Fletch’s Moxie

20

Outside in the dark, Edith Howell and Sy Koller were sitting in the comfortable chairs on the cistern sipping large Scotches.

“Do you know,” Edith Howell said to Fletch as he sat down with them, “that Freddy has escaped the premises again?”

“Key West is a good place to go out.”

“He’s like a cat. When you think he’s in he’s out and out in.”

“Gone out for conviviality,” Fletch said. “Do you worry about him?”

“Freddy? Good God, no. He has millions.”

Fletch swallowed what to him was a non sequitur. “Of dollars?”

“Tens of millions. I know that for a fact.”

Fletch shook his head. “Somehow, I thought he was broke. I think Moxie thinks he’s broke.”

“Tens of millions,” repeated Edith Howell. “I know of what I speak. I have friends whose friends are friends of Freddy, if you know what I mean. He has millions all over the world, just lying around.”

“Pity you can’t get your grubby fingers on it all, Edith,” Sy Koller said.

“I’m tryin’, darlin’, I’m tryin’. Did you hear him in there asking the world for a bit part in a movie that’s not even being made? The poor dear. He needs looking after.”

“He’s as crazy as a mosquito in the dressing room of a chorus line,” said Sy Koller. “Gonzo.”

“It’s interesting to know him,” Fletch said.

“That’s because you don’t,” said Edith Howell. “Knowing Freddy is like having a rare disease: shortly the interest pales and what’s left is pain.”

Sy Koller laughed. “Apparently you’re willing to put up with the pain, Edith. For all those millions.”

“For a short while, darling. After all, Freddy’s liver can hardly be made of molybdenum.”