Fletch’s Moxie

31

“Cats will bark before I ever accept an invitation to stay in your house again, Mister What’s-your-name Fletcher,” Edith Howell stated at breakfast.

“What Katz?” asked Sy Koller. “Sam Katz or Jock Katz?”

They were crowded at the white iron framed glass table on the cistern in the backyard of The Blue House. Moxie had not yet come down to breakfast.

“A riot out of control one morning. People throwing rocks at the house. Bopping poor Stella with a bottle. Why didn’t you call the police?”

“Jock Katz always barked,” Sy Koller said. “He barked all the time.”

“A police raid this morning, at dawn. They came right into my bedroom while I was sleeping! I threw my aspirin bottle at the damned cop. Hit him, too, right on the cheek.”

“Sam Katz never barked. Sam was a pussy cat.”

“And they yank John off and charge him with being in possession of medicine, or something…”

“Are you saying we were raided by the police this morning?” Frederick Mooney asked.

“We were, Freddy.” Edith put her hand on his. “Isn’t it terrible?”

Mooney extricated his hand to deal with the grapefruit. “Never heard a thing.”

“They swarmed all over the house, Freddy,” Edith said.

“Like roaches,” grinned Gerry Littleford.

“You mean they entered and searched my bed-room while I slept?” Freddy asked.

“Yes, dear,” commiserated Edith.

“How forward of them,” said Freddy. “I trust I was sleeping well.”

“I’m sure you were sleeping handsomely, dear.”

Lopez poured orange juice into Fletch’s glass. “Global Cable News is on the phone.”

“Tell them I’ll call them back, please.”

“Fletcher,” Edith Howell asked, “do you realize one of your houseguests is in the hospital and another is in prison?”

“We’re dropping like flies,” Koller said through a mouthful of scrambled egg.

“Roaches,” said Gerry Littleford.

“You Yanks don’t see the comic side of anything,” Geoff McKensie said.

Sy Koller stopped chewing and stared at him.

Moxie appeared in her bikini with a light, white open linen top.

“Good morning, sweets,” Edith gushed.

Gerry Littleford squeezed against Sy Koller to make room for her.

Fletch hitched his chair sideways. One leg stuck in a crack. Looking down, he jumped the chair leg out of the crack. On top of the cistern was a half-meter cut square. East and west on the square were hinged lift-rings.

“Did you sleep?” Mooney asked his daughter. “I hear there was a disturbance.”

Lopez was back with a fresh pot and poured Moxie’s coffee.

“Anybody know how these old cisterns work?” asked Fletch.

“Might as well get it over,” Moxie said. She sipped her black coffee.

“I’ve heard from the producers.” She gave Fletch a long, solemn look, warning him not to correct her. “The production is cancelled.”

Thus was almost everybody at breakfast fired. Geoffrey McKensie had already been fired.

Mooney did not permit the silence to last too long. “Is that the production of Midsummer Night’s Dream, daughter?”

“O.L.!” she said in exasperation.

“That’s too bad.” Mooney’s eyes ran up the banyan tree. “I was rather hoping to be offered a part.”

“But why?” Edith had caught her breath. “Everything was going so well.” Moxie snorted. “Well, at least I think so, and I’m sure John would back me up, if he weren’t in jail for medicine. My part was the best I’ve had in a long time. I was doing so well at it. With the help of dear Sy, of course.”

“Who did you speak to?” Gerry Littleford asked.

“Didn’t quite catch the name,” Moxie answered. “It was a legitimate phone call.”

Sy Koller asked: “Why did they call you?”

“I just happened to answer the phone.” Moxie Mooney was lying well. “We’re all relieved of our contracts as of today.”

“Fired,” Gerry Littleford said.

“Ah, the vicissitudes of this business,” consoled Mooney.

“But it’s not fair!” said Edith. “I sublet my apartment in New York. I gave up a perfectly good legitimate theater offer. Where will I go, what will I do? Freddy!”

“Yes?” Mooney answered formally, stiff-arming being called upon.

“Well, McKensie,” Sy Koller looked the man straight in the eyes. “Looks like your suit against Jumping Cow Productions won’t be much good to you now.”

“Damed fools.” McKensie had reddened beneath his tan. “Too cheap to take a few days proper mourning for the director’s wife yet when a few congenital idiots wrap themselves in bedsheets and throw a few rocks at a house, they collapse and cancel the production, losing everything they’ve invested in it!”

“Are such things insured?” Fletch asked.

“You’ve got to look on the comic side of things, McKensie,” Sy Koller said. Koller was not laughing, or smiling, or looking at all pleased.

“It’s the bad publicity that killed it,” Moxie said. “The man said.”

“There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” said Edith Howell. “Especially these days. Any publicity is good. The more the better. Murder, riots, raids. Why we’ve been top of the news three days running! And the film isn’t even made yet. Freddy, tell them there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“It’s not only the bad publicity,” Moxie said. “The press has begun to refer to Midsummer Night’s Madness as a badly-written, cheaply-produced exploitation picture. The film will never live down its reputation now.”

“Even if you use my script,” McKensie said. “Even if I direct. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

Koller smiled. “And thus dies a lawsuit. We all heard you say that, McKensie. We’re all witnesses.”

Gerry Littleford asked, quietly, “Are they saying this picture exploits the race issue?”

Moxie took a deep breath. “Yes. Of course. Somebody must have gotten ahold of a script. Gratuitous violence, in black and white and color.”

“Everyone can do with a bit of a rest, I’m sure,” said Mooney. “It’s been a trying time.”

“Freddy! Not me!” squeaked Edith. “You have no idea of my income the last year or two! I don’t have your money, Freddy!”

“Indeed not,” agreed Mooney.

No one was eating. Moxie had eaten nothing. Koller, McKensie and Littleford had stopped eating, and food was left on their plates. Mooney, however, had cleaned his plate twice.

Mooney blinked his eyes brightly at the group. “Anyone for a drink?”

“Hair of the dog,” Koller said to his plate.

“Eye opener,” said McKensie.

“Anything,” said Edith Howell. “Damn all cows, jumping or otherwise, and their milk!”

“Trying times,” said Mooney.

Gerry Littleford said: “Well…whoever was trying to stop this production… succeeded.”