Authors: Gregory Mcdonald
She looked into the room and then across the wide corridor at him. “Do I give you a tip?”
“If you have trouble with the air conditioner, just call downstairs.”
Fletch pushed open another door. “This room is your’s, Mister Mooney. See? Nice big double bed.”
“Very good.” Frederick Mooney staggered through the door to his room. “What time do I go on?”
“Not to worry,” Fletch said. “We’ll call you in plenty of time.”
“Just did Lear,” Fletch heard Mooney muttering through the door. “Must be
Richard III
tonight.”
Moxie was standing in the doorway. Even in her black dress, even standing still, her chin tilted slightly up, the light behind her made her presence, her being, exciting.
“Good night, Ms Mooney. Sleep well.”
“Good night,” she said. “Thanks for bringing my luggage.”
Fletch said, “I didn’t, did I.”
In his own room, Fletch walked out of his moccasins, dropped his shirt and his shorts and his undershorts in a heap on the floor, walked through a warm shower in no time at all, and then walked into bed, fell down, and pulled the sheet over him.
Then he laughed.
“I can hardly wait to get old.” On the bed, Moxie ran her legs down his and stretched. “Wrinkled and baggy.”
“That’s what we all want for you,” Fletch said.
“I don’t mean old,” Moxie said. “Just old enough to have an excuse to get fat and ugly.”
“Can hardly wait for the day.”
She rolled onto her side and faced him, as he was on his side, and their naked bodies were together all the way up and down except for their stomachs. “I can hardly wait to get some roles with some real character in them.”
“Belly rolls, uh?”
“Married women, mothers, nuns, grandmothers, business executives. You know what I mean—
women who’ve lived a little, have some dimension to them and it shows in their faces.”
The long door-windows were open to the second-floor balcony and the breeze coming in was slightly humid over their slightly sweaty bodies.
Being Moxie, she had come into his room naked and walked around the room slowly, turning on every light. Her body was totally tanned, as it had to be for her role in
Midsummer Night’s Madness.
She had jumped onto his bed, reached down and torn the sheet off him, and then fell on him, flat, jumping to as great a height as she could manage to do so.
Which is why Fletch had turned on his side and they had come to embrace in that position.
“Not like this damned role in
Midsummer Night’s Madness.
You know how the scriptwriter wrote in the character for my role? I quote: Beautiful blond female, American build, in twenties, dash Moxie Mooney question mark unquote.”
“You sound a natural for the role.”
“You call that writing character?”
“Well, you’re beautiful, and you’re blond, all the way up and down, and you’re female, all the way up and down. What’s an American build?”
“Guess you’re lookin’ at it, baby.”
“I’m not seeing anything but your eyes, forehead, nose, and cheekbones.”
“You’re feelin’ it, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. I’m feeling it.”
“Feel it some more,” she said. “Arr.”
“Wait a minute.”
“No. Let’s not.”
* * *
Then he was on his back and the breeze seemed cooler to him.
“There are good roles for young people,” he said. “There must be.”
“Not in
Midsummer Night’s Madness.
In
Midsummer Night’s Madness
I am body, pure and simple, wide-eyed, innocent, staring, and stupid. All I do is say O! and look alarmed. There are more O’s in that script than in ten kilos of Swiss cheese.”
“Must be tough bein’ just another beautiful face. Body.”
Each was spread-eagled on the huge bed, cooling off. Only the tips of their fingers touched.
“Knock it off, Fletcher. I was brought up, trained to do more than stand there and say O! Freddy and I saw to that. I’m not giving you talk-show interview motif number one.”
“Sounds it.”
For a long moment, she looked at the ceiling. Then she said, “I guess I am. Oh, dear.”
“First time you’ve ever called me dear.”
“I didn’t call you dear. I called the ceiling dear.”
“Watch those expressions of affection, Moxie. Remember, I’m going to have to write to you in the slammer, and our mail will be censored.”
“What I’m saying is all this trouble over this film, and the film stinks. Wooden scenes, turgid dialogue, stereotyped characters. All it really is about is people chasing each other along a moonlit beach at night and whumpin’ each other.”
“Should be a hit.”
