“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 the 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.”
“I know she has nothin’. She doesn’t store. She uses. Always. Uses.”
“What did Fat Sam say?”
“He said he had nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
“When will the candy man come?”
“He said he’d be back in business tomorrow.”
“What time tomorrow?”