Fletch(25)
“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 buy 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.”