Fletch

11

There are no weekends in this job, Fletch said to himself.

So on Saturday morning he got up, pulled on a pair of shorts, and went to the beach.

Creasey was there, lying on his back, elbows akimbo behind his head. At first Fletch thought he was catatonic. He may have just awakened. The beach still had morning dew on it. Up the beach, Fat Sam’s lean-to cast a long shadow.

Fletch flopped on his stomach.

“What’s happening, man?”

Creasey spoke without looking at Fletch.

“Nothing much.”

“Everything’s cool with me,” Creasey said. “Hungry. Haven’t any bread for feed, have you?”

“Twelve cents.” Fletch took a dime and two pennies from his pocket and tossed them on the sand near Creasey.

Creasey snorted. He was not impressed by the dime and two cents.

“You must be one of the world’s greatest rip-off artists,” Creasey said.

“The shitty store dicks know me now.”

“You gotta go farther afield, man. Hitch rides to neighboring towns.”

“How do I get stuff back to fence?”

“Motorists are very obliging. They’ll pick up a man with three portable television sets any day.”

Creasey laughed by rolling down his lower lip and puffing air from his diaphragm through rotten teeth.

“I used to be a pretty good house burglar myself,” Creasey said. “I even had equipment.”

“What happened?”

“I got ripped off. Some bastard stole my burglary equipment. The bastard.”

“That’s funny.”

“A fuckin‘ riot.”

“You should have had business insurance.”

“I haven’t got the energy now anyway.” Creasey imitated a stretch and put the back of his head on the sand. “I’m gettin‘ old, man.”

“You must be takin‘ the wrong stuff.”

“Good stuff. Last night was glory road all the way.”

Originally, Creasey had been a drummer in a rock band. They made it big. A big New York record company invested one hundred thousand dollars in them and profited three and a half million dollars from them in one year. They made a record, went on a national promotion tour, made another record, went on a national concert tour, made a third record and followed an international concert tour with another national tour. Creasey kept up, with the drumming, the traveling, the hassling with drugs, liquor and groupies. After the year he had six thousand dollars of his own and less energy than a turnip. The record company replaced him in the band with a kid from Arkansas. Creasey was grateful; he never wanted to work again.

“I used to rip off houses all over The Beach. Even up into The Hills. Beautiful, man. I hit the house of one poor son of a bitch seven times. Every time I ripped him off, he’d go out and buy the same shit. Even the same brands. RCA stereo, a Sony TV, a Nikon camera. And leave them in the same places. It was almost a game we had. He’d buy them and leave them around his house for me, and I’d rip them off. Beautiful. The eighth time I went, the house was bare-ass empty. He had stolen himself and his possessions away. An extreme man.”

“No more energy for that, uh?”

“Nah, man; that was work. I might as well be beatin‘ my brains out on a set.”

“Where’s the bread goin‘ to come from now?”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t care.”

“Fat Sam must be paid.”

“He must,” Creasey said. “Son of a bitch.”

Fletch said, “I wonder where he gets the stuff.”

Creasey answered, “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“I’m not asking,” Fletch said.

“I know you’re not. I’d rip him off in a minute. That way, I’d have my own supply. And he could always get more. But the son of a bitch never leaves the beach. At least not while I’m aware. Can’t figure the son of a bitch out.”

The last time there had been a panic, when there had been an extraordinary number of junkies around and Fat Sam had declared himself absolutely clean, out of everything, at night, Fletch had sat up the beach in the moonlight and watched the lean-to all night. No one came or went from Fat Sam’s lean-to. Fletch spoke with anyone who came near. They were all frantic, desperate people. None of them had a supply.

By eleven-thirty the next morning, word went out that Fat Sam—without leaving his lean-to—was fully supplied again. And he was. The panic was over.

“He’s a magician,” Creasey said. “A fuckin‘ magician.”

“He must be. Bobbi says he’s short now.”

“Yeah. Rationing’s on this day. Ah, me. Not to worry. He’ll get the stuff. I mean, I’m sure he’ll get the stuff. Don’t you think he’ll get the stuff? I mean, plenty of it? Like, he always has. I mean, you know, he always gets the stuff. In time. Sometimes he’s short for a day or two, and there’s rationing, you know, but he always gets the stuff. He’ll get it this time, too.”

“I’m sure he’ll get it,” Fletch said.

“He’ll get it.”

“I’m sure of it,” Fletch said.

“Hey, Fletch. You ever notice the way the same kid is always busted?”

“Yeah.”

“Man, that’s funny. Always the same kid.”

“He’s a local kid. Montgomery?”

“Gummy Montgomery.”

“His dad’s a big cheese in the town.”

