppose I’ll never get employed again.” Stella Littleford carried her bandaged head stiffly and said nothing. Only John Meade shook hands and said good bye and said thank you.

  Before getting into the car Gerry Littleford said, “Oh, yeah. Fletch. Someone called. With an English accent. Didn’t catch the name. Talked fast. I didn’t know where you were. He said to tell you Scarlet something-or-other, Pumpernickle? won a twenty-five thousand dollar purse.”

  “No foolin’.”

  “Didn’t know you were into horse racing.”

  “Didn’t know Scarlet Pimple-Nickel was either.”

  If he were a doorman, they might have tipped him. As it was, they all drive off in two cars, discouraged for the moment, Fletch believed, but only for the moment, nevertheless sure that on some tomorrow the right material and the right people would come together and they would create an unreality more credible than reality, and be paid, and be applauded.

  39

  This time after knocking on Frederick Mooney’s bedroom door, Fletch waited to be invited in. There was no response. He knocked again.

  He opened the door.

  Frederick Mooney was on his back on the bed. On the bedside table were a drinking glass and one of the bottles, three-quarters full.

  Fletch closed the door and went to the bedside. “Mister Mooney?”

  He shook the man’s arm. “Oh, come on. I don’t need a final act.”

  He sniffed the bottle on the bedside table. Cognac

  “Come on,” said Fletch. “I’m sure you can also hold your breath and play dead longer than anyone else who’s ever been on the stage.”

  On the bed the other side of Mooney was an empty tablet bottle. The cap was off. Fletch reached over Mooney and picked up the bottle. The label was for prescription sleeping tablets.

  “Mister Mooney!” Fletch said. “You set the stage nicely. Now let’s go.”

  He shook him again. “Jeez,” Fletch said. “Do I believe it?”

  He felt for the pulse in Mooney’s wrist. There was none. Frederick Mooney was not breathing at all.

  “O.L.!” Fletch dropped Mooney’s hand. “God-damn it, now you’re not acting at all!”

  A curtain of wetness slipped down over Fletch’s eyes. The afternoon light from the windows was bright.

  On the desk were two envelopes and an open note. Fletch went to the desk. The two envelopes were sealed. One said, Ms Marilyn Mooney; the other, The Authorities.

  The open note was to him.

  Fletcher,

  “If I may ask you to do us one more favor? Please deliver these notes as addressed.

  The letter to the authorities describes how and why I killed Steven Peterman in such detail that they will have no choice but to believe me. My doctor will testify that I have been tea-total since I developed a heart problem more than three years ago, and I have provided the authorities with his name.

  The letter to Marilyn cannot explain all. Perhaps you can help her to understand. It says I have enjoyed spending these weeks with her, watching her, applauding her, loving her from behind the curtain, as it were. I am also telling her that I am leaving her enough money so that she certainly should be able to pay off all these financial charges against her, however great, and maybe have enough left over for a quiet, non-working weekend sometime in her life.

  I am reminded now of all the thousands of nights I have left some theater somewhere, tired to the bones, and walked alone to some hotel, only perchance to sleep, wondering as I walked why such talents, such expertise, such energy is spent creating an illusion for a handful of people, for a few hours. What for? One can suspend reality, but never conquer it.

  Thanks for having me.

  Frederick Mooney

  40

  In the quiet house, Fletch went back downstairs, along the corridor, through the billiard room and into the small library at the back of the house.

  He sat at the desk.

  He called Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman’s telephone number and left the message asking her to return the call immediately upon her arrival.

  He called Miami and enquired about the airplane he had chartered. It had already left. He asked the dispatcher to radio the pilot that now Fletch would need the airplane for a return flight to Fort Myers.

  Then, for the first time, Fletch remembered that days before he had abandoned a rented car at Fort Myers airport. His luggage was still in the car.

  Then he called Washington, D.C. Now was the time to see if Global Cable News would listen to just any barefoot boy with cheek who happened to have a story.

  A woman answered, saying, “Good afternoon. Global News. May I help you?”

  “Hello,” Fletch said. “My name is Armistad…”

  ALSO BY GREGORY MCDONALD

  FLETCH

  Fletch is currently living on the beach with the strung-out, trying to find the source of their drugs, and racking up charges on the expense account. So when multimillionaire Alan Stanwyk offers Fletch a job that could be worth a fortune, he does some investigating. What he discovers is that the proposition is anything but what it seems.

  Crime Fiction/0-375-71354-9

  FLETCH WON

  As a fledgling reporter, Fletch’s editor’s got him pegged for the society pages. But his first big interview, a millionaire lawyer with a crooked streak, ends up dead in the News-Tribune’s parking lot. So Fletch ends up going after the murderer instead.

  Crime Fiction/0-375-71352-2

  FLETCH, TOO

  Fletch is getting hitched, and somebody delivered a letter from his unknown father with an invitation to visit him in Nairobi. But as soon as the couple lands, there’s a murder at the airport, reports of the old man’s incarceration, and hospitality offered by Pop’s best friend, who flies them across the continent after the old rascal.

  Crime Fiction/0-375-71353-0

  FLETCH AND THE WIDOW BRADELY

  If Tom Bradley, one of Fletch’s principal sources, is dead, who’s been signing his name to company documents? If he’s alive, why does his widow have Tom’s ashes? Fletch may have more questions than answers, but if he’s going to get his reputation back, not to mention his job, he’s going to have to get to the bottom of this quick.

  Crime Fiction/0-375-71351-4

  CARIOCA FLETCH

  Fletch’s trip to Brazil wasn’t exactly planned. But he has plenty of money, and it took him no time to hook up with the luscious Laura Soares. But between the American widow who seems to be following him and the Brazilian widow who’s convinced that he’s her long-dead husband, Fletch suddenly doesn’t have time to enjoy the present.

  Crime Fiction/0-375-71347-6

  CONFESS, FLETCH

  Fletch’s Italian fianceé’s father has been kidnapped and presumably murdered, and Fletch is on the trail of her stolen art c
ollection. But when he arrives in his apartment to find a dead body, things start to get complicated. With the police on his tail, Fletch makes himself at home in Boston, breaking into a private art gallery, “entertaining” his future mother-in-law, and visiting with the good Inspector Flynn.

  Crime Fiction/0-375-71348-4

  FLETCH’S FORTUNE

  Once an investigative reporter of questionable methods, Fletch hasn’t been a practicing journalist for years, but when agents Eggers and Fabens approach him with too much information about himself and an invitation to the American Journalism Alliance convention, how could he refuse? So he finds himself enlisted as a spy among his peers. But before he can even set up his surveillance, there’s a murder. And almost everybody’s a suspect.

  Crime Fiction/0-375-71355-7

  FLETCH AND THE MAN WHO

  Governor Caxton Wheeler’s presidential campaign has been leaving dead women in its tracks. Are the murders just coincidence, or is a cold-hearted killer looking for a job in the White House? As the governor’s press representative, Fletch is working overtime to find the killer and to make sure the governor doesn’t lose any more votes.

  Crime Fiction/0-375-71349-2

  ALSO AVAILABLE:

  Flynn, 0-375-71357-3

  The Buck Passes Flynn, 0-375-71360-3

  Flynn’s In, 0-375-71361-1

  Flynn’s World, 0-375-71358-1

  VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD

  Available at your local bookstore, or call toll-free to order:

  1-800-793-2665 (credit cards only).

  FIRST VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD EDITION, JULY 2005

  Copyright © 1982 by Gregory Mcdonald

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in the United States by Warner Books, New York, in 1982.