“I know. Any real damage?”
“No. It’s all cleaned up. Tomorrow I will start replacing the windows which were broken.”
On top of the barrel that Lopez had just set down were three empty apple juice bottles.
“Sorry about this morning,” Fletch said. “All the noise. Damage. Mess. Guess I’m not a very good tenant.”
Lopez’ grin grew even broader. “It’s fun,” he said. “This house is empty so much. The excitement is good. Don’t think about it.”
27
“How many stitches?” Fletch asked.
In the hospital bed Stella Littleford didn’t look any more sallow than usual. The surgical dressing on her forehead was not as big as Fletch expected.
“Six.” She did not smile.
Gerry Littleford sat in a side chair, his feet propped up on the bed. On top of his shorts he was wearing a hospital johnny. He had left The Blue House that morning without a shirt. Apparently he had not been back to the house since. He also wore paper slippers on his feet.
“They’re keeping her overnight,” Gerry said. “Concussion.”
“I brought you some flowers,” Fletch said. “Nurse ate them.” He crossed the room and leaned his back against the window sill. “What happened this morning anyway? I didn’t see… I was on the phone.”
“There was a riot,” Gerry Littleford said drily.
“I went out into the front yard and shook my fists at those dirty bastards and called them dirty bastards,” Stella said. “Dirty bastards.”
“Does it hurt to talk?”
“It does now.” She tried not to laugh. “It didn’t this morning.”
“She got bonked,” Gerry said. “Someone threw a rum bottle at her.”
“Someone must have really cared,” Fletch said. “There was still rum in the bottle.”
“Good.” Stella again tried not to laugh.
“I’ve never seen you laugh before,” Fletch said to her.
“She does everything she’s not supposed to do,” Gerry said, “when she’s not supposed to do it. Like marrying me.”
Stella’s eyes moved slowly to Gerry’s face. Fletch could not read the expression in them.
“Question,” Fletch said. “Have either of you heard before from these groups? Threatening letters, phone calls, anything?”
Neither answered him.
“I’m just wondering,” Fletch said, “how much these groups wanted that film stopped.”
Still, neither answered him.
“Hey,” Fletch said. “There’s been a murder. Maybe two. Stella’s in bed with a concussion. Stitches in her forehead. This morning we saw demonstrations demanding the film be stopped. It’s a reasonable question.”
Gerry asked, “Has the film been stopped?”
And Fletch didn’t answer. “Have you heard from any of these groups before?”
Gerry put his feet flat on the floor and sat straight in his chair as if about to give testimony in court. “To be honest—yes.”
“Letters?”
“With pamphlets enclosed. Keep-the-white-race-pure pamphlets. You know? So you honkies can go a few more centuries without soul.”
“There have been phone calls, too, Gerry,” Stella said.
“Phone calls,” Gerry said.
“Threats?”
“My black ass will get burned, if I make the film. I’ll get a shot in the head.” Gerry’s eyes roamed over Fletch’s face. “It’s hard for a black man to tell a real threat from normal white man’s conversation.”
“Did you tell anybody about these threats?”
“Like who?”
“Anybody in authority. Steve Peterman. Talcott what’s-his-name. Sy Koller. The cops.”
“You think I’m crazy? Making this film is my employment. I’m not lookin’ to get unemployed.”
“Do you still have any of these letters, pamphlets?”
“’Course not. Throw ’em away. Gotta throw ’em away.”
“Do you remember any of the names, groups that sent you these letters?”
“They all have these long, phony names. You know: My Land But Not Your Land Committee Incorporated; Society To Keep ’em Pickin’ Cotton.”
“You got a call from a black group, too, Gerry.”
“Yes, I did.” Gerry smiled. “Some of the brothers want to keep soul to ourselves a few more centuries.”
“Gerry,” Fletch asked, “sincerely—do you think the production of Midsummer Night’s Madness seriously was being threatened by any of these groups? Like to the point of murder?”
“I don’t know. They’re madmen. How can you tell when madmen are serious?” More quietly, he said, “Yeah. I think there were murderers in that group this morning that attacked the house. People capable of murder. Plenty of ’em. That rum bottle coulda killed Stella. I just doubt they’re up to organizing anything as clever as the murder of Steve Peterman. Whoever got Steve was no dope.”
“I guess you’re right.”
The nurse brought in a vase of roses. There were no other flowers in the room.
“Ah!” Fletch got off the window sill. “You didn’t eat ’em.”
“I had supper at home,” the nurse said. “Daffodils.”
Fletch was at the door. “Coming back to the house, Gerry?”
“Sure,” he said. “Later.”
28
In the cool night, Fletch walked around Key West for awhile. He found himself in the center of the old commercial district so he went down the alley to Durty Harry’s. Frederick Mooney was not there. Few were. There was no band playing either.
He sat at the bar and ordered a beer. A clock he had seen said ten minutes past eleven but clocks in Key West are not expected to tell the real time. Clocks in Key West are only meant to substantiate unreality.
A dog, a black dog, a large black dog walked through the bar at the heels of a man who came through a door on the second storey and down a spiral staircase.
“What’s that dog’s name?” Fletch asked the young woman behind the bar.
“That’s Emperor. Isn’t he a nice dog?”
“Nice dog.” Fletch sipped his beer. He did not want the beer. The early morning phone call from Satterlee, the demonstrations, the day of sailing and swimming in the wind and sun made him glad to sit quietly a moment. He thought about Global Cable News and how quickly his phone call had been answered and he was allowed to speak to that hour’s producer because he was a stockholder. It should be the story that counts, not who is calling it in. Anything can be checked out. Your average stockholder is not any more honest or accurate than your average citizen. Fletch decided if he ever had a big story again he’d call it into Global Cable News under a phony name. It would be an interesting experiment—for a stockholder. He wanted to sleep. He left the rest of his beer on the bar. “Nice dog,” he said.
29
Something woke him up. It was dawn. Fletch remained in bed a minute listening to the purposeful quiet. It was too purposeful.
He got out of bed and went out onto the balcony.
There were two policemen in the sideyard. They looked back up at him.
In the dawn he could see the flashing blue lights of police cars at the front of the house.
“Shit,” Fletch said.
He ran along the balcony against the wall to the back of the house and around the corner. Gerry Littleford was curled up asleep in a hammock.
Fletch shook his shoulder. “Gerry. Wake up. It may be a bust.”
Gerry opened one eye to him. “What? A what?”
Were the police there to arrest someone for murder? No, there were too many of them. There were now three cops in the backyard. Were they there because they had been tipped off there would be another demonstration? No, they were in the yard. Some judge had given them a warrant to be on and in the property.