“I have one.”
Mooney’s eyes narrowed to find Fletch’s beer can. “So you have.”
He had poured himself a good three ounces.
“So who was this Peterperson. Much of a loss to the world, do you think?”
Fletch shrugged. “Moxie’s manager. A producer of the film.”
“And how did he die?”
“He got stabbed in the back.”
Mooney laughed. “Typical of the business. The hindustry, as it’s now called.”
“I’m afraid your daughter is one of the prime suspects.”
“Marilyn?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her.” Mooney looked speculatively over the railing through the storm, not seeing it.
Fletch hesitated. For such a genius, how drunk was drunk; was he seeing lucidity or Lear; was the subject Regan or Moxie? “You wouldn’t put what past whom?”
“Murder.” Mooney’s eyes came back to Fletch. “Past Marilyn.”
A worse shiver went down Fletch’s spine, and up again where it hit the back of his head like a fistful of feathers.
Mooney lowered his eyes to the scarred table. “She’s done it before.”
“Done what?” Fletch blurted.
Mooney dug into a scar on the table with his thumb nail. “Murder,” he said.
The surf pounded three times on the beach before Fletch had enough easy breath to say, “What are you talking about?”
“That incident at the school,” Mooney said. “When Marilyn was thirteen, fourteen. The year her benign Daddy—yours truly—decided to transfer her to a school in England at mid-term. November, I think it was. No one is supposed to know what precipitated the sudden transfer, of course. I said I wanted her near me. I was scarcely in England at all that year.”
Fletch said, “I knew she spent a year or two in school in England.”
“But you don’t know why.” Mooney then used the tired voice of someone reciting sad, ancient history. “At the private boarding school she was attending in California, her drama coach… maybe I could remember his name…” He gulped some of his drink. “… Can’t. No matter. Little creep. Was found drowned at the edge of the school pond, his feet sticking out. Someone had bopped him on the head with a rock. Knocked unconscious. School authorities investigated. There were only three girls anywhere near the pond that afternoon. Marilyn was the closest. Marilyn was the only one of the three who knew the creep, was a student of his. Marilyn was the pitcher on the school’s ballteam, entirely capable of forcefully beaning someone with a rock.” Mooney hiccoughed. Then he sighed. “She did not like that drama coach. She had written me so—in flaming red pose. I mean, prose.”
“The man could have slipped …”
“He was face down in the water. He had been hit on the back of the head. Murder most foul…and deliberate. Couldn’t prove for a certainty who did it… that Marilyn did it. She was questioned. Good actress even then. Had her old man’s blood, you know. Born with it. Veins are stuffed with it.”
“So you hustled her to a school in England.”
“Yes,” Mooney said slowly. “She was being questioned, questioned, questioned. Don’t object to questions, mind you. One or two of the answers might have been…” Mooney’s voice went up the long trail.
“But if she was guilty of murder—”
Mooney jerked to attention. “She’d still be my daughter, damn it. Brilliant future. All that blood in her veins. Talent shouldn’t be wasted.” His shoulders eased into a more relaxed posture. “I think of the incident as nothing more than Ulysses bashing in his teacher’s head with a lyre. There comes a time when one must do away with one’s teacher, one way or another. Granted, Ulysses and Marilyn took a more dramatic approach than others…”
Fletch said, “She was having some trouble with Peterman. Which is why she asked me to come down to see her.”
“What?” Mooney asked crisply. “You mean you’re not in the hindustry at all?”
“No. I’m a reporter.”
“Oops. Must mind my manners. Am I being interviewed?”
“No. You’re not.”
“I’m offended. Why not?”
“Because, sir, you’re drunk.”
“In your opinion…” Mooney paused. He blinked slowly. “… I’m drunk?”
“No offense.”
“I’m always drunk,” Mooney said. “No offense. It’s my way of life. My being drunk has never stopped my giving a good interview. Or performance.”
“I once read that you’d said you’ve made as many as thirty films dead drunk and don’t remember anything about any of them. Is that true?”
Mooney’s head seemed loose. Then he nodded sharply. “Tha’s true.”
“How can such a thing be true?”
“I love to see movies I know nothing about. Especially when I’m in them.”
“I don’t get it. How can you get yourself up for a scene, appear not drunk on the screen, when you’re drunk?”
“Unreality,” Mooney said. “Reality. The distortion of reality. You see?” he asked.
“No.”
“I made a whole film, once, in Ankara. A year later, I told a reporter I’d never been in Turkey. Widely quoted. The studio said I’d been misquoted. That I’d said I had never been in a turkey.” Mooney laughed. “I’ve been in turkeys. I guess I’ve also been in Turkey. Nice place, Turkey. I live in a nice place, in my mind. Filming’s easy. It only takes a few minutes a day. I can always get myself up for it.”
“Always?”
The pupils of Mooney’s eyes were shaking, or glimmering with challenge. “Want to see me get myself up right now?”
Fletch said, “I think I just saw you do it. You were just Lear, in front of my eyes.”
“I was? I did? I’ll do it again.” Mooney composed his face. He took a slow, deep breath. Behind his face something was pulling him to sleep. “I don’t feel like it,” he said.
He took a drink.
“Sorry, sir,” Fletch said. “Don’t mean to badger you. Just stupid curiosity, on my part.”
“’S all right,” Mooney said cheerily. “I’m used to being an object of ururosity. Cure-urosity.”
“You’re a great man.”
“Like any other,” said Mooney.
“Shall we go to the car? It’s not raining so hard now.”
“The car!” exclaimed Mooney. He looked around himself, then out at the beach. “What, have they stopped shooting for the day. Lose their light?”
“We’ve been sitting through a hell of a storm. Pouring rain. Thunder. Lightning.”
Mooney looked confused, curious. He said, “I thought that was in King Lear.”
“Come on.” Fletch stood up. “Your daughter’s waiting.”
“Involved in a murder…”
“Something like that.”
“I wonder… if she has a black veil in her wardrobe.”
“I don’t know,” Fletch said. “Time to go.”
“That bottle…” Mooney pointed at it. “… goes in that bag.” He pointed at the wrong spot on the floor, to his right rather than his left, to where the airlines bag wasn’t.
Fletch capped the bottle and put it in the bag.
There were three other full bottles in the bag, one empty, and some bulky odd rags.
Mooney swallowed the rest of his drink, stood up and lurched.
Fletch grabbed his arm.
“Going now?” the bartender asked.
“Thank you, Innkeeper,” Mooney said, “for your superb horse.”
“‘Night, Mister Mooney.”
“Horsepitality.”
Fletch said, “Will’t please your highness walk?”
Bent over, clutching Fletch’s arm, Mooney grinned up at him. “You must bear with me. Pray you now, forget and forgive. I am old and foolish.”