“That Mister Mooney! What a man. What a gentleman!”
“You know about the murder?”
She shrugged. “Last night there was another murder. Up the block. Behind the house.” Her hand indicated southwest. “A man was stabbed. So it goes. The tour trains are not announcing that murder.”
“Why was he stabbed?”
Again Mrs Lopez shrugged. “He said something. Or he said nothing. He did something. Or he did nothing. He had something. Or he had nothing. Why are people murdered?”
“Or because he was something.”
“Tambien.
Any special foods you like me to get?”
“Good fruit,” Fletch said. “Fish. Some cheese?”
“Of course. For how many days should I buy?”
“For a few days,” Fletch said. “For a few days at least.”
15
While Fletch was reading of the
Midsummer Night’s Madness
filmscript, a woman screamed.
Sitting in the back garden of The Blue House he looked up at the second storey.
It had been Edith Howell who screamed. Now she was shouting. Despite the theatrical timber of her voice, Fletch could not make out what she was saying.
He turned.
It was a drowsy afternoon.
When Fletch was, Frederick Mooney stumbled around the corner of the house. He stood in a patch of ground cover.
“There is what says she is a lady in my bed,” Frederick Mooney announced.
“Is that a complaint?” Fletch asked.
“I’d rather a woman,” admitted Mooney.
“It’s Edith Howell,” said Fletch.
“Is that who it was? I thought I recognized her from some similar scene… let’s see, was it
The Clock Struck One?”
“And down fell the other one?”
“Neither a lady nor a woman: Edith Howell.” Mooney’s feet tangled in the ground cover as he stepped forward. “Umbrage in feminine flesh.”
“She asked for you the minute she arrived.”
Mooney lowered himself into a shaded wrought-iron chair. “I think we did a play together once. Can’t think what. At least, I remember seeing her night after night for an extended period. You know, like a hotel bathtub.”
“You did
Time, Gentlemen, Time
together. On Broadway.”
“Oh, yes—that damned musical. How did I ever come to do that damned musical? I was miserable in it for months… although the audience seemed to like it. Bad advice, I guess. Are you a theater buff?”
“No more than anyone else.”
“Always amazing to me how much other people know about theater and films than I do.”
Fletch smiled. “You are theater and films, Mister Mooney.”
“I’ve done my job,” Mooney said. “Like anyone else. If I remember correctly, Mister Peterkin, yousaid you have nothing to do with the entertainment
hindustry.”
“Right. I don’t.”
Mooney tried to read the title of the filmscript on Fletch’s lap.
“Midsummer Night’s Dream,”
he said.
“Call you me fair?”
he said in a sad, light voice. “I
am as ugly as a bear.
Marvelous the annual income Sweet Will still produces. He should be around to enjoy it.”
“Midsummer Night’s Madness,”
Fletch said. “The film Moxie is now doing.”
“Oh, yes. Shakespeare in modern togs, I suppose. With this year’s psychiatric understandings thrown in.”
“No.” Fletch bounced the script on his knee. “There seems no relation between the two midsummer nights.”
“Just cribbing the title, eh? Wonder someone hasn’t written a play called
Piglet,
‘bout a chap who sees the ghost of last night’s supper. Alas, poor supper, I ate you well…”
“Moxie hasn’t talked to you about this script?”
“Moxie does not talk to me.” Mooney hiccuped behind his hand. “Moxie does not seek my advice. I am her drunken father. ’Tis well and just, I say. There were many years when I was caused to ignore her.”
“What caused that?”
Mooney’s eyes approached Fletch from both sides of his head, and consumed him. “Talent is the primary obligation,” said he. “Many men can love a woman and produce children; few can love the world and produce miracles.”
Fletch nodded.
“You know about the murder?”
She shrugged. “Last night there was another murder. Up the block. Behind the house.” Her hand indicated southwest. “A man was stabbed. So it goes. The tour trains are not announcing that murder.”
“Why was he stabbed?”
Again Mrs Lopez shrugged. “He said something. Or he said nothing. He did something. Or he did nothing. He had something. Or he had nothing. Why are people murdered?”
“Or because he was something.”
“Tambien.
Any special foods you like me to get?”
“Good fruit,” Fletch said. “Fish. Some cheese?”
“Of course. For how many days should I buy?”
“For a few days,” Fletch said. “For a few days at least.”
15
While Fletch was reading of the
Midsummer Night’s Madness
filmscript, a woman screamed.
Sitting in the back garden of The Blue House he looked up at the second storey.
It had been Edith Howell who screamed. Now she was shouting. Despite the theatrical timber of her voice, Fletch could not make out what she was saying.
He turned.
It was a drowsy afternoon.
When Fletch was, Frederick Mooney stumbled around the corner of the house. He stood in a patch of ground cover.
“There is what says she is a lady in my bed,” Frederick Mooney announced.
“Is that a complaint?” Fletch asked.
“I’d rather a woman,” admitted Mooney.
“It’s Edith Howell,” said Fletch.
“Is that who it was? I thought I recognized her from some similar scene… let’s see, was it
The Clock Struck One?”
“And down fell the other one?”
“Neither a lady nor a woman: Edith Howell.” Mooney’s feet tangled in the ground cover as he stepped forward. “Umbrage in feminine flesh.”
“She asked for you the minute she arrived.”
Mooney lowered himself into a shaded wrought-iron chair. “I think we did a play together once. Can’t think what. At least, I remember seeing her night after night for an extended period. You know, like a hotel bathtub.”
“You did
Time, Gentlemen, Time
together. On Broadway.”
“Oh, yes—that damned musical. How did I ever come to do that damned musical? I was miserable in it for months… although the audience seemed to like it. Bad advice, I guess. Are you a theater buff?”
“No more than anyone else.”
“Always amazing to me how much other people know about theater and films than I do.”
Fletch smiled. “You are theater and films, Mister Mooney.”
“I’ve done my job,” Mooney said. “Like anyone else. If I remember correctly, Mister Peterkin, yousaid you have nothing to do with the entertainment
hindustry.”
“Right. I don’t.”
Mooney tried to read the title of the filmscript on Fletch’s lap.
“Midsummer Night’s Dream,”
he said.
“Call you me fair?”
he said in a sad, light voice. “I
am as ugly as a bear.
Marvelous the annual income Sweet Will still produces. He should be around to enjoy it.”
“Midsummer Night’s Madness,”
Fletch said. “The film Moxie is now doing.”
“Oh, yes. Shakespeare in modern togs, I suppose. With this year’s psychiatric understandings thrown in.”
“No.” Fletch bounced the script on his knee. “There seems no relation between the two midsummer nights.”
“Just cribbing the title, eh? Wonder someone hasn’t written a play called
Piglet,
‘bout a chap who sees the ghost of last night’s supper. Alas, poor supper, I ate you well…”
“Moxie hasn’t talked to you about this script?”
“Moxie does not talk to me.” Mooney hiccuped behind his hand. “Moxie does not seek my advice. I am her drunken father. ’Tis well and just, I say. There were many years when I was caused to ignore her.”
“What caused that?”
Mooney’s eyes approached Fletch from both sides of his head, and consumed him. “Talent is the primary obligation,” said he. “Many men can love a woman and produce children; few can love the world and produce miracles.”
Fletch nodded.
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