Fletch's Moxie Read online

  “From what Peterman tells me,” Mooney said, “this is a serious matter.”

  In the front seat, Fletch and Moxie looked at each other in sincere wonderment.

  “Peterman?” Moxie asked.

  Through the rear view mirror Fletch saw Mooney indicate he meant Fletch.

  “Peterman,” Mooney said.

  “O.L.” Moxie exhaled. “This man’s name is Fletcher. Peterman is the name of the man what got punctured.”

  Mooney muttered, “I thought he said his name was Peterman.”

  “Dear O.L.,” Moxie commented. “Always very up on my affairs. Makes a point of knowing everyone in my life. A friend to all my friends. All in all, a doting father.”

  “So which one got stabbed?” Mooney asked.

  Fletch said, “The other one.”

  “Then you’re Peterman,” Mooney asserted.

  “No,” said Fletch. “I’m Fletcher. I’m the one who told you about Peterman.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference,” concluded Mooney after a pull on his bottle. “It’s a very serious matter.”

  After a moment, seeing Mooney’s head nod in the rearview mirror, Fletch asked Moxie, “You call your father O.L.?”

  “Only to his face.”

  “I never heard that. You’ve always called him Freddy.”

  “Originally it was O.L.O. Short for Oh, Luminous One. My mother started calling him that when they were first married, young, starting out. Still does. When her poor confused mind churns out anything at all. I visited her last month. At the home. Poor mama. Anyway, over the years it got shortened to O.L.”

  “They call me Oh, Hell,” Mooney announced from the back seat, his voice resonating in the closed car. “For short, they call me Oh, Heck.” He tipped the bottle up to his mouth.

  Moxie looked through the rain spotted window. They had turned north on Route 41. “Where we going?”

  “Dinner.”

  “And what do we do with the superstar in the back seat?”

  “Take him with us.”

  “You’ve never seen Freddy in a restaurant.”

  “No.”

  “People gasp and fall off their chairs. They send over drinks, competitively. They line up to shake his hand and have a few words with him, so he never gets anything to eat. They never seem to realize how drunk he already is. I call it the Public Campaign To Kill Frederick Mooney.”

  “He’s still alive.”

  “Used to find it damned embarrassing, when I was small. Public Drunkenness Being Praised.”

  Mooney said, “I should e’en die with pity to see another thus.”

  “Oh, God,” Moxie said. “Lear. What got him on Lear? Did I say something Regan-like?”

  “I think it started when I first found him in the bar,” Fletch said. “The first thing I said to him was something like ‘your daughter sent me to fetch you’.”

  “Yes,” Moxie said. “That would be enough of a cue to get him going on Lear. And did he recite to you?”

  “Yes,” Fletch said. “It was marvelous. In thunder and lightning and pelting rain.”

  Moxie reached back and patted Mooney on the knee. “That’s O.K., O.L., I never missed a meal.”

  “Damned right you didn’t,” Mooney said.

  “You put me in school and mama in the hospital but nobody ever missed a meal.”

  Mooney shook his head in agreement. “It’s a damned serious matter. I told Fletcher that.”

  Moxie shook her head and turned around again just as they were passing a sign saying 41. “Damned Route 41. Came here to make a movie and it seems I’ve spent my whole time so far on Route 41. Going back and forth. Vanderbilt Beach to Bonita Beach. Bonita Beach to Vanderbilt Beach. Life’s damned hard on a working girl.”

  “What’s this about a hit-and-run accident?” Fletch asked.

  “You know about that?”

  “Heard a reporter ask you something about it.”

  “I don’t think it’s related,” Moxie said. “I mean, to Steve’s death. It was Geoffrey McKensie’s wife.”

  “Why does that name seem familiar? Geoffrey McKensie?”

