Fletch sat in the shade of an umbrella and watched Burt fiddle with the hibachi between gulps of his drink.
“The trick to a good charcoaled steak is to start the fire plenty early. Two or three hours ahead of time. Our ancestors, you know, used to have the fire going all the time. Of course they weren’t paying what we are for charcoal. Then, when they wanted to use the fire, it would be right there, ready, and they could control it. You can’t control a new fire as well. Golly, I’m awful glad you stopped by, John. You should stay for supper.”
“No, thanks, I really can’t.”
“I mean, you should. Anybody who has lunch with John Collins needs a steak supper. And a battle ribbon.”
“My plane leaves in a couple of hours.”
“Then you should have another drink. I always believe in being at least as high as the plane. That way, if it falls down, you still have a chance.”
“How’s Alan?”
“Oh, he’s terrific. Beautiful. He looks like you. Not an inch of fat on his body. Great shape, great shape. Just watching him makes me tired.”
“I think you said at the wedding you and he were great friends at school.”
“Colgate, ta-ra! I’ve been living off him ever since.”
“What do you mean?”
“Almost ever since. I had a few lean years before he got married. I had to work for a living. Want another drink? I’ve got all his insurance accounts. His life insurance, house, cars, inland marine, the Collins Company. That’s why I never disagree with John Collins, despite the grilled cheese sandwiches. After all, I’ve got my future drinking to consider.”
“Joan said Alan’s life is insured for three million dollars.”
“You’d better believe it.”
“It’s true?”
“Absolutely true. That guy’s worth a lot more dead than alive. Except to me. I get the premiums commission. Every night I pray for him. If he dies, I die. I’d even have to go back to work. Jesus. Think of it. Some damn-ass mechanic forgets to tighten a screw on some damn-ass airplane in Idaho this weekend and my life is over. I hate airplanes. I won’t even look at any. Put Raquel Welch on one wing stark naked and Ursula Andress on the other wing and put the airplane right in front of me, and I wouldn’t even look in its direction. I’m like Al’s mother—he flies and I worry. Probably I’ll die of worrying and he’ll fly a loop-de-loop over my grave.”
“How did you know each other in school?”
“Oh, he was beautiful. We were roommates as freshmen. He had boxed Golden Gloves. He was very serious. Work, work, work all the time. You’d think he had a little clock wound up inside him, and if he didn’t keep time to it, he’d choke or something. I wanted to get into the fraternity and he didn’t. I mean, he didn’t care. He went home most weekends. To the ribald town, Nonheagan, Pennsylvania. Jesus, what a boring town. I went home with him one weekend. On Saturday night for excitement we went downtown and watched the bus stop. I said, ‘Jesus, Al, you’re always so serious. College has more to it than just work, work, work.’ I wanted to get him to apply to the fraternity with me. I thought I’d have a better chance. They turned me down and made an offer to him. He hadn’t even applied. The most crushing blow of my life. I thought I’d never get over it. I mean, how the hell can kids, seventeen, eighteen years old, make decisions like that about someone else after knowing him only a few months? I mean, turning me down? In a few months this bunch of jerks decided Al was all beautiful and good and I was a shit. And Al didn’t even spend the weekends on campus. I rushed the fraternity, and the fraternity rushed Al. Jesus, I wept. Al accepted, on condition they accept me too. His roommate. Jesus, I’ll never forget that. The sweetest thing anybody ever did for me. But how did he have the balls to do it? It meant so much, and he stood back cool as a cucumber at eighteen and bargained with this bunch of brass monkeys. I thought he’d never carry it off. He did. They accepted us both, they wanted him so bad. Then he never did a damn thing for the fraternity except honor it by living there. He still went home on the weekends. I stayed at the fraternity weekends. Jesus, we had some beautiful times. I’ll never forget that.”
“I don’t understand. What was so great about Alan Stanwyk?”
“What’s so great about Alan Stanwyk? He’s thirty-three now, and he’s running one of the biggest corporations in the world.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say he married Collins Aviation. He’s also brilliant, and he’s worked like a son of a bitch. I’m proud to live off him.”