“Every ten days, two weeks, they pick him up. Question him. Beat the shit out of him all night. Let him go in the morning. In the morning, he’s back at Fat Sam’s for more.”

“I guess he never talks.”

“He couldn’t. We’d all be cooled if he ever did. Oh, man, the fuzz are stupid.”

“They only care about the locals. Montgomery’s father is superintendent of schools or something.”

“Questioning begins at home. They know none of us would ever talk. So they always pick him up, the same kid, and beat the shit out of him. Funny, funny.”

“You have a great sense of humor this morning, Creasey.”

“I had a beautiful night. The stars came down and talked to me.”

“What did they say?”

“They said, ‘Creasey, you are the chosen of God. You are chosen to lead the people into the sea.’ ”

“A wet dream.”

“Yeah. A wet dream.”

“I’ve got to go see the man about some horse,” Fletch said. “I gotta go steal some bread.”

Creasey did not move. He remained staring into the sea where he would lead the people on his next high.

***

Fletch sat cross-legged in the shade of Vatsyayana’s lean-to. Vatsyayana was sitting cross-legged inside the lean-to.

“Peace,” Vatsyayana said.

“Fuck,” said Fletch.

“That, too.”

“Some reds,” Fletch said.

“I’m fresh out.”

“I’ve got twenty dollars.”

“Expecting a shipment any day. Hang in there.”

“Need it now.”

“I understand.” Vatsyayana had the world’s kindliest eyes. “No got. I’ve got what’s left of the horse.”

“Horseshit.”

“Each to his own taste. How’s Bobbi?”

“Asleep.”

“She really grooves on you, Fletch. She was here last night.”

“I know. You didn’t ball her.”

“Who could? By the time she shows up here, she’s had it. Did you ball her last night?”

“No.”

“She looks terrible, Fletch.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it, Fletch.”

“I know. I think she has fetuses going on all the time.”

“That’s not possible.”

“No. She’s not strong enough to carry anything.”

“Why don’t you get her away from here?”

“You think Gummy will talk?”

From the back of the lean-to, Vatsyayana’s eyes momentarily brightened. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not? They keep beatin‘ on him.”

“He hasn’t talked yet.”

“Why do they keep pickin‘ on the same kid?”

“He’s local. They can put more pressure on him. I guess they figure if they keep hammerin‘ on the same kid, instead of hammerin’ on you one day and me the next, over time they can break him down and get him to turn state’s evidence. I’ve seen it before.”

“Will it work? I mean, will they break him down?”

“I doubt it. He’s in very deep now. He feels nothing.”

“How will we know if he talks?”

“The men in blue with big sticks will come swooping down out of the skies, Society’s avenging angels, sunlight glistening from their riot helmets.”

“How will we know it’s going to happen?”

“It won’t happen. Believe me, Fletch. You’re all right. It won’t happen.”

“Fat Sam, I heard someone say he wanted to rip you off.”

“Who?”

“I won’t say.”

“Creasey? These days, Creasey can hardly walk so far.”

“Not Creasey. Someone else.”

“Who’d want to rip off Vatsyayana?”

“He says he even knows your source.”

“No one knows Vatsyayana’s source.”

“He says he does. He says you get your delivery here on the beach. That someone brings it to you. Is that true?”

“Son, there is no truth.”

“He says the next time you get delivery he’s gonna be there. He’s got some scheme where he picks up both the cash and the junk.”

“Not possible. It doesn’t work that way.”

“What way?”

“It doesn’t work any way.”

“How do you get it?”

“I pray for it and it comes. You’re a good boy, Fletch, but you’re not too bright. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

“Yes.”

“I bet they have. No one’s gonna rip off Vatsyayana.”

“Is it possible? I mean, you could be ripped off.”

“No way. Not possible. Just relax. By tomorrow noon I should have some reds. Can you make it?”

“Gimme the H.”

“Gimme the twenty.”

“No one would want you ripped off, Sam.”

“If it ever happened, it would be bye-bye highs.”

“No one would want that to happen.”

“Of course not.”

***

“The Stanwyk residence.”

Fletch had turned on the fan in the roof of the telephone booth to dampen the sound of traffic.

“Mrs. Stanwyk, please.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stanwyk isn’t in. May I take a message?”

“We’re calling from the Racquets Club. Do you have any idea where Mrs. Stanwyk is?”

“Why, she should be there, sir, at the club. She was playing this morning, and she said she would be staying for lunch. I think she’s meeting her father there.”

“Ah, then she’s here now?”

“Yes, sir. She planned to spend most of the day at the club.”

“We’ll have a look for her. Sorry to bother you.”

Saturday morning traffic at The Beach was heavy. Down the street was a department store.

Fletch bought a new T-shirt, a pair of white socks, and a pair of tennis shorts.