  “Australian director.” Moxie yawned. “A very good Australian director. Maybe the best director in the whole world. He’s done three quiet pictures. Don’t think any of them have been seen much outside Australia. I’ve screened all three. They’re magnificent. He brings up character beautifully. Very sensitive. You know, he takes the time, the fraction of a second it takes, to permit a character to do something really revealing, maybe contradictory, uh … you know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well. I was really hoping he’d direct this Midsummer Night’s Madness. I thought he was going to direct it. He came here to direct it.”

  “And he’s not directing it.”

  “Sy Koller is directing. Who is a nice man, and good enough.”

  “You mean the man, this McKensie, came all the way from Australia thinking he had a job and didn’t have one?”

  “With wife.”

  “How can that happen?”

  “Such things happen all the time in the industry. There’s a magic hex word in this industry—the word bankable.”

  “You mean investible?”

  “Digestible. In this business when the noncreative people have to make a decision and don’t know how to make a decision based on creativity and talent they make the decision based on this word bankable. They argue that they can get bankers, investors interested in one property, or person, but not another. What it really comes down to is, my property and friends are bankable, and your property and friends are not bankable. You see?”

  “And this Godfrey McKensie was declared not bankable?”

  “Geoffrey McKensie. Yes.”

  “After he got here?”

  “After he got here Sy Koller became available. Another film he was working on fell through.”

  “And Sy Koller is bankable?”

  “Sy Koller’s last five films have all been failures. Financially and critically. Disasters.”

  “And that makes him bankable?”

  “Sure. Steve felt Sy was due to make a good picture.”

  “And this poor Aussie who’s made three good pictures and has flown half way around the world to make a film is not bankable?”

  “Right. Because nobody knows his name. Yet. Nobody here has seen his films. Everybody knows Sy Koller’s name.”

  “They know him as a failed director. Pardon me for not believing a word of this.”

  “It is incredible. Which is why a person like me has a person like Steve Peterman to deal with all this. Who can understand it? Who wants to understand it!”

  “Doesn’t this man, McKensie, have any rights?”

  “Sure. He has the right to sue. He probably is suing. But I don’t think a film has been made since Birth Of A Nation without people suing. And people should have sued over that, if they didn’t. Anyway, about ten days ago Geoffrey McKensie’s wife got run over. On Old Route 41. She had stopped at a fruit and flower stand, bought some flowers and was recrossing the road to her car when she got hit. The driver didn’t stop.”

  “Killed?”

  “Died three hours later in the hospital.”

  “No witnesses?”

  “Just the woman at the flower stand. She said the car that hit Mrs McKensie was going very fast. Was either blue or green. Driven by either a man or a woman. We’re going rather far for dinner, aren’t we? All the way into Fort Myers?”

  “And McKensie is still around?”

  “Sure.”

  “The funeral… I should think he’d want to go home…”

  “First he had to bury his wife. Then I suppose he had to get lawyers. I hope he’s suing. Maybe he has to be on location to make his suit good. I don’t know. I like him. This is all terrible.”

  At a red light Fletch turned right.

  “This is the airport,” Moxie said.

  “Yes, it is.”


  “We’re eating at an airport?”

  “More or less.”

  “We’ve gone out of our way to eat at an airport?”

  Fletch didn’t answer.

  “Irwin Maurice Fletcher, I have spent enough of my life confronted with the utterly indifferent, unappetizing food served at airports.”

  “Call me Oh, Wondrous One for short. Or, O-l-l.”

  “I’ll never call you for dinner.”

  “Be fair. You’ve never had a good meal at an airport?”

  “Never.”

  “Never ever?”

  “Once.”

  “Where? Which airport?”

  “Why should I tell you? Look what you’re doing to me. Taking me to dinner at an airport!”

  Fletch craned his head lower and looked up through the windshield. “Above an airport, actually.”

  “Great. Dinner in a Control Tower. Very relaxing.”

  “Weather’s clearing, you see. Thought it might be nice to go up in an airplane, have a leisurely snack while we watch the moon rise.”

  “Serious?”

  “Should time out just about right.”

  He pulled into a parking space.

