Fletch’s Moxie

16

Lopez called from the back door. “Telephone, Mister Fletcher.”

Fletch hesitated. The phone had been ringing all day. Fletch had told the Lopezes to try not to answer it. He dropped the filmscript of Midsummer Night’s Madness onto the cistern and trudged to the back door.

“Sorry.” Lopez’s eyes sought sympathy, understanding. “It is the police. The woman insists you come to the phone. She threatened me.”

A babble of voices was coming from inside the house.

“Okay.”

Stella Littleford passed Fletch on her way out the back door. “Watch out,” she whispered.

In the corridor, Edith Howell asked, “Where’s Freddy?”

“Don’t know. Here somewhere.”

“Where’s John Meade?”

“Gone on an errand. He’ll be back.”

In the front hall, dressed only in bikini underpants, Gerry Littleford stood with his back against the wall. “I don’t know.” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t know.”

Through the open front door, Fletch saw the waiting, staring crowd across the street had grown.

Frederick Mooney was coming down the stairs. He held a bottle by its neck.

Behind Fletch, Edith Howell exclaimed, “Freddy! Why, I do declare! As I live and breathe!”

Halfway down the stairs, Mooney focused on her. He pointed at her. “This old moon wanes…”

“Come make me a drink, lover. I’m parched.” She took his arm as he came off the stairs. “A gin and tonic would be nice.” She walked him into the living room. “I found some supplies in here. Sorry I spoke so harshly to you, when you burst into my bedroom, but, Freddy, it’s been so many years since you did such a thing…”

As they passed him, Gerry Littleford said to the floor, “I don’t know.”

“Madame,” Mooney’s voice rang regally from the living room. “I do not burst. I enter.”

In the billiard room, Moxie was turning in circles. “Fletch! I’ve got to get out of this house!”

“You can’t.”

“I can’t stand it!”

“You’d be mobbed. It wouldn’t be safe.”

She emphasized every word. “I have to get out of this house!”

Fletch went into the study and picked up the telephone receiver. “Hello?”

“Irwin Fletcher?”

Fletch sighed. “This is Fletcher.”

“One moment, please.”

From overhead came Sy Koller’s heavy voice. He was saying something about the Gulf Stream.

“Mister Fletcher,” a voice stated through the telephone.

“Yes.”

“This is Chief Nachman. How are you today?”

“Fine. Thank you. Yourself?”

“Fine. Hard works always makes one feel better, don’t you think?”

“Glad to hear you’re working hard.”

“Are you?”

“You bet.”

“My hard work may result in some conclusions you’re not going to like.”

“No way.”

“Which is why you flew Ms Mooney to the ends of the earth last night.”

“We’re not that far away.”

“You’re in a place where it is very simple for you to skip the country.”

“You noticed that.”

“Yes and no. Don’t push me too far, Irwin.”

“You don’t need to call me Irwin.”

“You don’t like the name Irwin?”

“Kids in school used to call me earwig.”

“All right, I’ll call you earwig.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“If, for example, you and Ms Mooney were to leave the state of Florida, or worse, much worse, continental U.S.A.—”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

“—you would find out what a little ol’ Chief of Detectives can do. Your disappearing to Key West with a good many of my suspects in this murder case is an inconvenience for me—only that. Understandable, considering the people involved.”

“You’re being reasonable.”

“Furthermore, I think you may have done the right thing.”

“I have?”

“Yes. Maybe. I have a funny feeling you’ve done exactly the right thing. Now, if you’ll be good enough to tell me exactly who is with you down there in—what’s it called—The Blue House?”

“Moxie.”

“Did you know The Blue House is the name of the Korean presidential residence?”

“Frederick Mooney.”

“I’d love to see it someday.”

“Gerry Littleford. His wife, Stella. Sy Koller. Edith Howell. The Australian director, Geoffrey McKensie.”

“John Meade?”

“He’s in and out. He’ll be back tonight.”

“Didn’t you just love him in Easy River?” “Don’t think I ever saw it.”

“Anyone else?”

“Me.”

“I wouldn’t forget you, earwig.”

“Seeing you’re being so reasonable, Chief, would you mind telling me a few things?”

“If I can. Will I see it on Global Cable News?”

“Not if you don’t want.”

“Your loyalties have their priorities, right, Fletcher?”

