5
“A J A R O F peanut butter, a loaf of bread, a jug of orange juice, and thou,” Fletch said.
Bellies on the sand, head to head, at only a slight angle to each other, they were still wet from their swim. They were alone in the cove.
“Pretty romantic,” said Moxie.
“Pretty romantic.”
“Not very.” The late afternoon sun sparkled in the dots of salt water on her arms, her back, her legs. “Peanut butter, bread and orange juice.”
“And thou.”
“And wow. Not chopped carrots and strained beans, but it still doesn’t cut the mustard romantically, Fletch.” Moxie rose up enough to brush sand off her bare breast, then settled her cheek against her forearm and sighed. “Not very romantic days, these.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Romance is gone from life. A thing of the past.”
“Sob.”
“Gone with crinolines and cramps.”
“I thought I was pretty romantic.”
“Sure. Pick me up at one thirty, ignore the reservation for two I made at the Cafe Mondrian, drive like a bobsled team captain to this abandoned beach down here, passing up several good places to stop for lunch—”
“You hungry?”
“—tumble me around in the surf like a—like a …”
“Like a what?”
“Like an equal.” She wriggled forward on her elbows and kissed him on the cheek. “Do it in the sand without even a blanket, a towel, anything.”
“Fair’s fair. We did it on our sides.”
“Not very romantic.” Moxie blew in his face.
“Romance was an idea created by the manufacturers of wine and candle sticks.”
“And smelling salts.”
She licked his cheek.
“What could be more romantic than peanut butter and orange juice? That’s protein and Vitamin C you’re scoffing at, girl. Very energizing foodstuffs, you know.”
“You getting energetic again, Fletcher?”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s been a whole five minutes.”
They had examined the hillsides above them the first time. There was only one house overlooking the cove, and that was pretty far back. Its main plate-glass window looked blind.
They were sitting on the sand, washing peanut butter sandwiches down with orange juice.
“So?” Moxie said.
“So I took the twenty-five thousand dollars …” He took the orange juice carton from her and drank. “What do you want to know?”
“Last night, if I remember correctly, you were full of self-importance and duty and went on and on about getting back to the newspaper today in time to work the night shift and if I wanted a ride with you I had to be up and packed and ready to go before I woke up …”
“Self-importance?”
“Damned near pomposity.”
“You’re not famous for getting up early in the morning, Moxie.”
“I’m not famous for anything. Yet. Sleeping late was the first thing I learned in Drama School.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. All the classes were in the afternoon.”
“You theater people have to be different.”
“I don’t know what time the night shift on a newspaper starts, Fletch, but that red frog crapping on the ocean over there is the setting sun. And I figure we’re a good seven hours’ drive from your precious newspaper.”
“I’m a changed man.”
“What changed you?”
“I got fired.”
Fletch watched the shallow crease in her stomach breathe in and out a few times. She said, “Oh.” Then she said, “Hey.” She resumed chewing. “You like that job.”
“It gave paychecks, too.”
“You can get a job on another newspaper. Can’t you?”
“I really doubt it.”
“What happened?”
“Long story. Sort of complicated.”
“Make it simple. If I don’t understand first time round, I can ask questions. Right?”
“Well, I was assigned to do an unimportant story on an unimportant business company and I guess I got sold a big, fat lie.” Fletch spoke rapidly. “My main source was a guy named Blaine. Charles Blaine. Vice-president and treasurer. He gave me a file of memos back and forth between him and the Chairman of the company, a guy named Tom Bradley, and said I could quote from them. So I did.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Tom Bradley died two years ago.”
“Died?”
“Died.”
“Died dead?”
“Deader than romance.”
“You quoted a dead man?”
“Very accurately.”
Moxie giggled. “Jeez, that’s pretty good, Fletch.”
“I could have done worse,” Fletch said. “I suppose I could have quoted somebody who’d never existed.”
“I’m sorry.” Moxie rubbed her nose.
“What for?”
“It’s funny. Wake me in the morning.”
“Were these recent memos you quoted? They couldn’t have been.”
“They were recently dated memos. I put their dates in the story I wrote.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That makes at least two of us.”
Her eyes went back and forth over the sea. They were purple flecked with yellow in the setting sun. “Was it some kind of a mean joke?”
