Fletch f-1

by Gregory Mcdonald

“I mean, I was just thinking you could make more money.”

  “I like girls.”

  “So what. If someone’s willing to pay, and it doesn’t hurt…”

  “Maybe I’ll try it.”

  “Sure, you try it. You could get more. I mean, I’ve only seen you shoot up once or twice, Fletch.”

  “I can’t rip off enough.”

  “You have this room.”

  “I haven’t paid for it yet.”

  “How are you staying here?”

  “The guy who owns the place fences for me. That’s why I get screwed all the time.”

  “You give him the stuff you rip off from the stores?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That doesn’t leave much left over.”

  “No. Not much.”

  “The bastard.”

  “He’s always hassling me for more,” Fletch said.

  “Not a very good arrangement,” she said.

  “You’re from the Midwest.”

  “Why?”

  “You sound it. You sound like you’re from the Midwest. Very practical.”

  Bobbi said, “You don’t get to have much junk.”

  “I pop. You know that.”

  “I know. But still. Pills aren’t good for you. They’re not natural.”

  “They’re not biodegradable?”

  “Natural substances are better. Like heroin.”

  “The guy I’d like to rip off,” Fletch said, “is Fat Sam.”

  “Why?”

  “All the junk he’s got.”

  “He hasn’t got much now.”

  “Maybe next time it comes. Next delivery. Rip off both the cash and the junk same time. That would be beautiful.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he’s not a department store or something. He’s Fat Sam. A person. He takes care of us.”

  “Think how much you could get if I ripped him off.”

  “You’ll never be able to. You’ll never even find his stash.”

  “He never seems to leave the beach. He never leaves the area of the lean-to.”

  “He must. To get food,” Bobbi said.

  “The chicks bring it to him. Wendy and Karen.”

  “I’ve brought him food.”

  “You have?”

  “When he’s asked. He gives me money and tells me what.”

  “Where do you get the food?”

  “At the supermarket.”

  “You just go in and take it off the shelves?”

  “Yes. How else?”

  “I don’t know. I’d like to rip him off. Just once. If only I could figure out where the stuff comes from.”

  “I don’t care. It’s good stuff.”

  “You said he’s going to be having a delivery in the next few days?”

  “He’s got to have. He said he was short tonight, but he gave me all I could pay for. He’s always been good to me.”

  “Did he ball you, too?”

  “No. Wendy was there and Karen. I think they had just made it together.”

  “It would be beautiful to rip him off.”

  With apparent absent-mindedness, Fletch began to play with his wallet. He tossed it up in the air to catch it and a picture fell out. Bobbi said, “Who’s that?”

  “Nobody.”

  She put the soup pan down and picked up the picture. She looked at it a long time. “It must be somebody.”

  “His name’s Alan Stanwyk. You’ve never seen him.”

  “Who’s Alan Stanwyk?”

  “Somebody I used to know. Back when I was straight. He saved my life once.”

  “Oh. That’s why you carry his picture?”

  “I’ve never thrown it away.”

  “On the back it says, ‘Return to News-Tribune library.’‘

  “I ripped it off from there.”

  “Were you ever in the newspaper business?”

  “Who, me? You must be kidding. I was in with a friend once and happened to see the picture. On a desk. I grabbed it. He saved my life once.”

  “How?”

  “I smashed up a car. It was on fire. I was unconscious. He just happened to be passing by. He stopped and dragged me out. I understand he lives somewhere here on The Beach. Are you certain you’ve never seen him anywhere?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “I never had a chance to say thank you.”

  Bobbi handed him back the picture. “I want to go to sleep now, Fletch.”

  “Okay.”

  Still sitting, he lifted off his T-shirt. When he stood up to take off his pants and turn off the light, she got into the bedroll.

  He joined her.

  She said, “Are you really twenty-six?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  “I’ll never be twenty-six, will I?”

  “I guess not.”

  “How do I feel about that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  She said, “Neither do I.”

  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 bu
y 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.

  12

  “You’re Joan Stanwyk, aren’t you?”

  She was sitting alone at a table for two overlooking the tennis courts. A half-empty martini on the rocks was in front of her. “Why, yes.”

  “I haven’t seen you since your wedding.”

  “Are you a friend of Alan’s?”

  “We were in the Air Force together,” Fletch said. “In San Antonio. I haven’t seen Alan in years.”

  “You’re very clever to have recognized me.”

  “How could I forget? May I sit down?”

  Fletch had left his car in the club parking lot and had gone around the building past the kitchen door to the service entrance to the locker rooms. The freshest sign on a locker door said Underwood. A new member. They and their guests could not yet be well known to the club staff.

  When he had come onto the tennis pavilion, the headwaiter had said, “Pardon me, sir. Are you a guest of the club?”

  Fletch had answered, “I’m a guest of the Underwoods.”

  “They’re not here, sir. I haven’t seen them.”

  “They’re coming later.”

  “Very good, sir. Perhaps you’d like a drink while you’re waiting?”

  Fletch had spotted Joan Stanwyk.

  “We’ll put it on the Underwood bill.”

  “A screwdriver, please.”

  He sat at Joan Stanwyk’s table.

  “I’m afraid my memory isn’t so good, although it should be,” Joan Stanwyk said. “I can’t remember your name.”

  “No one can,” Fletch said. “The world’s most forgettable name. Utrelamensky. John Utrelamensky.”

  “John I can remember.”

  On the table was a Polaroid camera.

  “Are you from this area, John?”

  “No. Butte, Montana. I’m here on business. In fact, I’m leaving on a midafternoon plane.”

  “And what business would that be?”

  “Furniture. We sell to hotels, that sort of thing.”

  “I see. Too bad you won’t be able to see Alan. He’s at a flying convention in Idaho.”