Authors: Gregory Mcdonald
“Question,” Fletch said. “Have either of you heard before from these groups? Threatening letters, phone calls, anything?”
Neither answered him.
“I’m just wondering,” Fletch said, “how much these groups wanted that film stopped.”
Still, neither answered him.
“Hey,” Fletch said. “There’s been a murder. Maybe two. Stella’s in bed with a concussion. Stitches in her forehead. This morning we saw demonstrations
demanding the film be stopped. It’s a reasonable question.”
Gerry asked, “Has the film been stopped?”
And Fletch didn’t answer. “Have you heard from any of these groups before?”
Gerry put his feet flat on the floor and sat straight in his chair as if about to give testimony in court. “To be honest—yes.”
“Letters?”
“With pamphlets enclosed. Keep-the-white-race-pure pamphlets. You know? So you honkies can go a few more centuries without soul.”
“There have been phone calls, too, Gerry,” Stella said.
“Phone calls,” Gerry said.
“Threats?”
“My black ass will get burned, if I make the film. I’ll get a shot in the head.” Gerry’s eyes roamed over Fletch’s face. “It’s hard for a black man to tell a real threat from normal white man’s conversation.”
“Did you tell anybody about these threats?”
“Like who?”
“Anybody in authority. Steve Peterman. Talcott what’s-his-name. Sy Koller. The cops.”
“You think I’m crazy? Making this film is my employment. I’m not lookin’ to get unemployed.”
“Do you still have any of these letters, pamphlets?”
“’Course not. Throw ’em away. Gotta throw ’em away.”
“Do you remember any of the names, groups that sent you these letters?”
“They all have these long, phony names. You know: My Land But Not Your Land Committee Incorporated; Society To Keep ’em Pickin’ Cotton.”
“You got a call from a black group, too, Gerry.”
“Yes, I did.” Gerry smiled. “Some of the brothers want to keep soul to ourselves a few more centuries.”
“Gerry,” Fletch asked, “sincerely—do you think the production of
Midsummer Night’s Madness
seriously was being threatened by any of these groups? Like to the point of murder?”
“I don’t know. They’re madmen. How can you tell when madmen are serious?” More quietly, he said, “Yeah. I think there were murderers in that group this morning that attacked the house. People capable of murder. Plenty of ’em. That rum bottle coulda killed Stella. I just doubt they’re up to organizing anything as clever as the murder of Steve Peterman. Whoever got Steve was no dope.”
“I guess you’re right.”
The nurse brought in a vase of roses. There were no other flowers in the room.
“Ah!” Fletch got off the window sill. “You didn’t eat ’em.”
“I had supper at home,” the nurse said. “Daffodils.”
Fletch was at the door. “Coming back to the house, Gerry?”
“Sure,” he said. “Later.”
In the cool night, Fletch walked around Key West for awhile. He found himself in the center of the old commercial district so he went down the alley to Durty Harry’s. Frederick Mooney was not there. Few were. There was no band playing either.
He sat at the bar and ordered a beer. A clock he had seen said ten minutes past eleven but clocks in Key West are not expected to tell the real time. Clocks in Key West are only meant to substantiate unreality.
A dog, a black dog, a large black dog walked through the bar at the heels of a man who came through a door on the second storey and down a spiral staircase.
“What’s that dog’s name?” Fletch asked the young woman behind the bar.
“That’s Emperor. Isn’t he a nice dog?”
“Nice dog.” Fletch sipped his beer. He did not want the beer. The early morning phone call from Satterlee, the demonstrations, the day of sailing and swimming in the wind and sun made him glad to sit quietly a moment. He thought about Global Cable News and how quickly his phone call had been answered and he was allowed to speak to that hour’s producer because he was a stockholder. It should be the story that counts, not who is calling it in. Anything can be checked out. Your average stockholder is not any more honest or accurate than your average citizen. Fletch decided if he ever had a big story again he’d call it into Global Cable News under a phony name. It would be an interesting experiment—for a stockholder. He wanted to sleep. He left the rest of his beer on the bar. “Nice dog,” he said.
Something woke him up. It was dawn. Fletch remained in bed a minute listening to the purposeful quiet. It was too purposeful.
He got out of bed and went out onto the balcony.
There were two policemen in the sideyard. They looked back up at him.