“Sorry.”
“Believe me, the Collins family wanted him, needed him more than he needed them. I think if it were a toss-up as to whether he saved Alan or Joan, old John Collins would rescue Alan and send his own daughter to the wolves. Alan would be running Collins Aviation today whether he married Joan Collins or not.”
“You really think so?”
“I really do. No question about it. You don’t know how able this guy is. Corporations should trip over themselves to get Alan, just like the fraternities did. That guy’s got everything.”
“You’re a hero-worshipper.”
“Yes, and Alan Stanwyk is my hero.”
“Do you actually see much of him?”
“No, not really. We’re interested in different things. He’s flying, playing tennis, squash, sailing. I’m interested in drinking. He works hard at his business. But he’s still very serious about everything. He’s incapable of sitting down and having a casual drink as you and I are doing right now. I mean, we’re just talking. You’re not trying to learn something; I’m not trying to learn something; we’re just shooting the breeze. He has to use every moment for some purpose or other. Also, I don’t think Joan is too fond of my wife. I’m not either, of course, the little darling. Jesus. You haven’t met my wife. With a little luck, you won’t. What can I give you to run away with her?”
“So, Burt, you don’t really know an awful lot about what Al’s doing or thinking these days.”
“I never have. No one ever has. That guy plays awfully close to the chest. He could be dying of cancer and he wouldn’t tell you.”
“Funny you should say that.”
“He wouldn’t tell his best friend his pants were on fire.”
“I thought Joan was very subdued at lunch.”
“Well, let me put it this way: you’re a friend of Joan’s, and I’m a friend of Al’s—right?”
Fletch said, “Right.”
“So you see things from her side. I see things from his side.”
“Right.”
“He didn’t just marry the girl of his dreams. He married a corporation. He married a business, an omnipresent father-in-law, a board of directors, a staff of servants, a Racquets Club, Christ knows what else. If the average wife is an anchor, that guy is tied to a whole continent.”
“Joan said something about their buying a ranch in Nevada.”
“Yes. Al’s told me about it. I’m to take over the insurance for it when the deal goes through. Sometime in a couple of weeks. Fifteen million dollars’ worth of cows.”
“Lucky you.”
“All these years I’ve been worrying about Al’s dying. Now I have to worry about cows dying. At least cows don’t fly airplanes. Maybe now I should worry about Al’s dying of hoof and mouth disease.”
“Insuring a Nevada ranch seems a little out of your line.”
“Al’s been very good to me. I’m supposed to be in touch with the real estate broker out there in a couple of weeks. I forget his name. I’ve got it written down somewhere inside.”
“Jim Swarthout?”
“Yeah. That’s the name. You know him?”
“Sure. Nice man.”
“Hope he knows more about insuring cows than I do. I need all the help I can get.”
“I guess the ranch will give them a chance to get away together. I mean Joan and Alan.”
“No. It’s just more corporation. It’s her i
dea, you know—the ranch.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. Al couldn’t care less about it. He knows less about cows than I do, and all I know is that a cow is square with legs sticking out at the corners. He doesn’t want the damn place. Rancho Costo Mucho.”
“I thought it was his idea.”
“Negative.”
“Then why is Joan so subdued?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought she acted sort of sad. Over lunch.”
“She’s worse than he is. Serious, serious, serious. Haven’t you ever noticed it before? You’d think with all that money, they’d smile once in a while. It’s almost as if they think smiling costs money.”
“Sorry I didn’t get to meet their daughter, Julie.”
“Little brat.”
“Little brat?”
“Jesus, I wish she had a sister so I could beat one of them to death with the other one. Have another drink?”
“Burt, no thanks. I’ve got to go get on that airplane.”
“Going back tonight, huh?”
“Just have time to get to the hotel, change, and get to the airport.”
“Pity you can’t stay and meet my wife. Maybe you’d want to take her with you.”
“Nice talking with you, Burt.”
“God, she’s awful. Don’t make it such a long time again, John. Anytime you’re in town, drop by.”
“I will, Burt. I will.”
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 t
he 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.”
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