“Okay, Gummy. Now tell me how you get the drugs.”
“Every week or ten days, they arrest me. They pull me down to the station house for questioning.”
“Who picks you up?”
“Town police. Two of them, if I’m alone on the street. If I’m with you guys, I mean the guys on the beach, they send more. Like Sunday. There were seven of them. All dressed for a riot. They always expect somebody to jump on them. Like you did Sunday. By the way, Fletch, why did you do that Sunday?”
“I wanted to get arrested. I wanted to go to the station house with you and see precisely what happened.”
“They really cracked your head. It sounded like a gunshot.”
“It did to me, too. Is Chief Cummings always with the cops who pick you up?”
“No. But they always say the chief wants me for questioning. They’re a stupid bunch of cops.”
“What happens when you get to the station house?”
“I wait in the chief’s office. He comes in and closes the door. He pretends to question me. I give him the money, he gives me the drugs. As simple as that. Sometimes they keep me in a jail cell over night. It looks better.”
“How does the chief know that it’s time to pick you up—that you’re carrying money for him?”
“I park the minibus so he can see it from his office window.”
“How much money do you turn over to him, on the average?”
“It averages about twenty thousand bucks.”
“Every two or three weeks?”
“Every ten days or so.”
“How do you transfer the money?”
“You said Fat Sam’s already told you.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“In a money belt. Under my Hawaiian shirt.”
“And that’s how you bring the drugs to Fat Sam?”
“Yeah. I carry the drugs in the money belt under the Hawaiian shirt.”
“How do you actually give it to Fat Sam?”
“I don’t. I just walk to the back of the lean-to and drop it. He knows where to pick it up. Then I line up like everyone else and make a phony cash buy.”
“I’ve seen that. You really fooled me. So what do you get out of this?”
“Free drugs. Like the man said, all I can eat.”
“No cash?”
“No cash. Never.”
“How did you pay for the minibus?”
“That belongs to Fat Sam. You should know that. Didn’t he tell you that?”
“No, he didn’t. I’ve never seen him use it.”
“He never leaves the beach.”
“Why does he never leave the beach?”
“He’s afraid someone would try to rip him off. Everyone thinks he’s carrying. Either drugs or money. He’s not, of course. I am.”
“How does he give you the money?”
“In the money belt. I pretend to buy drugs every few days. When I see the money belt rolled up at the back of the lean-to, I sit down and put it on under my shirt.”
“Okay, Gummy. You’re doin‘ fine.”
“Yeah.”
“When Chief Cummings takes the money and gives you the drugs, are you always in the room alone with him?”
“Yes. With the door shut.”
“Has there ever been another police officer or anyone else with you at the transfer of the drugs and money?”
“No. Never.”
“Do you think any of the other police officers know that the chief is the source of the drugs at The Beach?”
“They’re dumb bunnies. None of them know. None of them have ever figured it out.”
“Aren’t they suspicious that you, and only you, are brought in for questioning every week or ten days?”
“My Dad’s superintendent of schools. They think Cummings has a particular concern for me. I also think they think I’m informing. I suspect some of them even think I’m working for the chief, as a spy.”
“How long has this routine been going on?”
“How many years?”
“Yeah. How many years?”
“About four years.”
“How old are you, Gummy?”
“Seventeen.”
“So you couldn’t have been using the minibus as a signal to the chief originally. What were you using?”
“My bicycle. I’d chain it to a parking meter: He’d be able to see it through his office window. My bike had a purple banana seat and a high rear-view mirror.”
“How did you get started being the go-between?”
“I got hooked my first year in high school. The runner was a senior named Jeff. He blew his brains out with a shotgun. I didn’t know he had been the runner until next time I went to Fat Sam.”
“Was it Fat Sam who got you going?”
“No. The day after I was turned off I was pretty uptight, you know, pretty nervous. It was all beginning to hang out. In fact, I don’t think I had really known I was hooked until that day. Until Jeff killed himself and the supply turned off. A couple of cops met me at the bicycle rack, at the school. They picked me up and brought me to the station. I was scared shitless. The chief closed the door to his office, and we had our first talk. We made our first deal.”
“It was the chief who first got you going?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Fat Sam who gave you your first drugs?”
“No. It was Jeff. At the high school. He got his free. He had extra. He gave it to me. I guess, seeing I was the son of the superintendent, they figured getting me hooked would give them some extra protection. At least regarding the drugs in the school. After a few months, Jeff stopped giving it to me free and sent me to Fat Sam. He said I wanted too much. For a while, until Jeff blew his brains out, I had to pay for it.”
“How did you pay for it?”
“I burglarized my parents’ house three times.”
“Your own house?”
“Yeah. I was afraid to burglarize anyone else’s. I was just a little kid. I really hated stealing the color television.”
“Did your parents ever suspect you?”
“No. They would just report the burglary to Chief Cummings. Buy new stuff with the insurance money.”
“Do your parents know you are a drug addict?”
“Yes. I guess so.”
“Have they never talked to you about it?”
