Fletch

16

“The fuzz. The fuzz. The fuzz.”

Two screwdrivers. A grilled cheese sandwich. Three gin and tonics taken in fast succession. Lying on the beach felt good to Fletch. The sand cooling down in the setting sun had enough warmth to it to permeate his skin, his muscles, his bones. The nearly horizontal rays of the sun were crossed laterally over his body by a twilight breeze.

Unabashedly, he slept.

It was Sando who shook him, saying, “The fuzz. Stash anything you’ve got. A bust.”

Darkness. The bubble lights of the police cars rotated over the sea wall Silence. Forms carrying riot sticks were ambling down the beach. The people on the beach who were able to move were moving as fast as they could without losing a sense of smoothness, trying not to appear as if they were hurrying away. Some were walking into the ocean. A few went to the edge of the water and strolled one way or the other along it, their profiles on the moonlit surface of the water. The foxes had come into the chicken yard. Fat Sam came to the front of his lean-to and sat cross-legged on the sand. Gummy Montgomery remained propped on his elbows. Fletch did not get up. Nowhere could he see Bobbi’s little form.

The police passed to Fletch’s right and left. There were seven of them. They wore riot helmets, with the visors pulled down. Chief Cummings, a tall man with heavy shoulders, was with them.

They stood in an imperfect circle around Montgomery. The chief stuck his riot stick into Gummy’s stomach and leaned on it, gently. “Come on, Gummy.”

“Jesus Christ. Why me? Why always me?”

“Your Poppa’s worried about you.”

“Tell him to go fuck off.”

“Let’s go, Gummy.”

The chief leaned harder on his riot stick stuck in Gummy’s stomach.

“I don’t have anything. Jesus Christ, I’m clean.”

The stick was pressed almost to his backbone.

“Harassment!”

Gummy tried to hit the stick away with the side of his forearm but only succeeded in hurting both his forearm and his stomach.

“Harassment. Big word for an eighteen-year-old.”

“I’m seventeen. Leave me alone!”

Another policeman, a short, stocky man, suddenly pounced on Gummy, banging his ear with the back of his hand, his fist closed. He began to swing at his head again from the other side.

Gummy scrambled to his feet to escape more blows.

Fletch, having given the matter some thought, went behind the stooping, off-balance policeman and pushed him over. The policeman’s head plowed into the sand where Gummy had been lying.

A third policeman, in surprise, turned to swing his riot stick at Fletch.

With full force, Fletch belted the policeman in the stomach.

A fourth policeman, a big man, in a gesture of bravado, ripped off his helmet and charged at Fletch bare-fisted. Fletch punched him twice in the face, once in the eye, once on the nose.

Fletch heard a crack. Saw a flash of light. Felt his knees pointing toward the sand. He said, “Shit.”

***

His head was in Bobbi’s lap. There were true stars in the sky.

“Jesus,” he said.

The beach was quiet.

“Does it hurt?”

He said, “Jesus.”

“Sando came and got me. I thought they’d killed you.”

“Oh, my God, it hurts.”

“He said you belted a policeman.”

“Two of them,” Fletch said. “Three of them. I’m still on the beach.”

“What can I do to help you?” Bobbi asked.

“Shoot me.”

“I haven’t got any stuff.”

Fletch hadn’t meant that. He decided to remain misunderstood.

“Why am I still at the beach?”

“You thought you’d be in outer space?”

“I thought I’d be in jail.”

“You’re all right. They’re gone.”

“Why didn’t they arrest me?”

“I’m glad they didn’t.”

“I expected them to arrest me. I belted three policemen.”

“They would have thrown away the key.”

Sando stood over them, his shoulders looking bony in the moonlight. He was eating a hot dog.

“Hey, man. How’re ya doin‘?”

“What happened?” Fletch asked.

“They arrested Gummy again.”

“Did they arrest anyone else?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t they arrest me?”

“They started to,” Sando said. “A couple of the apes began to drag you by your ankles.”

“What happened?”

“The chief said to leave you there. I guess dragging you over the sea wall would have been too much work for his precious bastards.”

“Christ. They didn’t arrest me. How long have they been gone?”

“I don’t know. A half hour?”

Bobbi said, “What can I do for you? Should we go back to the pad?”

“You go. I can’t move.”

“I’ll help you,” Sando said.

“No. I want to stay here.”

“It’s Saturday night,” Bobbi said. “I should be busy.”

She was wearing white shorts, a halter and sandals.

“You go get busy,” Fletch said. “I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it is Saturday night.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“It’s going to be a long night,” Sando said. “Fat Sam is fresh out.”

Pain, anxiety twinged Bobbi’s face. She had built a big need.

“Are you sure?” Fletch said.

“Not even aspirin.”

Fletch said, “Christ.”

“I’ll go work up a couple of tricks anyway.” Bobbi’s voice shook. “It’s Saturday night, and there’s always tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Sando said. “Sunday.”

After Bobbi left, Sando sat silently for a while beside Fletch, saying nothing. Then Sando left.

Fletch built himself a back and head rest in the sand. He was higher on the beach than Fat Sam’s lean-to and could see all sides of it. There was a half moon. No one could enter or leave the lean-to without Fletch’s seeing him.

The inside of his head felt separated from the outside. Each time he moved or thought of moving his head, the mobile parts hit the stable parts and caused pain.

There was some blood in his hair. Grains of sand had stuck to the blood. During the long night the blood, hair and sand stiffened into a fairly usable abrasive.

After two and a half hours, Fletch gently lifted himself up, walked thirty paces, lowered himself to his knees, and threw up.