“What has shown up, so far, on the tapes and films of the murder?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing. We’ve been up looking at them all night, over and over. Absolutely nothing.”

“That’s impossible.”

“The murder might as well have taken place in an alley in the dark of night, for all the good all those cameras have done us so far. We’re having experts come in to look at the films. Did you know there were experts to look at film? I didn’t.”

“And probably experts at choosing those experts.”

“That’s true.”

“Wouldn’t Sy Koller and Geoff McKensie be able to help? They must be expert at looking at film.”

“Great. Two of our prime suspects you want called in as experts. Peterman fired McKensie, you know.”

“And Koller?”

“Three years ago Sy Koller and Steve Peterman had a fist fight outside a Los Angeles restaurant. Koller had Peterman on the sidewalk and was strangling him when the police arrived. Peterman did not press charges.”

“Everybody loved Peterman. For sure. What were they fighting about?”

“A woman, they said.”

“By the way, Koller says Peterman and Dan Buckley knew each other. That there was some tension between them.”

“You see? You have the makings of a good earwig. Buckley was losing money in some investment Peterman had gotten him into.”

“A lot of money?”

“How do I know what’s a lot of money to these people? I live in a yellow bungalow six miles from the beach.”

“Okay. Point two. This morning Sy Roller said the set for The Dan Buckley Show could have been rigged. That is, the knife could have been made to fall from somewhere, could have been propelled from somewhere, mechanically. You know what I mean?”

“We’ve thought of it.”

“I mean, isn’t that the way stages work? The stage set itself creates the illusion. Anything can be built into it. Anything can be made to happen.”

“We’ve looked.”

“The fact that nothing shows up on the tapes and films so far sort of substantiates his theory, doesn’t it? I mean, this thing would have to be rigged by someone who knew where the cameras would be.”

“It’s a good theory.”

“And Roller points out really the only person who would have the time, the expert knowledge, enough control over the set to rig such a thing would be Dan Buckley himself.”

“You notice something?”

“What?”

“Koller seems very anxious to pin Dan Buckley.”

“Maybe so. But maybe he’s right.”

“Last night and again this morning we went over that set millimeter by millimeter.”

“Come on, Chief. What does your average cop know about stage sets? Your average citizen can be fooled by an eight-year-old magician wearing French cuffs.”

“Which is why we have three set designers flying down from New York.”

“Experts.”

“More experts. This case is going to wreck our budget for this year, and next. Of course, having to call Key West long distance doesn’t help the budget any, either.”

“You have film experts coming in and stage set experts.”

“We have.”

“You know what this means…”

“It means property taxes will have to go up in this district. Because a bunch of rich film people visited us, and one of them got murdered.”

“If you need theater experts to solve this crime, then it means this crime must have been committed by a theater expert.”

“Very good, earwig. Especially seeing you’re the only person involved who has nothing to do with theater.”

People were shouting in the front hall of The Blue House.

“I didn’t kill Peterman,” Fletch said. “You should have asked.”

“We’re hiring experts by the planeload, Mister Fletcher,” Chief Roz Nachman said. “And I intend to listen to them. I also intend to keep my mind open to the simple explanation.”

“Which is?”

“I wish I knew. Someone put a knife in Steven Peterman’s back. Granted, it happened under most unusual and complicated circumstances. But it is still a simple crime of violence.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah. Next time I call answer the phone.”

There was another shout from the front hall. It sounded like Sy Koller.

“I’ll answer the phone.”

“Nice talking with you,” Roz Nachman said. “Maybe sometime I’ll come down.”

“You might as well,” Fletch said. “Everyone else has.”

“I’ll kill you!”

Fletch hurried through the billiard room and along the corridor to the front hall.

Sy Koller stood halfway down the stairs, facing downward.

Gerry Littleford stood just below him on the stairs, facing upward. He was naked. In his right hand was a carving knife.

Gerry was sexually aroused. Every muscle in his lean body was taut. His skin shone with sweat. He was moving like a panther about to pounce.

He was beautiful.

Koller took a step backward, up the stairs.

“What are you all doing to me?” Gerry asked, softly.

“Gerry, you’ve been working hard,” Koller said. “There’s been strain.”

At the top of the stairs, leaning on the bannister, Geoff McRensie watched. Something in his eyes was turning over like a reel of film.

On the floor of the front hall were Gerry’s red bikini underpants.

“No, no,” said Gerry. “It’s not that. I know it’s not that. I’m black. You all think I’m black.”

