Getting him down the stairs was a chore. It took almost ten minutes.
When Mooney stepped out from under the roof he looked at the day, at the Gulf, at the rain as if he’d never seen it all before.
“Wet day,” he said. “Think I’ll go back to the hotel and slip into a dry martini.”
“Think I’ll go back to the hotel,” Fletch said, “and slip into your daughter.”
Mooney did not look at Fletch or turn his head but the skin just forward of his ear turned red.
Fletch put him in the back seat of the rented car.
On the drive to Vanderbilt Beach, Frederick Mooney took two swigs from his bottle and fell asleep. He snored loudly enough to awake anyone dozing in any balcony, anywhere.
7
“May I help you, sir?”
Through the glass of the front door of Hotel La Playa, the red jacketed bellman had seen Fletch drive up, get out of the car, and hesitate. It was after dark and Fletch was shoeless, in wet shorts and shirt.
“Yeah. Will you please tell Ms Mooney her father and driver are waiting for her?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Fletch leaned against the wet car. Even with doors and windows closed he could hear Frederick Mooney snoring in the back seat.
Within five minutes Moxie came through the door and down the steps.
She was wearing a simple, short, black dress. And a black veil.
Fletch held the passenger seat’s door open for her and got in the driver’s side.
In the back seat Frederick Mooney turned quiet.
“My God,” Moxie expostulated. “What’s the world coming to? Think of a man like Steve Peterman being stabbed to death right before my very eyes!”
“Was it?”
“Beg pardon, young man?”
Fletch headed the car back to Route 41. “Was it before your very eyes?”
“No. Really, I didn’t see a thing. I don’t see how such a thing could have happened.”
“Were you close?”
“Like brother and sister. Steve’s been with me years. Helping me. Through thick and thin. Through good times and bad times. Ups and downs.”
“Coming and going.”
“Coming and going.”
“Arrivals and departures.”
“Arrivals and departures.”
From the back seat, Frederick Mooney said, “Very good, girlie.”
Moxie pulled off her hat and veil and threw them on the backseat next to her father. She was grinning. “Thought you’d like it, O.L.”
“I understand if you don’t carry off this performance very well indeed, darling daughter, your next engagement might be a long one in the cooler.”
“He’s doing the role of Scanlon,” Moxie explained to Fletch.
“Oh.”
“The Saint on Murderers’ Row.”
“I see.”
“Was it you what busted the creep’s plumbing, daughter?”
“I didn’t mean to, honest, I didn’t. See I was parin’ my nails with this shiv when he come along real careless like and backed into me.” Moxie shook her head. “Real careless.”
“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.”