Fletch's Moxie (2 page)

“Sometimes I get coffee for people,” Fletch said.

Buckley looked over the bits of Styrofoam on the sand. “He got stabbed.” He shook his head. “He got a knife stuck in his back. Right on the set. Right on camera.”

“He was quiet about it,” Fletch commented.

Buckley was looking at his fingers in his lap as if he had never seen them before. “It could not have happened. It absolutely could not have happened.”

“But it did though, huh?”

Buckley looked up. “Get me a cup of coffee, willya, kid? Black, no sugar.”

“Black no sugar,” Fletch repeated.

Fletch walked toward the canteen, past it, through the security gate, got into his rented car and drove off.

The first phone call Fletch made was to Global Cable News in Washington, D.C. His call got through to that hour’s producer quickly. It was, ‘Yes, sir, Mister Fletcher’, ‘Yes, sir, Mister Fletcher’ all the way through the switchboard and production staff.

Recently Fletch had bought a block of stock in Global Cable News. Just ten days before he had toured their offices and studios in Washington.

He had allowed everyone to know he was a journalist and they might be hearing from him from time to time.

“Yes, sir, Mister Fletcher,” said that hour’s producer.

Fletch looked down at his bare feet on the
rotten, sand-studded floorboards of the porch outside the mini-mart. When he was working full time as a journalist, no one in power had ever called him
sir.
They had called him many other things. He had always known, of course, that behind the power of the free press was the power of the buck. He had never felt the sensation of the power of the buck before. He decided he liked the sensation and that he must work to deprive himself, and others, of any such sensation. A
barefoot boy with cheek
should be listened to because he’s got a story, not because he was able to buy a few shares in the company.

“‘Sir’?” Fletch said. “To whom am I speaking, please?”

“Jim Fennelli, Mister Fletcher. We met last week when you were here. I’m the bald guy with the big side whiskers.”

“Oh, yeah,” Fletch said. Jim Fennelli looked like a stepped-on cotton pod. “The gumdrop fetishist.”

“That’s me,” Fennelli chuckled. “A box a day keeps the dentist healthy, wealthy, and sadistic.”

“You know
The Dan Buckley Show?”

“Sure. My mother-in-law fantasizes she’s married to the creep.”

“They were taping down here on Bonita Beach this afternoon. On location for a movie called
Midsummer Night’s Madness.”

“Cute. Prospero’s Island in Florida.”

Fletch said nothing. No matter how long he lived, he would be amazed at the great mish-mash of information, and misinformation, all journalists carry around in their heads.

“Have I got it right?” Fennelli asked.

“Sure, sure. On the set of the television show were Buckley, Moxie Mooney, and her manager, Steve Peterman.”

“So? Mister Fletcher, are you trying to get a publicity shot for somebody? I mean, are you invested in the film, or something? I mean, anything regarding Moxie Mooney will fly, she’s gorgeous, but where’s Bonita Beach, anyway, north of Naples?”

“Yeah. More south of Fort Myers. Call me Fletch. Makes me feel more like me.”

“That’s a hike. We’d have to send people over from Miami. You stockholders, you know. Like us to keep our expenses down.”

“Send people over from Miami. Steve Peterman was murdered.”

“Who?”

“Peterman. Steven Peterman. Not sure if Steven is spelled with a
v
or a
ph.
On television, it doesn’t matter how his name is spelled anyway, right?”

“Who is he again?”

“Some sort of a manager, a friend, of Moxie Mooney. Some kind of a producer of
Midsummer Night’s Madness.”

“Yeah, but so what? Nobody knows who he is.”

“You haven’t got the point yet.”

“My father lives in Naples. It’s nice down there.”

“He was stabbed to death on the set of
The Dan Buckley Show
while they were taping. While the cameras were running.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Yeah, that’s good,” Fennelli said. “You mean they don’t know who did it yet? They will as soon as
they look at the tapes. Fast story. A six-hour wonder. I’m not saying it’s a bad story.”

“Someone was murdered on camera.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a live show. It should be reported, of course.”

“Obviously, both Moxie Mooney and Dan Buckley are suspects. They were the only ones within reach.”