  She was staring across the front seat at him. “You’ve hired an airplane for dinner?”

  He turned off the motor. “Where else can you two superstars go tonight? One of you has been drinking all day—”

  “—all life—”

  “—and the other one’s as jittery as a talking doll in the hands of a small boy.”

  “Fletcher, you’re something else.”

  “I know that. What else is the question.”

  He got out and opened the car’s trunk. She followed him behind the car. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “A picnic basket. Had it made up while I was looking for Freddy. Lots of goodies. Chopped ham and pickle. Shrimp. Champagne.”

  He took the hamper out and slammed the trunk’s lid.

  He opened a back door of the car. “Mister Mooney?”

  He shook Mooney’s arm. The bottle in Mooney’s lap was almost empty.

  “We’re at the airport, sir.” Mooney blinked at him. “Thought we’d get high for dinner, sir.”

  “Very thoughtful of you.” Mooney began to climb out of the car. “Very thoughtful indeed, Mister Peterman.”

  8

  “I don’t see the moon,” Moxie said.

  “Complaints! Have to be patient.” Fletch was pouring champagne into long-stemmed glasses. “A little bubbly, Mister Mooney?”

  “Never touch the stuff,” Mooney said. “Upsets my cognac.”

  They were sitting in large leather swivel chairs. Each had a safety belt strapped across the lap. The passenger section of the airplane was furnished and decorated partly as a living room, partly as an office.

  At first, the pilot who had escorted them across the dark runway had watched worriedly Frederick Mooney’s stumbling gait. It did not make him less worried that Frederick Mooney was singing, very loudly and very badly, If I had the wings of an angel… As they were passing under a light, the pilot’s face did a double-look and expressed shock at recognizing Moxie Mooney. He looked sharply and recognized Frederick Mooney. Solicitiously, he helped Frederick Mooney up the steps and strapped him into the seat himself.

  The plane took off immediately.

  “I presume we’re to fly in circles,” Moxie said.

  “How on earth can you fly any other way?” Fletch asked.

  Seated, Fletch was setting the pull-out table within easy reach of their chairs with things from the picnic basket. He removed the protective cellophane from the plates of cut, assorted sandwiches. Opened the containers of iced shrimp, lobster tails, their sauces, salads. Dealt plates and cutlery and napkins around the table. Last out of the basket was a little white vase and a long-stemmed red rose. He poured champagne into the vase, put the rose in it, and set the rose in the middle of the table.

  Watching him, Moxie said, “You would make an interesting husband, after all.”

  “I did,” Fletch said. “Twice.”

  “As the lady said,” intoned Frederick Mooney, with a cold look at his daughter, “just as they were leading her away, ‘I was cursed by marriage to an interesting man’.”

  Fletch looked from one to another, then said, “Anyone for eats?”

  Both Mooneys wordlessly heaped their plates with every food in sight. “Enough for the vanity of film stars,” Fletch muttered, helping himself from the remainders. “Good thing I bought for six.”

  Plate in lap, Mooney swiveled his chair to look out the window while he ate.

  “Now,” Fletch said to Moxie, after she had downed six quarter-sandwiches, four lobster tails and half her shrimp, “want to tell me why you asked me to come down here? Or have you had enough for today? Or maybe it isn’t relevent any more… ?”

  “You’re hard enough to find,” grumbled Moxie. “It took me the better part of a week to trace you down.”

  “I was in Washington,” Fletch said, “trying to find The Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

  “Did you find it?” She was chewing a lobster tail.

  “I narrowed it down to one of three telephone booths.”

  She wiped her hands on a napkin. “I seem to be in real financial trouble.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Some nights you’re on two television channels simultaneously. You’re on the cables so much I should think you’d twang. Your films play the theaters. Last Christmas you did the first one hundred days of A Broadway Hit—”

  “And I’m drowning in debt. Explain that to me.”

  “I’d like to understand it myself. You’re smudging the American dream. The rich-and-famous dream.”

