Fletch's Moxie Read Free

Florida.
    “Ted Sills,” Fletch said to whoever answered the phone. “This is Fletcher.”
    Fletch waited a long time. He ran his mind over the rambling ranch house, the swimming pool area, the two guest cottages, the stables, the pad-docks, the tack room—all the handsome aspects of Five Aces Farm. At that hour of the day, Ted Sills would be in the tack room talking veterinary medicine and racing strategy over Thai beer with his trainer, whose name really was Frizzlewhit.
    There was no breeze on the porch of the mini-mart. It was a gray, sultry day.
    “Yes, sir, Fletch,” Ted’s voice finally boomed into the phone. “You coming by?”
    “Just wanted to see if you’re using your house in Key West.”
    “For what?” Ted Sills said. “I’m here at the farm.”
    “Then may I use your house in Key West?”
    “No.”
    “Oh. Thanks.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Want to get away for a few days.”
    “From what? You’re always away. Where are you now?”
    “Southwest Florida.”
    “You want to go to Key West?”
    “Yeah.”
    “There are some nice hotels there.”
    “Don’t want a hotel. Hate to be awakened in the morning by work-eager maids.”
    “So you don’t have to make the bed. Hotels make your breakfast for you, too.”
    “Need a little p. and q.”
    “That mean peace and quiet?”
    “It do.”
    “I need the nine thousand dollars you owe me in feed bills.”
    “That much?”
    “The horses you have training here at Five Aces do eat, you know. A race horse cannot train on an empty stomach, you know. A race horse, like the rest of us, is encouraged by gettin’ its vittles regular. You know?”
    “You’ll have it in the morning. Now, may I borrow your house?”
    “The house rents for twelve thousand a month.”
    “Twelve thousand what?”
    “Twelve thousand dollars.”
    “Twelve as in after-eleven-followed-by-thirteen?”
    “The very same twelve. You’re very good at figures, Fletch, except when it comes to writing them on checks for feed bills.”
    “You let me stay in The Blue House for free when you were trying to sell me some slow race horses.”
    “What do you mean, ‘slow race horses’? You had a winner last week.”
    “Really?”
    “Speedo Demon won the fourth at Hialeah. You should have been there.”
    “How much was the purse?”
    “Let me see. Uh … Your share was two hundred and seventy dollars.”
    “Some race.”
    “Well, it was a plug race. And the favorite was scratched.”
    “Good old Speedo.”
    “She was faster than five other horses.”
    “Did the fans stay for the whole race?”
    “Fletch, someone’s gotta own the losers.”
    “Why me?”
    “I expect they sense that you resent their feed bills. Horses aren’t dumb that way. Race horses are like a certain kind of woman, you know. You gotta spoil ’em with a smile on your face.”
    “Okay. Feed the horses. But, damn it, Ted, make sure their overshoes are buckled before you put ’em in a race, willya?”
    “We always buckle their overshoes.”
    “Now. About The Blue House.”
    “No.”
    “I only want it for a few days.”
    “Twelve thousand dollars. I wouldn’t rent it for just a few days. Wouldn’t be worth changing the bedsheets.”
    “You rent it very often at that price?”
    “Nope. Never before.”
    “Uh, Ted…”
    “I’ve never rented it before. I don’t want to rent it. I put a price on it just because you asked. As a friend.”
    “Okay. As a friend, I’ll take it.”
    “You will?”
    “I will.”
    “Boy, no other sucker was born the minute you were.”
    “Make sure the bedsheets are changed.”
    “That’s twenty one thousand dollars you owe me.”
    “So—some weeks are more expensive than others.”
    “Will I get the money?”
    “In the morning. In nickles and dimes.”
    “You don’t really care about money, do you? I mean, you have no sense of money, Fletch. I’ve noticed that about you.”
    “Money’s useful when you have to blow your