In the dawn he could see the flashing blue lights of police cars at the front of the house.
“Shit,” Fletch said.
He ran along the balcony against the wall to the back of the house and around the corner. Gerry Littleford was curled up asleep in a hammock.
Fletch shook his shoulder. “Gerry. Wake up. It may be a bust.”
Gerry opened one eye to him. “What? A what?”
Were the police there to arrest someone for murder? No, there were too many of them. There were now three cops in the backyard. Were they there because they had been tipped off there would be another demonstration? No, they were in the yard. Some judge had given them a warrant to be on and in the property.
“It sure looks like a bust to me,” Fletch said quietly.
“A bust?”
“Shut up. Get up. Get rid of whatever shit you have.” Fletch pulled up on one side of the hammock and Gerry fell out the other side landing like a panther on braced fingers and toes. “Down the toilet, Gerry.
Pronto.”
In the bedroom Fletch put on his shorts and shirt.
“What’s happening?” Moxie said into her pillow.
“You might get dressed. The cops are here.”
Instantly she sat up. Instantly there was no sign of sleep in her face. Instead there was the look of someone cornered, frightened but who would fight.
“I know,” Fletch said. “You didn’t kill Steve Peterman. Ho-hum.”
And three policemen were standing on the front porch. When Fletch opened the front door to them they seemed surprised. They had not rung the bell or knocked.
“Good morning,” Fletch said. “Welcome to the home of the stars. Donations are tax deductible.”
The policemen seemed shy. There were five police cars in the street. The roof lights of three
were flashing. Despite the demonstration the day before, the street was clean.
Fletch held his hand out to them, palm up. A policeman put a folded paper into Fletch’s palm. Nevertheless, he said, “May we come in?”
Fletch held their own paper up to them. “Guess this says you may.”
In the front hall one of the policemen said, “I’m Sergeant Henning.”
Fletch shook hands with him. “Fletcher. Tenant of this domicile.”
“We have to search this domicile.”
“Sure,” Fletch said. “Coffee?”
The sergeant looked around at all the other policemen coming into the house, through the front and back and verandah doors, and said, “Sure.”
In the kitchen Fletch put a pan of water on the stove and got out two mugs. “Thanks for your help yesterday.”
“Actual fact, we weren’t much help. Got here late. Things had gone too far. Things like that don’t happen here in Key West anyway.”
“Not on your daily agenda, huh?”
“Actual fact, sort of hard to know what to do. Those bimbos are citizens, too. Sort of got the right to demonstrate.”
“Were there any actual arrests?” Fletch spooned instant coffee into the two mugs. From upstairs he could hear people moving around. Furniture being moved. Then he could hear Edith Howell’s voice pitched high in indignation.
“Nine. They’ll be released this morning.”
“No one threw that rum bottle at Mrs. Littleford, huh?” The water in the pan was bubbling.
“None of the people we arrested did.” The sergeant smiled ruefully. “We asked every one of ’em, we did. Politely, too.”
Fletch poured the water into the mugs and handed one to the police sergeant.
“Any sugar?” the sergeant asked. Fletch nodded to the bowl on the counter. “I need my sugar.” The sergeant helped himself. “Coffee and sugar. It’s what keeps me bad-tempered.”
Two other policemen came into the kitchen and began searching through it.
“Appreciate it if you wouldn’t make too much of a mess,” Fletch said. “Know Mrs. Lopez?”
“Sure,” a cop said.
“She’ll have to clean up.”
He went out onto the back porch with his coffee. The sergeant followed him.
“Can you tell me why you’re searching the house?” Fletch asked.
The sergeant shrugged. “Illegal substances.”
“Yeah, but why? What’s the evidence you had to get a warrant?”
“It was good enough for the judge. That sure is a nice banyan tree. I haven’t been in this house in years.” He grinned at Fletch. “You in the movies, too?”
“No.”
“Just one of those cats who likes to associate with movie people, huh?”
“Yeah. A hanger-on.”
“It must be sort of disappointin’, seein’ these
people up close. I mean, when no one’s writin’ their lines for ’em, no one’s directin’ how they act. I’d rather leave ’em on the screen.”
“I’m sure they’d rather be left on the screen.”
“That Mister Mooney sure is one big drunk. Seen him downtown. He needs a keeper.”
“He’s a great man.”