  There were tears in her eyes. She ducked her head to her plate. “I work hard. I have to. So many people are counting on me. My work contributes to the income of literally thousands of people now. We’ve got my mother in this fabulously expensive sanatorium in Kansas. I’ve taken over some of the cost from Freddy.” She lowered her voice. “And I don’t have to be much of a fortune teller to say that pretty soon I’m going to have to take it all over. And everyone knows this is just a crazy business I’m in!” she said more loudly. “No security. Bankable today, a bum tomorrow. A person like me can’t get so much out of herself if she thinks that next week, next month, next year sometime she’s going to be on the sidewalk!”

  “Have some shrimp.”

  “I have some shrimp.”

  “Have some more shrimp.”

  “I don’t want any more shrimp,” she said with annoyance. Then she looked at him. “Was that your Sympathetic Routine Number 12?”

  “Number 9, actually. I wish you wouldn’t see through me so quickly. It makes me blush.”

  “You’ve never blushed in your life.”

  “Why don’t you try to tell me in some sort of narrative form, some sequence—”

  “Can’t.”

  “I’m just a simple journalist, temporarily out of work—”

  “The whole thing landed on me like a big bomb just a couple of weeks ago. Just before I was due on location for Midsummer Night’s Madness. Hell of a way to start a picture. Looking drawn and haggard.”

  “You’ve never looked drawn and haggard in your life.” He looked at the lights in her tanned, blond skin, the lights in her blond hair. “Ashes and honey don’t mix.”

  “Okay,” she said. “The story. A couple of weeks ago, I get a call from a man at the Internal Revenue Service who says he’s very sorry to bother me but…”

  “With them it’s the but that counts.”

  “Right away I told him to call Steve Peterman, that Steve Peterman takes care of all my business affairs, taxes, etcetera, etcetera. And he said that was why he was calling me personally because maybe Mister Peterman hadn’t told me that if I didn’t do something within a matter of days, I was going to jail. Me going to jail—not Steve Peterman.” />
  “Oh, Moxie, the Internal Revenue Service always talks tough. I once had a very funny experience—”

  “Right now, Fletch, I’m not interested in the comic side of the Internal Revenue Service. I asked the man what he was talking about. He said I had gone way beyond my last extension, and a lot of other things I didn’t understand. I asked him to slow down and speak in a language I could understand.”

  “That’s asking a bit too much of any government.”

  “Well, he did. He was really very kind. I sort of understood him, after a while. Instead of paying my taxes over the last years, Steve has been asking for extensions. So I’m years behind. I asked the man how much I owe. He said they don’t know. They think it’s a considerable whack of money. But then he said something or other about all the money I’ve had going in and out of the country makes things rather confusing.”

  “What money have you had going in and out of the country?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Into the country I understand, maybe. Being in the film business you probably have some foreign income. Out of the country I don’t understand. Do you have any investments abroad?”

  “Not that I know of. Why should I?”

  “Well, it’s possible Steve had you invested in French perfumery or something.”

  “He never mentioned it. You haven’t heard the worst. I was greatly upset. I called Steve, and that made me more upset. He was distinctly dodgy, Fletch. On the telephone. He said, Not to worry, Not to worry, I was about to start principal photography on a film and I should keep my mind on that, he’d take care of everything else. I was so upset I screened Being There three times and Why Shoot The Teacher? twice.”

  “Say, you were upset.”

  “I called Steve back and told him I was taking the next plane to New York. He squacked and gobbled. By the time I got to the apartment in New York and called him, he’d been called away to Atlanta, Georgia. On business.”

  “While we’re speaking of that, Moxie…”

  Her eyes widened at the interruption.

  “… You do live pretty well,” Fletch said. “You have that big place in Malibu, on the beach, with a pool and screening room. You have that real nice apartment in New York—”

  “Look who’s talking!” she exclaimed. “A two-bit reporter with a gorgeous place on the Italian Riviera—”