26
T H R E E P E O P L E, M A R Y B L A I N E, Charles Blaine and Fletch, at dinner under the stars on the hotel terrace in Puerto de Orlando, Mexico.
Charles: Gin and tonics, please, with lime.
Fletch (to Mary Blaine): I’ve met your Aunt. She’s a real nice lady.
She fed me.
Mary: Isn’t she marvelous? She says she was born happy, and I believe it. That woman has had such suffering, such tragedy. Yet she is relentlessly happy.
Fletch: I know her nickname is Happy. What’s her real name?
Mary: Mabel.
Mary: Look at the moon.
Charles: Even in Puerto de Orlando I suspect prices are a little higher per item than they need be. I know it’s a new resort, or a resort-to-be, and the Mexican government is trying to attract people here. But I daresay, if you drive a few miles inland, into some of the real villages, you’ll find everything from limes to curios at half the prices …
Charles: Gin and tonics, please. With lime.
Mary: There’s something unreal about Enid Bradley. I mean, she’s the only contemporary woman I know who seems to have been born in a corset.
Fletch: Originally, Tom Bradley was from Dallas, Texas? Mary: You mean from where men are men? Charles: I don’t know.
Mary: Enid always looks terrified of what the next moment will bring—you know, as if she’s afraid someone is going to say something dirty. Charles: Her husband usually does. I mean, did.
Charles: Gin and tonics. Lime.
Mary: Look at the moons.
Charles: Didn’t I say something this morning, Fletch, about people vacationing in Mexico drinking three times more alcohol than usual? They make a lot of money off our fear of drinking the local water.
Mary: I mean, I just don’t see anyone ever having a rollicking time in bed with Enid Bradley, ever. I mean, I just can’t picture Enid Bradley without her sensible shoes on.
Mary: Isn’t this romantic, Charley? Look at the moons in the ocean. I have an idea. Why don’t we take this nice boy to bed?
Charlie: Mary, I think we should order dinner, don’t you?
Fletch: Is Thomas Bradley dead?
Mary: Why wouldn’t he be?
Charles: Frankly, I don’t think so. I think he committed some gross irregularity and decided to disappear. Trouble is, I can’t find what gross irregularity he committed. As Treasurer of Wagnall-Phipps, it’s my damned responsibility to find it. I’m a Certified Public Accountant, and I can’t find anything wrong. Please forgive me, Fletch. Please understand. This is very worrisome to me. Mary: He’s dead. It’s just that nobody cares much.