Fletch

19

It was four o’clock when Fletch pulled up and parked across from the main gate of Collins Aviation.

At four forty-five, through sunglasses, he saw the gray-uniformed guard at the gate step briskly out of his guardhouse, whistle and wave people aside, clear the road and the sidewalk, and casually salute a car coming through. It was the gray Jaguar XKE, license number 440-001. It turned left into traffic.

Alan Stanwyk was driving.

Fletch followed him.

Joan Stanwyk had said Alan worked late Mondays and Wednesdays. On those two days of the week he seldom arrived home before midnight. He remained at the office.

It was Monday. Stanwyk had left the office before five.

He continued down Stevenson to Main and turned right on Main. Following him, Fletch thought Stanwyk might be heading for the expressway toward the city. But after twelve blocks, Stanwyk turned left on Seabury. At the corner of Seabury and Bouvard he pulled into the parking lot of a liquor store. Fletch waited across the street.

Watching Stanwyk amble into the liquor store and out again, Fletch could only think him a well man. An unconcerned man. A relaxed man. As he went in, Stanwyk’s hands were in the pockets of his slacks. His gait was slow and even. His face expressionless. When he came out, his face had the half smile of someone who had just passed pleasantries. In the bag he was carrying were at least three bottles of liquor. It took him a moment to find the right key on his keychain for the ignition.

Continuing the way he had been going, Stanwyk went another three blocks on Seabury and then turned left on Putnam. A half mile along Putnam, he turned into the tree-shaded parking lot of a garden apartment development. He parked the Jaguar in the shade of the trees at the far side of the parking lot. Fletch parked in the middle row of the parking lot, in the sunlight. Stanwyk locked his car.

Carrying the bag of liquor, he strolled across the parking lot, cutting through the middle row of cars within three cars of Fletch, walked fifteen yards down the sidewalk, turned left on a walk and into a doorway.

Fletch waited ten minutes by his dashboard clock.

Then he went into the doorway himself.

The doorway served two apartments. On the left, the name on the letterbox was Charles Rice. The box was full of mail.

The mailbox on the right was empty. The name on that box was Sandra Faulkner.

A sign in the recessed doorway warned trespassers and solicitors as well as loiterers and burglars. It was signed GREENE BROS. MANAGEMENT.

***

“Where’s Gummy?”

Someone had gotten up enough energy to make a campfire on the beach. It was a reasonably cool night. Farther up the beach there were other campfires.

Vatsyayana said, “Fletch.”

In a corner of the parking garage, Fletch had changed into jeans. Having had a sport coat on, he had not realized it had gotten cooler. He wished he had at least put on a T-shirt.

“Where’s Gummy?” he asked again.

July said, “I saw him earlier.”

“Where did he go? Did he say?”

July said, “No.”

“Anyone else seen Gummy?”

No one answered.

Vatsyayana asked, “Where’s Bobbi?”

Fletch said, “She’s split.”

“For where?”

Vatsyayana’s look was one of kindly concern.

“That great candy store in the sky.”

Vatsyayana said nothing.

Rolled against the base on the sea wall in a blanket, not far from vhere Fletch had placed the rock the night before, was Creasey.

Fletch stood over him a moment in the dark, not sure whether Creasey was traveling or asleep.

Creasey said, “What’s happening, man?”

“I’m looking for Gummy,” Fletch said.

“Oh, man, he’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“That kid’s had it. I mean, how often can you be a beatin‘ bag for the fuzz?”

“You don’t know he’s gone.”

Creasey said, “He should have gone. Man, there has to be enough of everything. I mean, the kid’s been beatin‘ and been beatin’. Then he gets home and his daddy whumps him. Everybody’s beatin‘ up on that kid all the time.”

Fletch said, “I’m lookin‘ for Gummy.”

“Like my old skins. Man, I feel guilty for beatin‘ on them. Every night with sticks. Drumsticks. I beat on those skins. I mean, how do we know those skins don’t have feeling? Suppose when I hit them they hurt? Really hurt?”

“I don’t know about that, Creasey.”

“I’ve got a lot of painin‘ to do. To make up for what I did.”

“Don’t you think the drums will forgive you?”

“The Christly drums. That’s the idea. Beat up on anybody, anything, as much as you want, even drums, and they must forgive you, because that’s what The Man said. Christ.”

“I’m looking for Gummy. Have you seen him?”

“No. Where’s Bobbi?”

Fletch said, “She’s all right.”

“She split? I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“You saw her yesterday morning.”

“Yeah. She was all strung out. She’d had it. Fletch? You know, she’d had it. Last time I saw her.”

“I didn’t realize it.”

“She’d had it. Is she gone?”

“Yeah. She’s gone.”

“Jesus.”

Fletch stood a moment in the dark near Creasey, not looking at the rock, and then moved on.

At another campfire he sat down and waited a moment before speaking. No one was speaking.

“Anyone seen Gummy?”

No one answered.

The kid with the jug ears they called Bing Crosby was looking expectantly at Fletch, as if waiting to hear what Fletch had just said.

“I’m looking for Gummy.”

A forty-year-old man with a telephone receiver stenciled on his sweater, with the words under it DIAL ME, said, “He’s not here.”

Fletch waited a moment before moving on.

At another campfire, Filter-tip said he thought Gummy had gone home. To his parents’ house. Jagger said he thought Gummy had been picked up by the police again.

When Fletch stood up from the campfire, he found Vatsyayana standing behind. Vatsyayana walked a few paces with him toward the sea wall.

“Why are you looking for Gummy?”

“Bobbi gave me a message for him.”

“Where’s Bobbi?”

“She’s split.

“Where’s Bobbi?”

“Gonzo. Bye-bye.”

“Where?”

“With a knapsack I gave her. Full of protein tablets and Ritz crackers I ripped off from a Seventh Day Adventist supermarket.”

Vatsyayana stopped. “I said, where’s Bobbi?”

“Look. She got her supply up yesterday, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.”

“So she split.”

Vatsyayana was giving him the hard stare through the moonlight. His eyes remained kind.

“Why are you looking for Gummy?”

“I told you. Bobbi gave me a message for him.”

“What’s the message?”

“It’s for Gummy.”

“Tell me.”

Fletch said, “Hang loose, Fat Sam.”

He followed his moon shadow up the beach.

On that cool night, trying to sleep on his groundmat, Fletch missed his sleeping bag. He missed Bobbi. Together they would have been warm in the sleeping bag.