“Pretty mean. I guess someone meant to do mischief.”
“Who? Why?”
“Blaine, I guess. He had to know what he was doing, giving me memos from a dead man. Maybe he’s crazy.”
“Have you gone back to him? Tried to get in touch with him?”
“Tried this morning. He’d left his office. Sick with the flu.”
“No.” Moxie shook her head. “That’s too crazy. No one would do a thing like that. As a joke.”
“Not a joke,” Fletch said. “Maybe you’ve heard that some American businesses are waging a clever campaign to get back at the press. Make the newspapers and television look silly.”
“How would I have heard that?”
“It’s a growing thing. They say there are too many liberals in the press. Anti-business liberals.”
“Are there?”
“Probably. More specifically, the News-Trib worked this particular corporation, Wagnall-Phipps, over pretty good two or three years ago.”
“For what?”
“Influence buying. Wining and dining congressmen, mayors and others on the public payroll in a position to buy shovels and toothpicks from Wagnall-Phipps.”
“Did you write those stories?”
“I wasn’t even working for the News-Trib then. I was in Chicago.”
“You’re the fall guy.”
“My own fault. I didn’t care about this Wagnall-Phipps story. I was working on that football story, you know, at the same time. I cared a lot more about that story. I scanned the clips on Wagnall-Phipps, saw the key question was whether the corporation still owned that big ski house in Aspen they used to lend to congressmen and their families, and went off to interview Blaine. I remember I had a hard time staying awake listening to him. He finally put me in an office by myself and let me take notes from this sheaf of memos.”
“So you don’t have the memos, or copies of the memos yourself.”
“No. I don’t. Simple, stupid, unimportant story I didn’t even think the newspaper would print, it was so boring. Who cares about Wagnall-Phipps?”
“I guess Wagnall-Phipps does.”
“I was only assigned the story ’cause the reporter originally assigned to it, Tom Jeffries, broke his back hang-gliding.”
“That’s terrible.”
“That is terrible. I’m no business writer. Shit, I don’t even know how to read stock tables. I’d never heard of Wagnall-Phipps before.”
“But why dump on you?”
“Nothing personal. They weren’t dumping on me. They were making the newspaper look silly. They did a pretty good job.”
“They took advantage of your ignorance.”
“Sure. Along comes bushy-tailed Peter Rabbit with his mouth open and they feed him loaded carrots. They refer to the Chairman of the board, Thomas Bradley, show me memos from him, and I write down, In a memo dated April 16, Chairman of the Board, Thomas Bradley, directed etc., etc. I mean, wouldn’t you believe the Vice-president and treasurer of a corporation regarding who was the Chairman of the company?”
Moxie shook her head. “Poor Peter Rabbit.”
“Poor Peter Rabbit nothin’. He’s a dope.”
“So you’re fired.”
“Well, the managing editor is breaking it to me gently. He’s talking about a three-months suspension, but that’s only so he can insist later he tried to save my job.”
“No chance?”
“I wouldn’t hire me. Would you?”
“More orange juice? There’s another quart.”
“We’ll need it in the morning.”
“So what were you doing this morning at the Park Worth Hotel?”
“Oh, that’s another story. We’ve got to stop by and see a guy about it in Wramrud tomorrow. Found his wallet.”
“Fletch, I’m cold. If you glance westward, you’ll notice even the sun has found a better place to go.”
Fletch said, “I’ll build a fire.”
She stared at him. “You mean to spend the night here?”
“On the beach?”
“How much money you got on you, Moxie?”
“I don’t know. Maybe fifty dollars.”
“I thought so. You begin rehearsing for the new play Monday. When do you get your first paycheck?”
“End of next week.”
“So you’ve got fifty bucks to live off for a week and I’ve got about the same amount to live off for the rest of my life. Dig?”
“Credit cards, Fletch. You used one last night. At dinner. Even I’ve got a credit card.”
“I’ve got a sleeping bag in the car.”
“You’re getting me to spend the night on the beach with you.”
“I told you. I’m very romantic.” Standing, Fletch brushed the sand off his skin.
“And I told you romance is dead.”
“That’s just wishful thinking,” Fletch said. “I’ll get the sleeping bag.”