Fletch's Moxie by Gregory McDonald

never call you for dinner.”
    “Be fair. You’ve never had a good meal at an airport?”
    “Never.”
    “Never ever?”
    “Once.”
    “Where? Which airport?”
    “Why should I tell you? Look what you’re doing to me. Taking me to dinner at an airport!”
    Fletch craned his head lower and looked up through the windshield. “Above an airport, actually.”
    “Great. Dinner in a Control Tower. Very relaxing.”
    “Weather’s clearing, you see. Thought it might be nice to go up in an airplane, have a leisurely snack while we watch the moon rise.”
    “Serious?”
    “Should time out just about right.”
    He pulled into a parking space.
    She was staring across the front seat at him. “You’ve hired an airplane for dinner?”
    He turned off the motor. “Where else can you two superstars go tonight? One of you has been drinking all day—”
    “—all life—”
    “—and the other one’s as jittery as a talking doll in the hands of a small boy.”
    “Fletcher, you’re something else.”
    “I know that.
What
else is the question.”
    He got out and opened the car’s trunk. She followed him behind the car. “What’s that?” she asked.
    “A picnic basket. Had it made up while I was looking for Freddy. Lots of goodies. Chopped ham and pickle. Shrimp. Champagne.”
    He took the hamper out and slammed the trunk’s lid.
    He opened a back door of the car. “Mister Mooney?”
    He shook Mooney’s arm. The bottle in Mooney’s lap was almost empty.
    “We’re at the airport, sir.” Mooney blinked at him. “Thought we’d get high for dinner, sir.”
    “Very thoughtful of you.” Mooney began to climb out of the car. “Very thoughtful indeed, Mister Peterman.”

8
    “I don’t see the moon,” Moxie said.
    “Complaints! Have to be patient.” Fletch was pouring champagne into long-stemmed glasses. “A little bubbly, Mister Mooney?”
    “Never touch the stuff,” Mooney said. “Upsets my cognac.”
    They were sitting in large leather swivel chairs. Each had a safety belt strapped across the lap. The passenger section of the airplane was furnished and decorated partly as a living room, partly as an office.
    At first, the pilot who had escorted them across the dark runway had watched worriedly Frederick Mooney’s stumbling gait. It did not make him less worried that Frederick Mooney was singing, veryloudly and very badly,
If I had the wings of an angel
… As they were passing under a light, the pilot’s face did a double-look and expressed shock at recognizing Moxie Mooney. He looked sharply and recognized Frederick Mooney. Solicitiously, he helped Frederick Mooney up the steps and strapped him into the seat himself.
    The plane took off immediately.
    “I presume we’re to fly in circles,” Moxie said.
    “How on earth can you fly any other way?” Fletch asked.
    Seated, Fletch was setting the pull-out table within easy reach of their chairs with things from the picnic basket. He removed the protective cellophane from the plates of cut, assorted sandwiches. Opened the containers of iced shrimp, lobster tails, their sauces, salads. Dealt plates and cutlery and napkins around the table. Last out of the basket was a little white vase and a long-stemmed red rose. He poured champagne into the vase, put the rose in it, and set the rose in the middle of the table.
    Watching him, Moxie said, “You would make an interesting husband, after all.”
    “I did,” Fletch said. “Twice.”
    “As the lady said,” intoned Frederick Mooney, with a cold look at his daughter, “just as they were leading her away, ‘I was cursed by marriage to an interesting man’.”
    Fletch looked from one to another, then said, “Anyone for eats?”
    Both Mooneys wordlessly heaped their plates with every food in sight. “Enough for the vanity offilm stars,” Fletch muttered, helping himself from the remainders. “Good thing I bought for six.”
    Plate in lap, Mooney swiveled his chair to look out the window while he