“No. Dad doesn’t want to make an issue out of it. After all, he’s superintendent of schools.”
“Okay, Gummy. Just sit there and let me type a minute.”
Fletch typed almost a whole page, single-spaced. He had Gummy sign the three copies. Lewis Montgomery. He had the handwriting of a nine-year-old boy. Fletch witnessed the signature on each copy.
“Is Bobbi really dead?”
Fletch said: “Yes.”
“She OD’d?”
“Yes.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“It’s time this whole scene broke up. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I’ve been wondering how it would stop. Jeff blew his brains out.”
“I know.”
“I do feel badly about Bobbi.”
“I know.”
Fletch put the third copy of the deposition folded into his back pocket. He put the typewriter back into its case.
Gummy said, “What will happen to me now?”
“Tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock, I want you to be waiting at the beer stand. Fat Sam will be waiting there with you. You’ll be picked up. Probably by plainclothesmen. Until tomorrow at eleven o’clock, I want you to shut up.”
“Okay. Then what will happen? What will the fuzz do to me?”
“They’ll probably bring you to a hospital and check you in under another name.”
“I’ve got to come down, huh?”
“You want to, don’t you?”
“Yes. I think so.”
Fletch did not understand why Gummy
did not leave. The boy remained sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his face toward the window.
It was a moment before Fletch realized Gummy was crying.
***
Fletch walked into the lean-to carrying the typewriter.
Fat Sam was lying on his back on a bedroll on the sand, reading Marcuse’s Eros and Civilization. The bedroll stank. Fat Sam stank.
“Hello, Vatsyayana.”
In a back corner of the lean-to was a pile of empty soup cans. They stank.
Fletch handed Vatsyayana Gummy’s deposition.
“I.M. Fletcher, of the News-Tribune”.
Fat Sam put the book face-down on the sand.
While Fat Sam read the deposition, Fletch sat cross-legged on the sand and opened the portable typewriter case. Again he put an original and two carbons in the carriage.
Fat Sam read the deposition twice. Then he sat up. His look remained kind.
“So.”
“Your turn.”
“You even have the name spelled right. Charles Witherspoon. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard it.”
“I guess Gummy got it from the registration of the Volkswagen.”
“Oh, yes.” Vatsyayana looked out at the sunlit beach. “You expect a deposition from me.”
“I want to get Cummings.”
“I don’t blame you. A most unsavory man.”
“Either you hang him, or you’ll hang with him.”
“Oh, I’ll hang him all right. With pleasure.”
Fat Sam reached for a book: Jonathan Eisen’s The Age of Rock. In the back of the book was a folded piece of paper. Fat Sam blew the sand off it and handed it to Fletch. It read:
Sam—Jeff killed himself tonight. The boys investigating report of a gunshot found him on the football field. We need a new runner. Maybe the Montgomery kid. He may show up in the next day or two with the money belt. We need someone local.— Cummings.
“Is that hard evidence, or not?”
“That’s hard evidence.”
“Note, if you will, my dear Fletch, the gentleman wrote and signed it in his own hand.”
“I do so note. How did you get it?”
“Would you believe it was delivered to me in a sealed envelope by an officer of the law? I’ve never known what to do with it. When there isn’t the police, who is there? I forgot about the power of the press.”
“You have wanted to turn Cummings in?”
“Always. I have been his prisoner, you see. Just as surely as if I were sitting in the town lock-up.”
“I don’t see.”
“When I first came here from Colorado, I had a supply of drugs, thanks to my dear old mother’s insurance. To support myself here, on this magnificent beach, I sold some of it off. The eminent chief of police had me arrested. He had the evidence. I either went to jail for a very long time, or worked for him. I chose not to go to jail.”
“You mean you have never made a profit from this business?”
“No. Never. I have been a prisoner.”
“Fat Sam, you’re smarter than that. You’re an intelligent man. You’ve known you could go over the head of the local police and turn Cummings in.”
“You do realize, Fletch, that I am an addict, too?”
“Yes.”
“I became addicted while teaching music in the Denver public school system. I was already at the end of my rope when my mother died, fortuitously leaving me fifteen thousand dollars in life insurance.”
“You could have stopped the whole thing here anytime. Especially once you had this note.”
“I realize that. The chief has continuously had evidence against me. Current evidence. Two, I am an addict. My profit from my partnership with the eminent chief of police has been free drugs all these years. Just like Gummy. The chief pays off only in merchandise. Three, I have always hoped for a guarantee of some sort, if I am to turn state’s evidence. Do you have such a guarantee, Fletch?”
“Yes. I’ll have you picked up at the beer stand tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. You and Gummy.”
“How very considerate of you. And then, I presume, you will splash this sordid affair all over your newspaper?”
“The whole story will be in tomorrow afternoon’s News-Tribune. The first afternoon edition appears at eleven-twenty in the morning. If you are not at the beer stand at eleven, you will probably be dead by three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Oh, I’ll be there. In fact, I would say you are pulling it rather close.”
“I don’t want to tip my hand until the morning.”
“I see. And will you need photographs?”
