Fletch and the Widow Bradley

28

“W H E R E’ S T H E T H O U S A N D dollars?”

“Hell of a way to greet me.” At nearly midnight Moxie stood in the doorway of the apartment and dropped her airline’s bag onto the floor. The zipper of the bag was broken and sticking out of it were the playscript, a sneaker, and a towel.

“Hello,” Fletch said from the divan.

“Hello.”

“You look bushed.”

“I am bushed. Been rehearsing since noon. You look bushed with a sunburn. Oh, no! You have a sunburn!”

Through the dim light of the livingroom she was looking at him like a cosmetician.

“I have a sunburn. I fell asleep on the beach.”

“Do you have it all over?”

“All over what?”

“All over your bod.”

“No. Thank you for asking.”

“That’s all right. I guess it will fade before opening night. You’ll just look funny tomorrow, that’s all. At rehearsal.”

“I’m not going to rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Fletch, you have to.”

“I do?”

“Sam is just impossible in the role. His manners are just so heavy. He’s so self-conscious.”

“And don’t forget he’s cursed with thick thighs or something.”

“You’d think he was playing Streetcar Named Desire. His timing is all off for comedy. I told Paul you’d absolutely be at the rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Paul the director?”

“Paul the director. He’s good to give you the chance, seeing you’ve never really acted before. I mean, in the theater.”

“I will not be at the theater tomorrow absolutely. Or tomorrow or tomorrow or tomorrow. Isn’t that a line from somewhere?”

“Almost. I told you you can act.”

“I’ve already done the strip-tease once today. And that was without music.”

Moxie was taking things out of her airline’s bag and spreading them around the floor. “Tell me: you were kidnapped and raped by a gang of Mexican Girl Scouts—right?”

“Almost. Customs. Coming back. The United States Customs. They hustled me into a little room, made me strip, and proceeded to prod and poke in my every crevasse and orifice.”

“Serious?”

“I thought it was serious. I didn’t like it much. They X-rayed my boots, my suitcase, my teeth.”

“That’s terrible.”

“They spent over two hours on me. Or in me.”

“What for?”

“They were unwilling to believe anyone my age flew on three airplanes to Puerto de Orlando, Mexico, and back on three airplanes for thirty hours on the beach. I told them I had some time off.”

“They thought you were smuggling drugs or something.”

“Something.” Fletch flicked a finger at the letter from the Mayor’s Office on the coffee table. “Hardly the way to treat the Good Citizen of the Month.”

Moxie knelt on the divan next to him and took Fletch’s head in her arms. “Aw, my poor Fletch. Were you able to fart on cue?”

“Of course it didn’t help convince them of my innocence that I was carrying over one thousand dollars in cash in my pocket.”

“Did they finally apologize to the Good Citizen?”

“They said they’d catch me next time. Now may I ask where the thousand dollars is?”

“What thousand dollars?”

“The thousand dollars you took from the wallet.”

“Oh, that thousand dollars.”

“The very same.”

“I bought a sweater.”

“A thousand dollar sweater?”

“A skirt. Some records. And some baloney. Want a baloney sandwich?”

“We’re living higher on the hog.”

“And a car.”

“A car!”

“A little car. Even smaller than yours.”

“What kind of a car?”

“Yellow.”

“A yellow car. I see.”

“And it does beep-beep nicely.”

“A small yellow car with a horn. Have I got it right so far?”

“I suppose it has an engine. It has an ignition key, which works.”

“What a relief. No one should look at the engine until the ignition key doesn’t work. Might be bad luck.”

“I needed a car. You know, to get around.”

“So the thousand dollars is gone.”

“No such thing! I have a skirt, a sweater, some records—some nice records—a car, and some baloney. That’s not gone, like, you know, if I threw it out the window. Want a baloney sandwich?”

“Sure.”

At the kitchen counter Moxie spread the mustard so thin the baloney didn’t even look slippery.

“Are you trying to make it last until all men are free?” he asked.

“What?”

“The mustard.” He took the jar and knife from her and slathered it on properly.