“Staring Moxie Mooney.”
“And Gerry Littleford.”
“And Gerry Littleford. Not up to his talents either.”
“If this film is so bad, Moxie dear, why are you doing it?”
“Steve said I had to. Fulfill some contract or other.”
“Fulfill some contract you signed?”
“I signed. Or he signed.”
“Seems to me you handed over a large slice of your life to Steve Peterman.”
“Fletch, a person in my shoes has to trust somebody.”
“You’re not wearing shoes. I noticed.”
“One cannot be one hundred percent creative sharp and one hundred percent business sharp at the same time. It is mentally and physically impossible. Some people pick wonderful business managers in the talent garden, and live happily ever after. I picked a bad apple.”
“And if the District Attorney don’t get you, the I.R.S. will.”
“You make everything sound so cheery.”
“Everything is cheery. It’s all in the point of view.”
“Want me to tell you about this dumb movie?”
“Yeah. Tell me a story.”
“Girl. Got it so far?”
“Yeah. American build. I can see her now.”
“Small town.”
“Anywhere, U.S.A.”
“Anywhere. Gets raped by son of chief of police.”
“Opening scene?”
“Opening scene.”
“Beats the aerial view of the Empire State Building.”
“Of course she doesn’t tell.”
“Why not?”
“Girls frequently don’t tell when they’ve been raped, Mister Fletcher.”
“Why not?”
“It embarrasses them,” Moxie said uncomfortably. “It’s the psychology of the whole thing. For some crazy reason they think it lowers them in the esteem of others.”
“Does it?”
“You tell me. Does it?”
“I hate the whole thought.”
“Have you been raped?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Have you told?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It comes up in conversation so seldom,” he said. “You’re not letting me get to the point of the movie.”
“Get to the point.”
“Girl is pregnant. Girl is truly in love with young black male.”
“American build?”
“You’ve seen Gerry Littleford.”
“Handsome man. Looks like a Greyhound. Racing dog, I mean. Not the bus.”
“White girl and black man get engaged to be married.”
“Does he know she’s pregnant by another man?”
“Sure. These people really love each other.”
“And what happens?”
“Town finds out they intend to get married. Town not pleased. Give black man a hard time. Town discovers girl is pregnant already. And then on midsummer’s night town goes crazy and pursues black man through countryside, swamp, woods until he comes to the edge of the ocean where they catch him and beat him to death. Needless to say, rapist-son-of-police-chief deals the killing blow, right into the black man’s head while the black man’s head is against a rock.”
“Yuck.”
“Midsummer Night’s Madness.”
“It plays upon people’s worst emotions, Moxie. It really does.”
“Oh, come on, Fletch. People don’t think that way anymore. Gerry Littleford’s wife is white.”
“Yeah. In recent years, miscegenation has been made legal. Most places.”
“You mean it’s still illegal some places?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, Fletch. I’ve read there is no such thing as an American black person without some white blood.”
“We’re talking about rape again. Aren’t we.” Fletch sat up on the bed and put his back against the tall, carved wooden backboard.
“I wasn’t even thinking of those things.” Moxie rolled over and put her chin in her elbow. “I just think as a movie it stinks. It’s badly written. I think the whole thing was written between drinks in The Polo Lounge. By people who don’t know anything about boys and girls, men and women, human beings, The South, The North, or America.
The World. Scene for scene, it just doesn’t reflect how people regard each other.”
“Moxie?”
“I’m still here. In case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m just thinking. The hit-and-run. Peterman.
A question some reporter asked, at the police station. Is it possible some one, or some group is trying to stop this film from being made?”
Her one visible eye looked up and down the wrinkled sheet between them. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Commit murder to stop a film?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“People are more sophisticated than that.” She curved her back and leaned on her elbows. “It’s a bad film, Fletch. It will never be released. No one will ever see it.”
“Yeah, but no one knows that, yet.”
“I’ll tell them, if they ask me.”
“You will like hell. In fact, let me ask you this: if filming resumes on this turkey film, will you go back on location and continue starring in it?”
“I have to, Fletch. I have no choice.”
“Thanks to dear old Steve Peterman.”