“One of our patrolmen drove him home the other night. First night you were here.” “Thank you.”
“Chuck said Mooney recited all the way home.” The sergeant chuckled. “Something about Jessie James being due in town. Better watch out for him.” The sergeant drank some coffee. Upstairs Edith Howell was exclaiming, proclaiming, declaiming. “This whole country’s drunk. Stoned on something.”
“Whole world.”
“The people have discovered drugs. Not enough to do any more. Machines do the hard work. Recreational drugs, we’re callin’ ’em now. Baseball is recreation… fishin’. Too much time.”
“Not everyone can go fishin’. Not everyone can go to baseball.”
“The whole damned world’s stoned on one thing or another.”
Saying nothing, a policeman held the back door open. His eyes were bloodshot.
The sergeant left his coffee mug on the kitchen counter. The kitchen was really very clean.
John Meade was standing in the front hall. A policeman was standing beside him. John Meade
was wearing gray slacks and brown loafers and a blue button-down shirt and handcuffs.
He smiled at Fletch. “Ludes.”
“Sorry, John,” said Fletch. “I never thought of you.”
“Brought ’em back from New York.”
The sergeant took a tin container from the policeman. “Qualudes,” the sergeant said. “A controlled substance. You have a prescription, Mister Meade?”
“My doctor died,” John Meade said. “Eleven years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. I sure liked you in
Easy River.”
“So did I,” said John Meade.
The sergeant was examining the tin box. “You sure didn’t get this from any legitimate source, Mister Meade. You’re supportin’ the bad guys, actual fact.”
Other police were coming into the front hall.
“Hey, Sergeant,” Fletch said. “Does this have to happen? Do you have to take Mister Meade in?”
“Yeah,” Sergeant Hennings said. “Too many witnesses. Too many cops around.”
Fletch retreated to the small study at the back of The Blue House.
On the front stairs Edith Howell was screaming her rage that the police had taken John Meade away in handcuffs. She was screaming at Frederick Mooney to go do something about it. There had not been a sound from Frederick Mooney. Fletch wasn’t even sure he was in the house. Edith Howell was dressed in blue silk pajamas, blue silk slippers, and a blue silk robe. Her hair was in pin curls and her face clotted with cream. Sy Koller’s head had appeared over the second-floor bannister looking painfully hung-over. Lopez and Gerry Littleford were in the backyard throwing a tennis ball back and forth. Mrs. Lopez was in the kitchen making
real coffee, starting breakfast. Neither Geoffrey McKensie nor Moxie had come down.
Fletch did not mind telephoning Five Aces Farm that early in the morning. Horse people are always up early.
The phone rang so long without being answered Fletch sat at the desk.
Finally a man’s voice answered.
“This is Fletcher. May I speak with Mister Sills, please?”
“Not here, Mister Fletcher. This is Max Frizzlewhit.”
“Mornin’, Max. Ted must have been off pretty early. Is there a race somewhere?”
“Yeah, there’s a race. But he’s not at it. I’m just about to go with the trailer. ‘Cept the phone kept ringin’ and ringin’ down here at the stables. One of your horses, too, Mister Fletcher,” Frizzlewhit sped along in his English accent. “Scarlet Pimple-Nickle. Call to wish her luck?”
“Does she have a chance?”
“No. If she had half a chance we would have moved her to the track yesterday. She’s not worth stable fees.”
“Then why are you running her?”
“She needs the exercise.”
“Oh, good.”
“She needs the experience.”
“Will she ever be any good, Max?”
“No.”
“Then why do I own her?”
“Beats me. She may have looked good that week you were here.”
“Never again?”
“And never before, I think.”
“Maybe I brought something out in her.”
“Maybe. You ought to come by more often, Mister Fletcher.”
“To buy more horses?”
“You ought to go to the track.”
“It’s too embarrassing, Max.”
“Maybe if you went to the track ol’ Scarlet Pimple-Nickle would perform for you, keep her eye on the finish instead of on a bunch of horses’ asses.” If only the horses he trained ran as fast as Frizzlewhit talked…
“This horse has an anal fixation, is that it?”
“I’m not sure she’s an actual pervert, Mister Fletcher. It just may be that she’d never seen anything but other horses’ asses.”
“Very understanding of you, Frizzlewhit.”
“Hey, you have to be, in this business. Horses are just like people.”