Koller laughed nervously. “Gerry, you are black.”

Gerry plunged the knife at Roller’s fat, white legs. Roller jumped up another step. His face was wet with sweat, too.

Mrs Lopez was in the diningroom door. “He’s got my knife,” she said to Fletch.

“Say man, Sy. Go ahead. Say man. Say boy.”

“I never called you boy in my life. I never would.”

Gerry lunged again. Roller stepped sideways on the stair.

“You’re insulting me,” said Roller.

“I’m a twenty-seven-year-old professional actor!” Gerry screamed.

“Good one, too,” Roller said mildly.

“I’m a man!”

“Gerry, that’s obvious. If you’d just put down the knife. Give it to Fletcher…”

“Gerry,” Fletch said quietly. “This is not a good day for you to be threatening someone with a knife. It doesn’t look good. You know what I mean?”

Gerry pivoted on the stair to look down at Fletch fully.

“Don’t call me boy.”

“Who called you boy?”

Mrs Lopez said, “That’s my good knife.”

Sy Koller laughed. “Come on, Gerry. You can’t expect to be asked to play Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest.”

“Everyone’s always beatin’ up on me,” Gerry said.

“That’s in the movies, Gerry,” Sy Koller said. “You’re a well-paid professional actor. At home you drive a Porsche. No one beats you up.”

“Goddamn it!” He slashed at Sy Koller’s legs.

Koller jumped back, up another stair. His green T-shirt flapped.

Fletch heard Moxie walk along the upper corridor. She, or something like her, appeared at the top of the stairs. They were her legs between white shorts and white sneakers. The torso was her’s, in a light blue sport shirt. The head was wrapped in a red kerchief. The face was matted with rouge and powder. Bright red lipstick enlarged her mouth ridiculously. The eyes were covered by giant sunglasses in white plastic frames.

Koller said, as if threatening, “Gerry, I’m not going to jump another stair.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Moxie started down the stairs.

“Be careful,” Fletch said.

She passed Koller and stood on the stair with Gerry. She ignored the knife. She took his erect penis in her hand and shook it as if she were shaking hands. “You need something else to think about, boy.”

“You called him boy,” Koller said. “She called him boy.”

“I should call him girl?” asked Moxie. “With his prick in my hand?”

Mrs Lopez climbed the steps, reached around Gerry, and took the knife from his hand. “My good knife,” she said. She started back to the kitchen.

“Get Mrs Littleford, will you?” Fletch asked Mrs Lopez.

“They’re all against me.” Gerry confided to Moxie. “You should see what they’re doin’ to me.”

Moxie put her hands on his wet, shining shoulders. “It’s just the coke, honey. No one’s doing anything to you. Everything’s fine. You’re fine. It’s a nice day.”

“It’s not the coke. It’s what they’re doin’ to me.”

“It’s that little white powder you keep puttin’ up your nose, sweetheart,” Moxie said. “Drugs do funny things to your mind. Have you heard that?”

Gerry was studying Sy Koller’s legs. They were unscratched.

Stella came into the front hall. She had a bath towel in her hands.

“Gerry needs an airing,” Fletch said to her. “Why don’t you walk him any direction from here until you come to water. And throw him in. He needs a swim.” Her eyes had heavy lids. “You need a swim, too.”

“I’m the one who needs the airing,” Moxie said to Fletch. “Get me out of here.”

“Dressed like that? You’ll attract flies.”

“No one will look at me,” Moxie said.

“You’re kidding.”

On the stairs Stella was wiping down Gerry’s whole body with the towel.

Looking at them, Fletch said, “Maybe a swim isn’t a good idea.”

“Who cares?” Moxie took Fletch by the hand.

“Don’t swim out too far,” Fletch said to Stella and Gerry.

He pulled Moxie sideways a moment and looked into the living room.

Edith Howell and Frederick Mooney were together on a Victorian loveseat. She had a gin and tonic in hand. His drink was in a short brandy glass.

“Revivals,” Mooney was opining, “are anti-progress. Been far too many of ’em, lately. We must get ourselves out of the way, and let the young people create anew.”

“But, Freddy,” Edith said, “Time, Gentleman, Time was a great musical. It still is.”

“Come on.” Fletch tugged Moxie’s hand. “We’ll go see the sunset. Out the back way. Through the Lopezes’ yard.”