There was another pause while Fennelli marshalled in his mind his own camera/sound crew, on-camera reporter, his visuals, his story approach, his electronic pick-up.

The mini-mart was off the only road leading into Fort Myers Beach. Several of the cars and vans Fletch had seen in the parking lot of the
Midsummer Night’s Madness
location had gone by on the road while he was on the telephone. As he was leaving the beach, police loudspeakers had been ordering everyone present to report to the local police station. Because of security on location, police would have the identities of everyone who had been there, of every potential witness. Among these names, they would have to have the identity of the murderer.

“When did this incident occur?” Fennelli asked.

“Three twenty-three
P.M.

“Can we go on the air with this right away?”

“I’m sure AP radio news has already run it.”

“What do we have they don’t have?”

“Beg pardon?”

“You got a new angle to the story? Like, I mean, new news?”

On the road, a white Lincoln Continental went
by. Moxie was in the front passenger seat. Fletch couldn’t see who was in the back seat.

“Yeah,” Fletch said. “One of the prime suspects is about to disappear.”

“Yeah? Which one?”

“Moxie Mooney.”

The second phone call was to The Five Aces Horse Farm near Ocala, Florida.

“Ted Sills,” Fletch said to whoever answered the phone. “This is Fletcher.”

Fletch waited a long time. He ran his mind over the rambling ranch house, the swimming pool area, the two guest cottages, the stables, the pad-docks, the tack room—all the handsome aspects of Five Aces Farm. At that hour of the day, Ted Sills would be in the tack room talking veterinary medicine and racing strategy over Thai beer with his trainer, whose name really was Frizzlewhit.

There was no breeze on the porch of the mini-mart. It was a gray, sultry day.

“Yes, sir, Fletch,” Ted’s voice finally boomed into the phone. “You coming by?”

“Just wanted to see if you’re using your house in Key West.”

“For what?” Ted Sills said. “I’m here at the farm.”

“Then may I use your house in Key West?”

“No.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Want to get away for a few days.”

“From what? You’re always away. Where are you now?”

“Southwest Florida.”

“You want to go to Key West?”

“Yeah.”

“There are some nice hotels there.”

“Don’t want a hotel. Hate to be awakened in the morning by work-eager maids.”

“So you don’t have to make the bed. Hotels make your breakfast for you, too.”

“Need a little p. and q.”

“That mean peace and quiet?”

“It do.”

“I need the nine thousand dollars you owe me in feed bills.”

“That much?”

“The horses you have training here at Five Aces do eat, you know. A race horse cannot train on an empty stomach, you know. A race horse, like the rest of us, is encouraged by gettin’ its vittles regular. You know?”

“You’ll have it in the morning. Now, may I borrow your house?”

“The house rents for twelve thousand a month.”

“Twelve thousand what?”

“Twelve thousand dollars.”

“Twelve as in after-eleven-followed-by-thirteen?”

“The very same twelve. You’re very good at figures, Fletch, except when it comes to writing them on checks for feed bills.”

“You let me stay in The Blue House for free when you were trying to sell me some slow race horses.”

“What do you mean, ‘slow race horses’? You had a winner last week.”

“Really?”

“Speedo Demon won the fourth at Hialeah. You should have been there.”

“How much was the purse?”

“Let me see. Uh … Your share was two hundred and seventy dollars.”

“Some race.”

“Well, it was a plug race. And the favorite was scratched.”

“Good old Speedo.”

“She was faster than five other horses.”

“Did the fans stay for the whole race?”

“Fletch, someone’s gotta own the losers.”

“Why me?”

“I expect they sense that you resent their feed bills. Horses aren’t dumb that way. Race horses are like a certain kind of woman, you know. You gotta spoil ’em with a smile on your face.”

“Okay. Feed the horses. But, damn it, Ted, make sure their overshoes are buckled before you put ’em in a race, willya?”

“We always buckle their overshoes.”

“Now. About The Blue House.”

“No.”

“I only want it for a few days.”

“Twelve thousand dollars. I wouldn’t rent it for just a few days. Wouldn’t be worth changing the bedsheets.”

