Fletch and the Widow Bradley

21

“I’ V E D O N E Y O U a favor,” Moxie said a few times during the evening.

In bed, after they’d showered, after they’d eaten peanut butter sandwiches, after Fletch had explained to Moxie again he had no intention of trying to be an actor and she had explained to him, again, patiently, that, yes, he would so try, that doubtlessly he would be far better than Sam in the role, Fletch’s legs were straighter, and after they, again, physically penetrated each other, and were, at that moment, lying back in the dark room, Moxie asked, “Fletcher?”

“Yes, Ma’m?”

“Where were you this morning?”

“When this morning?”

“I woke up at three o’clock. You weren’t in bed. You weren’t in the bathroom. You weren’t in the apartment at all.”

“I went out to do a spot of housebreaking.”

“Jeez,” Moxie said. “The way you say things I’d almost believe it. Not an actor, uh?”

“Not to worry. I got away with it.”

“Well.” She contracted and expanded, put her arm and her leg on his, so she’d be more comfortable. “I’ve done you a favor. A thousand-dollar favor. Or, a twenty-four thousand dollar favor, depending on your point of view.”

“How’s that again?”

“I’ve stolen a thousand dollars from you. From the wallet.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Well, it makes sense, Fletch. You’re not spending the money when you really need to because you want to be able to return the whole twenty-five thousand dollars to the man. Right?”

“Right.”

“Well, now you can’t return the whole twenty-five thousand dollars to the man. Because I’ve got a thousand dollars of it. So you might as well do the sensible thing and spend the rest of the money yourself. Right?”

“Are you serious?”

“As serious as a flash flood in Abu Zabi.”

“Perverted.”

“What?”

“Perverted reasoning.”

“Hardly.”

“Moxie, you’ve stolen a thousand dollars which doesn’t belong to me.”

“Right. Thus giving you use of twenty-four thousand dollars.”

“That’s corrupt. You’re a crook.”

“I’m a sensible, clever lady.”

“What have you done with the money?”

“Hidden it.”

“Where?”

“Some place you’ll never find it.”

“Where would that be?”

“That’s for me to know and for you not to find out.”

“You’re serious about this.”

“Entirely.”

“Do you intend to spend the money?”

“I will if I want. If there’s something I want that costs a thousand dollars, I’ll spend it.”

“Is there something you want that costs a thousand dollars?”

“Not that I know of. Probably I’ll think of something. I didn’t really steal the money to spend it.”

“Oh, no. Of course I believe that.”

“You make me sound like a suspicious person.”

“You’re not suspicious. You’re a crook.”

“Fletcher, if you’d lost twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, do you think anyone else would drive all around the country trying to get it back to you?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Then you’re an idealist slightly more demented than Icarus.”

“Which Icarus is that?”

“The guy who flew toward the sun with wings attached by wax. The melting kind of wax.”

“Oh, that Icarus. That kind of wax.”

“Demented.”

“Moxie, there’s such a thing as a social contract. It makes the world go ‘round.”

“I don’t notice Frank Jaffe, or your newspaper, observing any social contract with you.”

“Of course they have. It appears I goofed, and they fired me. That’s perfectly agreeable.”

“You were lied to by someone at Wagnall-Phipps.”

“Charles Blaine. And Enid Bradley did try to observe the social contract with me. She offered me money to make up for the damage I’ve suffered at the hands of Wagnall-Phipps.”

“Did you accept?”

“No.”

“More likely she offered you money to make you go away.”

“I think so, too.”

“It’s also written into the social contract, Loosers weepers, Finders keepers.”

“Where is that written?”

“Page 38. Clause 74.”

“That’s the social contract for young readers. Ages four to seven.”

“Really, Fletch.”

“Moxie, what am I going to do if I find the man, this James St. E. Crandall, and I haven’t got the full twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“I have just given you reason—necessity, you might all call it—to stop looking for James St. E. Crandall. Don’t you get the point? You’re such a slow boy.”

“You’re a crook. You’ve stolen a thousand dollars.”

“I’ve done you a favor.”

“Stop doing me favors. At seven o’clock you’re doing me the favor of trying to get me a job as a male stripper. At eleven o’clock you tell me you’ve done me the favor of stealing a thousand dollars from me. What’s the next favor you’re going to do me? Give me whooping cough?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Jeez!”

“You think about it, too.”

“Think about what?”

“All the nice favors I’ve been doing you. You’ll feel much better in the morning. You’ll wake up and realize you have twenty-four thousand dollars to spend. You’re so rich you can even afford to work in the theater.”

“Good night, darling.”

“ ‘Night, lover. Sweet dreams.”