Fletch’s Moxie

27

“How many stitches?” Fletch asked.

In the hospital bed Stella Littleford didn’t look any more sallow than usual. The surgical dressing on her forehead was not as big as Fletch expected.

“Six.” She did not smile.

Gerry Littleford sat in a side chair, his feet propped up on the bed. On top of his shorts he was wearing a hospital johnny. He had left The Blue House that morning without a shirt. Apparently he had not been back to the house since. He also wore paper slippers on his feet.

“They’re keeping her overnight,” Gerry said. “Concussion.”

“I brought you some flowers,” Fletch said. “Nurse ate them.” He crossed the room and leaned his back against the window sill. “What happened this morning anyway? I didn’t see… I was on the phone.”

“There was a riot,” Gerry Littleford said drily.

“I went out into the front yard and shook my fists at those dirty bastards and called them dirty bastards,” Stella said. “Dirty bastards.”

“Does it hurt to talk?”

“It does now.” She tried not to laugh. “It didn’t this morning.”

“She got bonked,” Gerry said. “Someone threw a rum bottle at her.”

“Someone must have really cared,” Fletch said. “There was still rum in the bottle.”

“Good.” Stella again tried not to laugh.

“I’ve never seen you laugh before,” Fletch said to her.

“She does everything she’s not supposed to do,” Gerry said, “when she’s not supposed to do it. Like marrying me.”

Stella’s eyes moved slowly to Gerry’s face. Fletch could not read the expression in them.

“Question,” Fletch said. “Have either of you heard before from these groups? Threatening letters, phone calls, anything?”

Neither answered him.

“I’m just wondering,” Fletch said, “how much these groups wanted that film stopped.”

Still, neither answered him.

“Hey,” Fletch said. “There’s been a murder. Maybe two. Stella’s in bed with a concussion. Stitches in her forehead. This morning we saw demonstrations demanding the film be stopped. It’s a reasonable question.”

Gerry asked, “Has the film been stopped?”

And Fletch didn’t answer. “Have you heard from any of these groups before?”

Gerry put his feet flat on the floor and sat straight in his chair as if about to give testimony in court. “To be honest—yes.”

“Letters?”

“With pamphlets enclosed. Keep-the-white-race-pure pamphlets. You know? So you honkies can go a few more centuries without soul.”

“There have been phone calls, too, Gerry,” Stella said.

“Phone calls,” Gerry said.

“Threats?”

“My black ass will get burned, if I make the film. I’ll get a shot in the head.” Gerry’s eyes roamed over Fletch’s face. “It’s hard for a black man to tell a real threat from normal white man’s conversation.”

“Did you tell anybody about these threats?”

“Like who?”

“Anybody in authority. Steve Peterman. Talcott what’s-his-name. Sy Koller. The cops.”

“You think I’m crazy? Making this film is my employment. I’m not lookin’ to get unemployed.”

“Do you still have any of these letters, pamphlets?”

“’Course not. Throw ’em away. Gotta throw ’em away.”

“Do you remember any of the names, groups that sent you these letters?”

“They all have these long, phony names. You know: My Land But Not Your Land Committee Incorporated; Society To Keep ’em Pickin’ Cotton.”

“You got a call from a black group, too, Gerry.”

“Yes, I did.” Gerry smiled. “Some of the brothers want to keep soul to ourselves a few more centuries.”

“Gerry,” Fletch asked, “sincerely—do you think the production of Midsummer Night’s Madness seriously was being threatened by any of these groups? Like to the point of murder?”

“I don’t know. They’re madmen. How can you tell when madmen are serious?” More quietly, he said, “Yeah. I think there were murderers in that group this morning that attacked the house. People capable of murder. Plenty of ’em. That rum bottle coulda killed Stella. I just doubt they’re up to organizing anything as clever as the murder of Steve Peterman. Whoever got Steve was no dope.”

“I guess you’re right.”

The nurse brought in a vase of roses. There were no other flowers in the room.

“Ah!” Fletch got off the window sill. “You didn’t eat ’em.”

“I had supper at home,” the nurse said. “Daffodils.”

Fletch was at the door. “Coming back to the house, Gerry?”

“Sure,” he said. “Later.”