“Thanks to dear old Steve Peterman,” she repeated quietly.
Somewhere in the house a door slammed. A heavy door.
“What was that?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” Fletch said.
He jumped off the bed. “Oh, no.”
He ran down the stairs and opened the front
door of the house and stepped out onto the porch. He looked down toward the center of Key West.
There was no one in the street except two men walking directly in front of the house.
“Come on all the way out, beautiful!” called one man.
“You’re gorgeous!” screamed the other one.
The first one belted the second one, hard. Fletch heard a bottle drop.
He realized he was naked. “Sorry,” he said.
He went back in the house and closed the door. Looked in the kitchen. Upstairs, he looked in Frederick Mooney’s room.
Returning to his own bedroom, he said, “I guess your father went out for a walk.”
“He went out for a drink and some conviviality,” Moxie said. “‘Conviviality’, he calls it.”
“Damn.”
“What time is it?”
“Stop asking that question in Key West.”
“Is it possible to get a drink in Key West at this hour?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I guess it’s early yet anyway. I thought you were putting Freddy to bed a little early.”
“Damn, damn,” Fletch said. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“Nice line,” Moxie said. “Up there with O, O, O, O. What’s the matter with Freddy going out for a drink? Can’t keep him in anyway.”
“In case it hadn’t dawned on you, O, Luminous Two, I was trying to keep your presence in Key West a deep, dark secret.”
“Oh,” she said.
“The minute Freddy’s famous face hits the light of any bar, up goes the telephone receiver to the press.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Freddy here: Moxie here. Simple equation.”
From the bed, she said, “Nice try, sport. Best laid plans, and all that.”
“Damn.”
“Damn,” she said, looking at him as he stood in the middle of the room. “I think you have an American build.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I was made in the U.S.A.”
“So how come,” Moxie asked very early in the morning in the bright kitchen, “you get to borrow such a nice big house in Key West at a moment’s notice?”
Frederick Mooney was asleep in his room. Fletch had checked.
“It belongs to someone I do business with.” Carefully, Fletch was trying to make individual omelettes. “A little business. Well, what it comes down to is that I give him money which he feeds to race horses.”
“Sounds like a great business.”
“The horses like it, I guess.”
“Get any manure in return?”
“Nothing but.”
“Even in daylight The Blue House is white. First thing I did this morning was run out and check.” Moxie was not wearing the only dress she had brought with her. The large backyard of The Blue House was completely walled. “Are you ever going to tell me why it’s called The Blue House?”
“Probably.”
“But not now, right?”
“Got to be a little mystery in our relationship.”
She was squeezing orange juice. “Seems we have quite a big enough mystery to deal with already.”
The omelette was sticking to the pan. Fletch turned down the heat.
“So who owns The Blue House?”
“Man named Sills. Ted Sills.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Come to think of it, I met him at a party at your apartment.”
“You did?”
“Tall guy. Beer belly. Hair plastered down.”
“Right. Sounds like everybody who comes to my parties.”
“Trouble is, I found myself having a drink with him later, talking about investing in his race horses. Then, later, spent a week with him at his horse farm, and the weekend here in Key West, where I actually signed some papers.”
“How come you’re rich?” Moxie asked.
The phone rang.
Automatically, Moxie picked it up. “The Blue House,” she said. “Mister Blue isn’t here.” Then she said, “Hi, Gerry! How did you know I was here?” She looked across the kitchen at Fletch.
“It’s on the news this morning?… They even say The Blue House, Key West? Rats…” She listened and then said to Fletch, “Gerry Littleford says it was on Global Cable News at six o’clock last night that I had disappeared.” She said into the phone, “That’s impossible, Gerry. I didn’t disappear until eight o’clock.” She shook her head at Fletch. “These reporters,” she said. “Aren’t they awful? … Yeah, I know. Freddy was out on the town in Key West and spilled all. He’s a very convivial man, Freddy is…” She turned her back to Fletch. “… Sure, Gerry… sure… Sure you’re not just being paranoid, Gerry? Coke does that to you, you know… Sure… Okay, that would be great.” She turned to Fletch. “What street are we on?”