Fletch’s Moxie

39

This time after knocking on Frederick Mooney’s bedroom door, Fletch waited to be invited in. There was no response. He knocked again.

He opened the door.

Frederick Mooney was on his back on the bed. On the bedside table were a drinking glass and one of the bottles, three-quarters full.

Fletch closed the door and went to the bedside. “Mister Mooney?”

He shook the man’s arm. “Oh, come on. I don’t need a final act.”

He sniffed the bottle on the bedside table. Cognac

“Come on,” said Fletch. “I’m sure you can also hold your breath and play dead longer than anyone else who’s ever been on the stage.”

On the bed the other side of Mooney was an empty tablet bottle. The cap was off. Fletch reached over Mooney and picked up the bottle. The label was for prescription sleeping tablets.

“Mister Mooney!” Fletch said. “You set the stage nicely. Now let’s go.”

He shook him again. “Jeez,” Fletch said. “Do I believe it?”

He felt for the pulse in Mooney’s wrist. There was none. Frederick Mooney was not breathing at all.

“O.L.!” Fletch dropped Mooney’s hand. “God-damn it, now you’re not acting at all!”

A curtain of wetness slipped down over Fletch’s eyes. The afternoon light from the windows was bright.

On the desk were two envelopes and an open note. Fletch went to the desk. The two envelopes were sealed. One said, Ms Marilyn Mooney; the other, The Authorities.

The open note was to him.

Fletcher,

“If I may ask you to do us one more favor? Please deliver these notes as addressed.

The letter to the authorities describes how and why I killed Steven Peterman in such detail that they will have no choice but to believe me. My doctor will testify that I have been tea-total since I developed a heart problem more than three years ago, and I have provided the authorities with his name.

The letter to Marilyn cannot explain all. Perhaps you can help her to understand. It says I have enjoyed spending these weeks with her, watching her, applauding her, loving her from behind the curtain, as it were. I am also telling her that I am leaving her enough money so that she certainly should be able to pay off all these financial charges against her, however great, and maybe have enough left over for a quiet, non-working weekend sometime in her life.

I am reminded now of all the thousands of nights I have left some theater somewhere, tired to the bones, and walked alone to some hotel, only perchance to sleep, wondering as I walked why such talents, such expertise, such energy is spent creating an illusion for a handful of people, for a few hours. What for? One can suspend reality, but never conquer it.

Thanks for having me.

Frederick Mooney