“I have them already. Several fine shots of you, dealing. In fact, I had them developed and made yesterday at the office. They are awaiting captions.”
“How very efficient. I remember once saying you weren’t very bright. I think you are a very good actor.”
“I’m a liar with a fantastic memory.”
“That’s what an actor is. How did you catch on?”
“I watched the drop three times before I realized it was Gummy. It was his Hawaiian shirt. It was his being picked up by the police regularly. He was the only one ever picked up by the police. And he was picked up only when your supply was running low. Actually, I think it was Creasey who mentioned the repetitious coincidence of timing. He didn’t realize what he was saying. Then, Sunday night, when I tried to get arrested with Gummy and I belted three cops and they didn’t arrest me, I knew Cummings did not want anyone with Gummy at the station. They wanted him alone.”
“Of course.”
“Then someone else mentioned the chief’s frequent trips to Mexico. I heard that the first time last Saturday noon, from a very unlikely source.”
“Who?”
“A man named John Collins.”
“I don’t know him.”
“You don’t play tennis.”
“I used to. Back when I was alive. And how did you get the deposition out of Gummy?”
“I told him you had already signed one, naming him as pusher.”
“That was dirty pool. And why would Gummy believe that I had signed a deposition?”
“Because Bobbi is dead, Fat Sam. She really is dead.”
“I see. I’m sorry. She was a pretty child. Where is her body?”
“It’s about to be found.”
“And her body being found will trigger a whole chain of events. Supercops will flood The Beach.”
“You wouldn’t have a chance.”
Fat Sam lit a joint and inhaled deeply. He handed it to Fletch.
“Peace.”
“Fuck.”
“That too.”
Fletch inhaled twice.
“It’s time,” Fat Sam said. “It’s time.”
“Gummy said the same thing.”
“I wonder if I have any life left. I am thirty-eight and feel one hundred.”
“You’ll get help.”
“Now I wish they would put me in jail for a long time.” Fat Sam inhaled again. “I suppose I don’t really. I’m smoking a joint. I shot up two hours ago. Oh, Buddha.”
“It’s time to do the deposition.”
“No, son. Move away from the typewriter. I’ll do it myself.”
Fletch lay down on the sand with the rest of the joint.
Fat Sam sat at the typewriter.
“Now let’s see if Vatsyayana remembers how to type. Let’s see if Fat Sam remembers how to type. Let’s see if Charles Witherspoon remembers how to type.”
To Fletch, stoned on the sand, the typing seemed very slow.
27
“It is Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock. Although I have what can be termed fresh intuitive evidence, I cannot pretend that I have much fresh factual evidence.
“My best guess at the moment, based on no factual evidence, is that Alan Stanwyk is absolutely straight—that what he says is the truth: he is dying of cancer; he wishes me to murder him tomorrow night at eight-thirt
y.”
Fletch had returned to his apartment, taken a shower, eaten a sandwich and poured a quart of milk down his throat.
On the coffee table before him were the two depositions and their copies, and the original of Cummings’s incriminating note to Fat Sam.
There was also the big tape recorder.
“Yesterday morning, Alan Stanwyk picked me up in his car again and confirmed my intention to murder him. We reviewed the murder plan.
“Conversationally, he asked me the flight number of the Trans World Airlines plane for Buenos Aires. I denied knowing the flight number, as he himself had not mentioned it to me. In fact, I did know the flight number, as I had confirmed the reservation with the airline.
“My apparent failure to know the flight number should have meant two things to him: first, he should continue seeing me in character, as a drifter—that is, I’m apparently as stupid and trusting as he thinks I am; second, he should be satisfied that if he is being investigated, I am not the source of the investigation.
“Conversationally, without appearing out of character, I was able to ask him one of my major questions: why, if he wishes to commit suicide, doesn’t he crash in an airplane, as everybody half-expects?
“His answer was one of pride: that after years of keeping airplanes in the air, he couldn’t aim one for the ground.
“This is an acceptable answer. As he pointed out, people do spend more than fifty thousand dollars in support of pride. Any man who lives in a house worth more than a million dollars can be expected to spend fifty grand on a matter such as this, which would so profoundly affect his most personal pride.
“Alan Stanwyk has a mistress, a Mrs. Sandra Faulkner, of 15641B Putnam Street. He spends Monday and Wednesday evenings with her.
“Mrs. Faulkner is a widow who used to work at Collins Aviation. Stanwyk and Mrs. Faulkner did not particularly know each other while Mrs. Faulkner worked at Collins Aviation.
“Sandra Faulkner’s husband was a test pilot who was killed while attempting to land on an aircraft carrier, leaving her childless.
“At the time of the death, Sandra Faulkner left her employment at Collins Aviation, ran through her insurance money and whatever other sums she had available, and in the process became a drunk.
“It was approximately a year after the death that Alan Stanwyk discovered the straits she was in and came to her with what can only be described as a genuine instinct of mercy. Being a test pilot himself, it can be properly assumed his sympathy for the widow of a test pilot was entirely sincere.
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