Fletch and the Widow Bradley by Mcdonald Gregory

Author:Mcdonald, Gregory [Mcdonald, Gregory]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Knopf Group E-Books
Published: 2010-04-21T16:00:00+00:00

21

“I’ V E D O N E Y O U a favor,” Moxie said a few times during the evening.

In bed, after they’d showered, after they’d eaten peanut butter sandwiches, after Fletch had explained to Moxie again he had no intention of trying to be an actor and she had explained to him, again, patiently, that, yes, he would so try, that doubtlessly he would be far better than Sam in the role, Fletch’s legs were straighter, and after they, again, physically penetrated each other, and were, at that moment, lying back in the dark room, Moxie asked, “Fletcher?”

“Yes, Ma’m?”

“Where were you this morning?”

“When this morning?”

“I woke up at three o’clock. You weren’t in bed. You weren’t in the bathroom. You weren’t in the apartment at all.”

“I went out to do a spot of housebreaking.”

“Jeez,” Moxie said. “The way you say things I’d almost believe it. Not an actor, uh?”

“Not to worry. I got away with it.”

“Well.” She contracted and expanded, put her arm and her leg on his, so she’d be more comfortable. “I’ve done you a favor. A thousand-dollar favor. Or, a twenty-four thousand dollar favor, depending on your point of view.”

“How’s that again?”

“I’ve stolen a thousand dollars from you. From the wallet.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Well, it makes sense, Fletch. You’re not spending the money when you really need to because you want to be able to return the whole twenty-five thousand dollars to the man. Right?”

“Right.”

“Well, now you can’t return the whole twenty-five thousand dollars to the man. Because I’ve got a thousand dollars of it. So you might as well do the sensible thing and spend the rest of the money yourself. Right?”

“Are you serious?”

“As serious as a flash flood in Abu Zabi.”

“Perverted.”

“What?”

“Perverted reasoning.”

“Hardly.”

“Moxie, you’ve stolen a thousand dollars which doesn’t belong to me.”

“Right. Thus giving you use of twenty-four thousand dollars.”

“That’s corrupt. You’re a crook.”

“I’m a sensible, clever lady.”

“What have you done with the money?”

“Hidden it.”

“Where?”

“Some place you’ll never find it.”

“Where would that be?”

“That’s for me to know and for you not to find out.”

“You’re serious about this.”

“Entirely.”

“Do you intend to spend the money?”

“I will if I want. If there’s something I want that costs a thousand dollars, I’ll spend it.”

“Is there something you want that costs a thousand dollars?”

“Not that I know of. Probably I’ll think of something. I didn’t really steal the money to spend it.”

“Oh, no. Of course I believe that.”

“You make me sound like a suspicious person.”

“You’re not suspicious. You’re a crook.”

“Fletcher, if you’d lost twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, do you think anyone else would drive all around the country trying to get it back to you?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Then you’re an idealist slightly more demented than Icarus.”

“Which Icarus is that?”

“The guy who flew toward the sun with wings attached by wax. The melting kind of wax.”

“Oh, that Icarus. That kind of wax.”

“Demented.”

“Moxie, there’s such a thing as a social contract. It makes the world go ‘round.”

“I don’t notice Frank Jaffe, or your newspaper, observing any social contract with you.

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