“You rent it very often at that price?”

“Nope. Never before.”

“Uh, Ted…”

“I’ve never rented it before. I don’t want to rent it. I put a price on it just because you asked. As a friend.”

“Okay. As a friend, I’ll take it.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

“Boy, no other sucker was born the minute you were.”

“Make sure the bedsheets are changed.”

“That’s twenty one thousand dollars you owe me.”

“So—some weeks are more expensive than others.”

“Will I get the money?”

“In the morning. In nickles and dimes.”

“You don’t really care about money, do you? I mean, you have no sense of money, Fletch. I’ve noticed that about you.”

“Money’s useful when you have to blow your nose.”

“Maybe I’ll drop by, while you’re there. There are a couple of other race horses I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Don’t expect to stay in your own house, Ted. You’ll find the room rent very expensive.”

“Naw, I’d stay at a hotel. I’ll phone down to the Lopezes. They’ll open the house for you. You going down tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll tell the Lopezes you tip well.”

“Do. And tell good ol’ Speedo Demon happy munchin’ for me.”

Fletch didn’t need his credit card for the third phone call he made. It was to the airport in Fort Myers.

The man Fletch spoke to there repeated three times that Fletch was chartering a one-way flight from Fort Myers to Key West, with no stops. Which made it four times he said it altogether. There was something hard, almost threatening in the man’s voice when he said
with no stops.

“There will be no dope aboard the plane,” Fletch finally assured him. “Except me.”

Fletch pushed open the door to the mini-mart.

The woman behind the counter was Cuban. She looked at his smile and said with an impeccable accent, “How do you do? You need shoes to come in the store.”

“Can you direct me to the police station?” Fletch asked.

Immediately, her face expressed genuine concern. “Is there some problem?” She glanced through the window. “Trouble?”

Fletch grinned more broadly.

“Of course.”

The lobby of the police station looked like the departure point for a summer camp. The film and television crews sat around in various combinations of shorts, jeans, T-shirts, halters, sandals, boots, sneakers, sunglasses, western hats, warm-up jackets. Plastic and leather sacks bulging with their equipment hung from their shoulders and lay at their feet. Fletch had put moccasins on before entering the station.

The local press, two wearing neckties, stood in a clump in the middle of the lobby. There were lightweight sound cameras among them.

Fletch leaned against the frame of the front door.

All these various people engaged in getting various
kinds of reality onto various kinds of film eyed each other with friendly distance, like members of different denominations at a religious convention. They were all brothers in the faith but they worshipped at different altars.

A few looked at Fletch curiously, but no group claimed him. He was not proselytized.

Around the room were a few familiar faces he had never seen before in person. Edith Howell, who played older women, mothers, these days; John Hoyt, who played fathers, businessmen, lawyers, sheriffs; John Meade, who played the local yokel in any locale. The young male lead, Gerry Littleford, sat on a bench along the wall in white duck trousers and a skintight black T-shirt. Like a well-designed sports car, even at rest he looked like he was going three hundred kilometers an hour. His lean body seemed molded by the wind. His black skin shone with energy. His dark eyes reflected light as they flashed around the room, seeing everything, watching everybody at once, missing nothing. The girl in the halter who had been kind to Marge Peterman was next to him, leaning against a wall, chewing a thumbnail. Marge Peterman was not there. There was a short, thin, weather-beaten man Fletch had not seen before, even on film, wearing some sort of a campaign hat and longer shorts than others wore. Fletch noticed him now because he was the only other person in the room who did not seem a part of any group.

The booking desk was to the left. Across the lobby from it, between two brown doors, was a
secretary’s desk. One door was labeled CHIEF OF POLICE, the other, INVESTIGATIONS.

The instant the door marked INVESTIGATIONS opened the two mini-cameras were hefted onto shoulders, unnaturally white lights went on, and the two men in neckties, holding up pen-sized microphones like priests about to give blessings, stepped forward. The other reporters followed them.

Her head neither particularly up nor down, her eyes looking directly at no one, Moxie Mooney came through the door and started slowly across the lobby. She was a saddened, concerned person momentarily oblivious to others, despite the light, despite the noise.