Fletch’s Moxie

9

“Fletch! What have you done?”

“What do you mean, what have I done?”

In the dark, Moxie was squinting at the airport where they had landed. “Where are we?”

“Here.”

“We’re not in Fort Myers.”

“We aren’t?” He was trying to hustle Moxie and Frederick Mooney from the airplane to the taxi stand. Unfortunately there were signs in all the appropriate places saying KEY WEST.

“We’re in Key West!” Moxie said.

“We are?” Fletch took Mooney’s clanging flight bag from him. “Darned pilot. Must have landed us in the wrong place.”

“Union Square?” enquired Mooney.

“What are we doing in Key West?”

Fletch was walking them around the terminal rather than through it. “You said you were tired of Route 41.”

“So?”

“All roads end in Key West. Usually in a pile-up.”

There were two taxis at the stand.

“Fletch,” Moxie said seriously. “That woman. The Chief of Detectives. She told us not to leave the Fort Myers area. At least she told me not to leave the Fort Myers area.”

“She mentioned something of the same to me, too.”

Moxie faced Fletch on the sidewalk. “Then what are we doing in Key West?”

“Escaping.”

“We were told—”

“That has no force in law, you know.”

“It hasn’t?”

“No. It hasn’t. We’re not out on bail, or on parole. We haven’t been charged with anything.”

Frederick Mooney was climbing into the backseat of a taxi.

“Are we fugitives from justice?” she asked.

“Ah, that we may be. It’s just that if you run away under such circumstances people are more apt to think you’re guilty.”

“And we’ve run away. Great.”

“Well, hell, Moxie, aren’t you guilty?” Her eyes went from him to the patient taxi driver to Mooney’s dark bulk in the backseat. “Not too many people had the opportunity, given the unique circumstances which then prevailed, of sticking ol’ Steve. Up there—” Fletch pointed to the sky, “—you gave heavy enough reasons for killing him to bring the airplane down anywhere. Opportunity,” Fletch said. “Motive,” Fletch said.

“You mean I shouldn’t have told you all that?”

“Justification,” Fletch said. “Sounded a milimeter away from a confession, to me.”

For a moment under the arc lights, Moxie Mooney almost looked drawn and haggard.

“Come on,” Fletch said. “Let’s go with Freddy. Otherwise, he might not know where he’s going.”

Moxie sat between them in the backseat of the taxi.

“The Blue House,” Fletch said to the driver. “On Duval Street.”

The taxi started off.

To Moxie, Fletch said, “I’ve borrowed a house. From a friend.”

Mooney took a drink.

“Listen,” Fletch said to Moxie. “A few days of peace and quiet…”

Moxie got out of the taxi while Fletch was paying the driver through the side window. She looked up at the lit house.

“Irwin,” she said. “This Blue House is not blue.”

“It isn’t?”

“Am I going crazy? Even in this light I can tell this Blue House is not blue.”

Fletch helped Frederick Mooney out of the taxi.

“Key West is an eccentric town,” Fletch said.

“Doubt you’ll be here long enough to get used to it.”

Moxie hesitated on the sidewalk. She raised her head and spoke to the sky. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Be nice,” Fletch answered, helping Mooney up the three steps.

“Mister Peterson,” Mooney said at the top of the stairs. “You are a nice young man, but if you don’t stop helping me, I will brain you.”

“Sorry.” Fletch let go of him.

Mooney swayed on the verandah. “You’re up-setting my balance.”

Moxie followed them through the doorway. “Why is this Blue House white?”

“Jeez,” Fletch said. “You couldn’t call it The White House. Wouldn’t be respectful.”

The Lopezes, who took care of The Blue House, were not in the house. Fletch knew they lived in their own house behind the garden wall. The front door had been left unlocked, the lights on. In the dining room a tray of cut sandwiches had been set out along with a fancy ice bucket full of cans of beer. Lights were on even at the back of the house, in the billiard room.

Fletch zipped around the house turning out the lights. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

Moxie said, “It’s not even nine o’clock.”

“Time means nothing in Key West.” He started up the stairs. “Never believe a clock in Key West.”

Mooney attacked the stairs. “Charge!” he said.

Plodding after him, Moxie said, “Dear O. L.

Your allusion to Arsenic and Old Lace under these circumstances is decidedly in poor taste.”

Fletch pointed to the first door on the right. “This is your room, Ms Mooney. I think you’ll find everything in order. Towels in the bathroom.”

She looked into the room and then across the wide corridor at him. “Do I give you a tip?”

“If you have trouble with the air conditioner, just call downstairs.”

Fletch pushed open another door. “This room is your’s, Mister Mooney. See? Nice big double bed.”

“Very good.” Frederick Mooney staggered through the door to his room. “What time do I go on?”

“Not to worry,” Fletch said. “We’ll call you in plenty of time.”

“Just did Lear,” Fletch heard Mooney muttering through the door. “Must be Richard III tonight.”

Moxie was standing in the doorway. Even in her black dress, even standing still, her chin tilted slightly up, the light behind her made her presence, her being, exciting.

“Good night, Ms Mooney. Sleep well.”

“Good night,” she said. “Thanks for bringing my luggage.”

Fletch said, “I didn’t, did I.”

In his own room, Fletch walked out of his moccasins, dropped his shirt and his shorts and his undershorts in a heap on the floor, walked through a warm shower in no time at all, and then walked into bed, fell down, and pulled the sheet over him.

Then he laughed.