me,” Alston said. “In case I haven’t mentioned this before, Audrey, I wasn’t a very with-it Marine.”
“Bye, Fletch.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for saving my husband’s ass.”
“Hell with his ass,” Fletch said. “It’s his sense of humor I saved.”
On the sidewalk in front of the house, Alston Chambers said, “Fletch, I’ve got a bank balance of over five hundred dollars. All or part of it are yours, any time you want it.”
“Poo!” Fletch said. “What’s money? Tissue paper! Who needs it?”
Sitting in the car, Fletch said through the window, “Thanks, Alston. Call you tomorrow.”
19
“S H I T O N A windy corner!” Moxie muttered as she got into the passenger seat of the car in the dark. “You even beat Freddy Mooney!”
“Don’t bother giving me directions. I know where the Colloquial Theater is.”
“I never in my life came across such a weird man as you are!”
“Across the bridge, right?”
She didn’t even glance in the direction they were going.
“I mean, my God! In the three days I’ve known you all you’ve done is cry poor. Poor me! I’ve lost my job, wail, wail, wail! You haven’t bought me any food in three days!”
“Orange juice. I bought the orange juice.”
“I put my name on the dotted line for a steak, pal. And a bottle of wine. Had to pretend I was a bride new to the neighborhood with a husband working in a bank.”
“You’re good that way.”
“
You’ve got fifty dollars—I’ve got about the same, for the rest of my life
.” Even to Fletch her imitation of him sounded accurate. “You leave the house to run around the countryside in your sports car.” She slapped the dashboard of the M.G. with her hand. “I spot a wallet hanging out of your dirty jeans, say,
What’s this?
, pull it out, open it up, and there—right there before my eyes as surprising as Mount Everest in the Sahara Desert—is twenty-five thousand dollars cash in one thousand dollar bills!”
“It’s not my money, Moxie. I told you that, at the apartment.”
“You wouldn’t even buy us lunch with a credit card!”
“I told you. The money belongs to James St. E. Crandall.”
“Losers weepers!”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars worth of weepers?”
“Mister Fletcher, may I point out to you that anyone who can drop twenty-five thousand dollars cash on the sidewalk and not even look around is also someone who knows where his next poached egg is coming from?”
“I don’t know that. Neither do you.”
“I do know, on the other hand, that you do not know where your next poached egg is coming from.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“That’s why you drove about one-hundred-and-fifty miles out of your way to stop at that dead-water town, Worrybeads, or whatever it was, right?”
“Wramrud.”
“Whatever. Here’s a guy trying to give away twenty-five thousand dollars in cash while he’s starving. I ask you, is that sensible?”
“I’m not starving.”
“You never even mentioned you were carrying so much money. And there we were, sleeping on a beach!”
“That was nice. And I did, too, mention it.”
“Yeah.
So I took the twenty-five thousand dollars
. That’s what you said. Is everything you say a joke? Are you a joke, Irwin Fletcher?”
Going onto the bridge Fletch’s eye caught something fluttering in the breeze, a piece of cloth, to his right, half-way across.
“You sound like a wife,” he said.
She grinned across at him, her face picking up the light from the dashboard. “Hoped you’d say that. I rehearsed.”
He was slowing the car.
It was a skirt that was fluttering in the breeze. Fletch could see one leg below it, very white, and above it, hanging onto a bridge cable, an arm.
He pulled the car’s hazard lights switch, and pulled over to the right as far as he could.
“Get out of the car, Moxie, and stand as much out of the way as you can. Don’t stand in front of the car.”
“You’re
“Bye, Fletch.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for saving my husband’s ass.”
“Hell with his ass,” Fletch said. “It’s his sense of humor I saved.”
On the sidewalk in front of the house, Alston Chambers said, “Fletch, I’ve got a bank balance of over five hundred dollars. All or part of it are yours, any time you want it.”
“Poo!” Fletch said. “What’s money? Tissue paper! Who needs it?”
Sitting in the car, Fletch said through the window, “Thanks, Alston. Call you tomorrow.”
19
“S H I T O N A windy corner!” Moxie muttered as she got into the passenger seat of the car in the dark. “You even beat Freddy Mooney!”
“Don’t bother giving me directions. I know where the Colloquial Theater is.”
“I never in my life came across such a weird man as you are!”
“Across the bridge, right?”
She didn’t even glance in the direction they were going.
“I mean, my God! In the three days I’ve known you all you’ve done is cry poor. Poor me! I’ve lost my job, wail, wail, wail! You haven’t bought me any food in three days!”
“Orange juice. I bought the orange juice.”
“I put my name on the dotted line for a steak, pal. And a bottle of wine. Had to pretend I was a bride new to the neighborhood with a husband working in a bank.”
“You’re good that way.”
“
You’ve got fifty dollars—I’ve got about the same, for the rest of my life
.” Even to Fletch her imitation of him sounded accurate. “You leave the house to run around the countryside in your sports car.” She slapped the dashboard of the M.G. with her hand. “I spot a wallet hanging out of your dirty jeans, say,
What’s this?
, pull it out, open it up, and there—right there before my eyes as surprising as Mount Everest in the Sahara Desert—is twenty-five thousand dollars cash in one thousand dollar bills!”
“It’s not my money, Moxie. I told you that, at the apartment.”
“You wouldn’t even buy us lunch with a credit card!”
“I told you. The money belongs to James St. E. Crandall.”
“Losers weepers!”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars worth of weepers?”
“Mister Fletcher, may I point out to you that anyone who can drop twenty-five thousand dollars cash on the sidewalk and not even look around is also someone who knows where his next poached egg is coming from?”
“I don’t know that. Neither do you.”
“I do know, on the other hand, that you do not know where your next poached egg is coming from.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“That’s why you drove about one-hundred-and-fifty miles out of your way to stop at that dead-water town, Worrybeads, or whatever it was, right?”
“Wramrud.”
“Whatever. Here’s a guy trying to give away twenty-five thousand dollars in cash while he’s starving. I ask you, is that sensible?”
“I’m not starving.”
“You never even mentioned you were carrying so much money. And there we were, sleeping on a beach!”
“That was nice. And I did, too, mention it.”
“Yeah.
So I took the twenty-five thousand dollars
. That’s what you said. Is everything you say a joke? Are you a joke, Irwin Fletcher?”
Going onto the bridge Fletch’s eye caught something fluttering in the breeze, a piece of cloth, to his right, half-way across.
“You sound like a wife,” he said.
She grinned across at him, her face picking up the light from the dashboard. “Hoped you’d say that. I rehearsed.”
He was slowing the car.
It was a skirt that was fluttering in the breeze. Fletch could see one leg below it, very white, and above it, hanging onto a bridge cable, an arm.
He pulled the car’s hazard lights switch, and pulled over to the right as far as he could.
“Get out of the car, Moxie, and stand as much out of the way as you can. Don’t stand in front of the car.”
“You’re
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