Then he walked back to his sand bed.

There was no light in Fat Sam’s lean-to.

Someone was walking from the sea wall.

Fletch said, “Creasey.”

“Hi.” Creasey changed direction slightly and stood over Fletch. “Christ, man. I’m hanging.”

Creasey was dressed in blue jean shorts, shirtless, shoeless. He was carrying nothing. Clearly he was carrying nothing.

His hands jerked spasmodically. His eyes moved restlessly. It was true what he had said: he was hanging hellfire.

“Is it true? Fat Sam clean?”

“Yeah.”

Creasey said: “I met Bobbi. Jesus Christ.”

“You can always try,” Fletch said. “Wake the bastard up.”

Creasey exhaled deeply. “I’ve got to. No other way. I’ve got to see the doctor.”

Fletch watched him walk down to the lean-to, bend in the moonlight, walk into the shadow. He heard the voices, one desperate, sharp-edged; the other understanding, conciliatory, cool.

Creasey walked back up to Fletch.

“Jesus,” he said. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I know.”

“Jesus.”

Creasey’s shoulders were shaking visibly. Shivering.

“Fat Sam said you got fucked by the fuzz. Bobbi said so, too.”

“I was cooled.”

“Can’t you move?”

“Don’t want to.”

“Fuckin” fuzz.“

“They arrested Gummy again.”

“Fuckin‘ fuzz.”

Creasey began to take deep breaths. Maybe there was a high to be had in hyperventilation. A relaxation. His stomach went in and his chest filled like a balloon, then collapsed. Again and again. In the moonlight, his eyes were bright.

Fletch said, “Sorry, man.”

“You got any?”

“All used.”

“Bobbi?”

“You know she has nothing.”

“I know she has nothin‘. She doesn’t store. She uses. Always. Uses.”

“What did Fat Sam say?”

“He said he had nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”

“When will the candy man come?”

“He said he’d be back in business tomorrow.”

“What time tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow morning. Ten. Eleven.”

Fletch said, “You’ll live.”

Creasey said, “Yeah.”

He went back up the beach and over the sea wall.

Fletch had had concussions before, and he had suffered shock before, and he had spent nights on the beach before. He dreaded the hours before sunrise. They came. He remained on the beach, overviewing Vatsyayana’s lean-to. He forced himself to remain awake. The dew came. His jeans, his shirt became heavily wet. Even the inside of his nose became wet. He was horribly cold. He shivered violently, continuously. Staying awake was then no problem.

He thought of Alan Stanwyk’s wanting to die in a few days. His wife, his daughter, his mansion. It was possible, but Fletch had not yet proved it. He had not yet checked everything. Not all the way. He had a good sense of the man, but not yet a complete sense of the man. He tried not to speculate. He went over in his mind, again and again, what he would say into his tape recorder next time. What he knew. What he had checked absolutely. He reviewed all the things he did not know yet, all the facts he had not checked absolutely. There were many such facts. He reviewed his sources. There were not many fresh sources left. He counted the days—four, really, only four—he had left. Sometime, he would have to sleep. He promised himself sleep.

Sometime.

Light came into the sky.

Throughout that night, with the exception of Creasey, who was clearly carrying nothing, no one approached Vatsyayana’s lean-to. Fat Sam did not leave the lean-to.

By eight forty-five, Fletch was sweating in the sun.

People drifted onto the beach. Bodies that had remained on the beach all night moved. Some wandered down to the dunes to relieve themselves. Some did not bother to go to the dunes. No one spoke. They looked into each other’s eyes and got the message that Fat Sam had not yet received delivery. For a while, Fat Sam sat cross-legged in the opening of his lean-to, taking the morning sun. No one approached him. To a stranger, it would all look like young people sitting silently, half asleep, on the beach on a Sunday morning. Fletch saw the fear, the anxiety, the desperation in the darting eyes; the extraordinary number of cigarettes being smoked; the suppressed shaking of the hands. He heard the shattering silence. Some of these people had been hanging fire two or three days.

At ten-thirty Gummy returned to the beach. He sat alone. Over his long jeans he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt like a tent. His shoulders seemed no wider than the back of his neck. His face in profile was hawkish. He sat absolutely still, staring straight in front of him.

Bobbi came to the beach, and Creasey, and Sando, and July. They sat close to Fletch. No one said a word.

Fat Sam had moved back into the shadow of his lean-to. He had withdrawn.

“Jesus,” Sando said.

People began to move toward the lean-to. People in shorts, jeans, shirtless. Bikinis. People carrying nothing but money. The store was open. Fletch had not perceived a signal of any sort. First Creasey. Then Bobbi. They stood around outside the lean-to, not speaking, looking at their feet, their hands, not at each other, ashamed of their desperation. July, Bing Crosby, Gummy, Florida, Filter-tip, Jagger. Fletch stood with them. Milling. In and out of the lean-to. Somebody must have dropped something. There was a supply. Everything. Fat Sam was dealing. People who had been served began to hustle off the beach. Squirrels with nuts to store. They were going to stash. They were going to relieve their tensions. They were going to shoot up.

Fletch backed away, imitating the face of someone who had bought. Who was all right. Bobbi had scurried.

Down the beach, Fletch jumped into the ocean. The morning-cold salt water helped glue the separated parts of his head together. The blood was too congealed to wash out of his hair.

Walking back to his pad, past the Sunday-morning-closed stores of ordinary commerce, he heard the church bells ring. It was Sunday noon and everyone was shooting up.

Fletch slept past midnight.