Fletch’s Moxie

33

Fletch stood on the second floor back balcony of The Blue House, his hands on the railing. He was watching the policemen in the backyard. Sergeant Hennings was directing the removal of furniture from the top of the cistern.

Downstairs, in the living room, a morning cocktail party was in progress. Edith Howell, Sy Koller and Frederick Mooney stood in a close triangle, drinks in their hands, drinks in their heads, out-shouting reminiscences at each other. It wasn’t Olivier who said that. I was there at the time… Geoffrey McKensie sat alone at the side of the room, sipping from a glass of dark whiskey. John Meade had gone to the kitchen for a late breakfast or an early lunch. Mrs Lopez said Gerry Littleford had gone to the hospital to collect Stella. Lopez had gone to the hardware store to buy window glass. Moxie was sitting in the bedroom staring at a game show on television.

In the backyard, two policemen lifted the hatch easily. Sergeant Hennings looked down and then knelt down and reached into the cistern. He pulled up one plastic bag. Then another.

He looked up at Fletch on the balcony and gave the thumbs-up sign.

Fletch waved back.

“The fog is beginning to clear.” In the bed-room, Fletch flicked off the television. Sitting with her legs in the double width chair, Moxie simply looked at him. “The cops just found a lot of heroin—I guess it is—in the cistern in the backyard.”

Her expression remained blank. “Did you help them find it?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like heroin. I don’t like people who import heroin illegally. I don’t like people who sell heroin to other people.”

“I don’t see how it helps me.” Then she shook her head with distaste at what she had just said. “You said I have to think of myself now.”

“You do. But things are beginning to become clearer. Listen, Moxie, this is my best guess at the moment.” He remained standing in the bedroom. “Steve Peterman and Ted Sills were friends. We knew that. They were also in business together. We didn’t know that.”

“Smuggling shit.”

“Yeah. I would say Sills was on the smuggling end of it; Peterman the financial end. Sills used The Blue House as a stash. Which is why he owns it. Which is why the Lopezes have been so lonely. The house isn’t really used for anything else. Except maybe—” Fletch grinned ruefully at himself, “—to entertain damned fools who can be talked into investing in slow race horses. Peterman was moving an awful lot of money around, in and out of the country, from banks in Honduras, Columbia, to banks in Switzerland, France, under the name of Jumping Cow Productions, and, most regrettably, under your own name. Moxie, you were being used like a laundry. An awful lot of money was being washed—at least loosened up, freed, moved—under your name.”

“Did they think they could get away with it forever?”

“Moxie, they didn’t give one damn about you.”

“That’s nice.”

“I would say that in order to make Jumping Cow Productions continue looking like a viable film company, Peterman ultimately knew he had to make a film. Or appear to be making a film. But a successful film would only draw attention to Jumping Cow Productions.”

“So he was purposely making a bad film.”

“Purposely.”

She sighed. “A film so bad it couldn’t even be released.”

“It must have blown his mind when Talcott Cross actually hired a good director, Geoff McKensie, who then showed up with a good script.”

Moxie almost laughed. “Dear Steve.”

“That put him in quite a pickle. He had to get rid of McKensie and bring in a washed-out director who would film a bad script exactly as it was written—badly.”

“Okay, okay. Are you saying Sills murdered Peterman?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sills wasn’t even on location. He couldn’t have been.”

“He could have had someone get on location and kill Peterman. But why would Sills want to kill Peterman?”

“Trouble between them.”

“Clearly, Sills isn’t better off with Peterman dead. He hightailed it to France last night. At least the way things have worked out, he isn’t better off.”

Moxie was distinctly looking tired. “What are you telling me. Fletch?”

“I don’t know. Moxie, why the hell did you go along with acting in a bad, offensive movie? You’re too good for that.”

“I understood there was another script. A good one. McKensie’s, I guess. When I arrived in Naples, I understood McKensie was directing. Then things happened awfully fast. McKensie’s wife was dead. Koller was directing. We were shooting the original script. The whole film company, the crew were on location. My mind was taken up with where Freddy was, when was he going to get run over? What was I supposed to do, walk out? On my own friend-agent-manager-producer?”

“Still—”

“Fletch. Remember the time I had a broken wrist in London?”

“I never knew you had a broken wrist in London.”

“I did. I was in the middle of filming The Face of Things. I broke my wrist. I was really blue. Steven flew in from somewhere within a matter of hours. Moved me into an even more expensive, more comfortable suite at the Montcalm. Surrounded me with flowers. Smoothed out all the contract nonsense. Got a special, removable cast rigged for my wrist. Showed them all how we could continue filming even if I did have a broken wrist.”

“You filmed The Face of Things with a broken wrist?”

“About half of it. See it sometime. In about half the film, I don’t use my left hand at all.”

“And you’re saying Peterman’s doing all that was some kind of a favor?”

“Seemed so at the time.”

“How’s your left wrist?”

She wriggled it. “I have almost full use of it.”

“Some favor.”

“I needed the money. A lot of people were able to keep working.”

“Yeah, you’re really well off now. Peterman saw to that, all right. Terrific guy.”

“Oh, Fletch!”

“Don’t get angry with me.”

“Well, what’s all this supposed to come down to? I’m a fool, I’m a murderer, and now I’m some kind of big gangster? Now I’m responsible for scrambling the brains of half the people in the country?”

“Not half.”

“Any people?” Tears rolled down Moxie’s cheeks. “What good does all this do me? Next to me, Eva Braun looks like Madame Curie!”

The phone rang twice. They ignored it.

“Take it easy, Moxie. I’m just reporting that we’re coming to some sort of an understanding of what happened. We know more than we did.”

“You’re just getting me in worse trouble! I’m an innocent person! I didn’t kill anybody! I don’t know anything about this business! I don’t know anything about drugs!”

Quietly, Fletch said, “I think if Peterman were alive, I’d kill the son of a bitch.”

“Terrific! So I did, right?”

“You had plenty reason to.”

“Well, I didn’t.” Leaning forward, she dried her tears on her linen jacket. “Here I am, sitting in this stupid house, crying my eyes out, people throwing rocks—”

“Sy Koller knows all about this funny money movie business. I’ve talked to him. I wonder to what extent he was in on all this. He knew Peterman and Buckley were in some sort of a deal together.”

“Go get Sy Koller arrested. He can direct his own execution. That way it will never come off.”

There was a knock on the door.

Lopez was in the corridor. “Chief…”

“Nachman?”

“The police. On the phone. She says she must speak to you.”

“Okay. I’ll take the call downstairs.”

In the bedroom, Moxie had gotten up from her chair and clicked on the television set. Noon weather was being reported. The report was that it was a nice day.

Koller had just climbed the stairs. He was a little out of breath. His black T-shirt was more than usually strained.

In the corridor, Fletch said to him, “Sy, that story you told me the other night. Was it last night? About that fight you and Peterman had.”

Koller was looking with big eyes at Fletch from close-up. Fletch could smell the liquor on his breath.

“You said Peterman was putting up phony movies and pocketing the money he raised. But you knew he was actually concealing the movement of drug money around the world. Right?”

Koller raised his hand as if to grab something at eye level. “That’s how I had him by the short hairs.”

Koller lumbered down the corridor toward his room.

“Sy? You knew Midsummer Night’s Madness was never going to be released…”

At his door, Koller turned around. “Anything for a job, boy. Anything for a week’s pay.”

He closed the door behind him.