Sitting at the kitchen table, she asked, “What were you doing in Mexico? I mean, other than smuggling diamonds and drugs and cruising in your yacht?”

“I went to see Charles Blaine, Vice-president and treasurer of Wagnall-Phipps.”

“Oh.”

“And he tells me,” Fletch said, placing the top pieces of bread on the sandwiches carefully so they would not slip, “that he’s been receiving memos from a dead man.”

“Seems I read that in the newspaper. Sort of.”

“Indirectly, I suppose you did.”

“So what’s new?”

“Obviously, he has not been receiving memos from a dead man.”

“It’s nice to hear you say that. For a while, you had me worried.”

“So from whom has he been receiving memos?”

“Must be Madame Palonka.”

“Must be.” He handed her a sandwich. “Who’s Madame Palonka?”

“A medium in San Francisco. She transmits messages from the dead. Wow. Too much mustard.”

“Who has been continuing to write memos signed Thomas Bradley after Thomas Bradley died?”

“A secretary stuck on routine?”

“Who is running Wagnall-Phipps?”

“Who cares?”

“I think they thought no one would care—much.”

“They’re right. Who are ‘they’?”

“The great ‘they’. I dunno.”

“You care.”

“I either have to care, or consider myself a non-entity, you see.”

“Phew! What a choice! To be a something or not to be a nothing … how does that work out? To be a something, or a something …? God! I can’t keep up with you.”

“Something’s rotten in Denmark. Is that the same play?”

“Nothing’s rotten in Denmark,” Moxie said. “I’ve been there. Surely no one in Denmark would give me a mustard sandwich which even the baloney is trying to slip away from.”

“Charles Blaine cares who’s running Wagnall-Phipps.”

“Fletch, do you think—just possibly—you’re slightly obsessed with this matter?”

“It’s not often one sees memos from a dead man.”

“I admit that.”

“And it’s not often, I hope, that one’s career is ruined by the selfsame mysterious memos.”

“So you insist that your compulsion to find out who wrote those memos and why is legitimate?”

“I insist.”

“Why don’t you forget this whole silly thing, come to rehearsals tomorrow, try out for the lead in In Love, work hard with me, and enjoy a smashing success? You might find a whole new career for yourself in the theater.”

“Sure. And ever after I’d still be known as the journalist who got fired because I quoted a dead man.”

“At least come to rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Going to New York.”

“Going to New York? You can’t!”

“Can do. Made my reservation on an early flight while I was waiting for you.”

“Why are you going to New York?”

“Because there’s still one person concerned with this whole matter I haven’t yet seen—Tom Bradley’s sister, Francine.”

“What can she know about it? She’s all the way across the country!”

“Yeah. I know. But she’s the only one I see benefitting from Bradley’s death. Unless, of course, you subscribe to the theory Mrs. Bradley benefits emotionally by having gotten rid of the old boy.”

“I don’t subscribe to any theory. Except that there comes a time to give up! And you’re long past that time!”

“Francine Bradley,” Fletch said patiently, “is going to come West at some point and take over, run Wagnall-Phipps. Tom Bradley has been consulting her for years. Enid Bradley consults her. Don’t you think I ought to at least go look in her eyes and try to figure out what all this means to her?”

“I suspect she’ll look you back in the eyes and say you’re a nut. All this can be explained by a secretarial mistake, Fletch.”

“I don’t think so. Charles Blaine doesn’t think so.”

“Anyhow, it was announced in this morning’s News-Trib you’re being honored Friday in the Mayor’s Office for being Good Guy of The Week.”

“Good Citizen of the Month, if you please.”

“You can’t go to New York. You have an appointment with the Mayor.”

“The Mayor has an appointment with the press. I don’t expect to be there.”

“For goodness’ sake, why not? If we could announce by Friday you’re a member of the cast of In Love opening soon at The Colloquial Theater—”

“Everybody’s got an angle.”

“You bet.”

“I’ll be in New York Friday. You’re not eating your sandwich.”

Moxie pushed her plate away from her. “Your culinary skills aren’t up to baloney sandwiches, Fletch. Better stick to peanut butter sandwiches for a while yet.”