Fletch(45)
“Why are you looking for Gummy?”
“Bobbi gave me a message for him.”
“Where’s Bobbi?”
“She’s split,”
“Where’s Bobbi?”
“Gonzo. Bye-bye.”
“Where?”
“With a knapsack I gave her. Full of protein tablets and Ritz crackers I ripped off from a Seventh Day Adventist supermarket.”
Vatsyayana stopped. “I said, where’s Bobbi?”
“Look. She got her supply up yesterday, didn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“So she split.”
Vatsyayana was giving him the hard stare through the moonlight. His eyes remained kind.
“Why are you looking for Gummy?”
“I told you. Bobbi gave me a message for him.”
“What’s the message?”
“It’s for Gummy.”
“Tell me.”
Fletch said, “Hang loose, Fat Sam.”
He followed his moon shadow up the beach.
On that cool night, trying to sleep on his groundmat, Fletch missed his sleeping bag. He missed Bobbi. Together they would have been warm in the sleeping bag.
20
Fletch heard the heavy footsteps on the stairs. They were in no hurry. They came along the short landing to his door and stopped.
The door swung open slowly.
Two policemen looked through the door.
Fletch sat up.
“Good morning,” the first policeman said. They both looked showered, shaved and full of coffee.
“What day is it?” Fletch asked.
“Tuesday.”
The second policeman was looking for a place to sit down. In his eyes going over the room was comparable pride in his own home, his own furniture.
“Get ready to come with us.”
“Why?”
“The chief wants to see you. Questioning.”
Fletch was looking at his bare feet on their sides on the groundmat.
“I guess I’m ready.”
“You don’t even want to take a leak?”
Fletch said, “Why should I take a leak when I’m going to the police station anyway?”
It was about a quarter to seven in the morning.
One of the policemen held open the back door of the patrol car for Fletch and closed it after he had gotten in.
A heavy wire grill ran between the front seat and the back seat.
The back seat was broken down. It smelled of vomit. Dried blood was on the seat and the floor.
Fletch said, “This is a very poor environment back here. I want you to know that.”
“It’s nice up here,” said the policeman in the passenger seat.
The driver said, “How’s your head?”
Fletch had forgotten.
“This is the first time it hasn’t hurt. You two aren’t the two I belted on the beach the other night, are you?”
“No,” said the driver. “I’m the one who belted you.”
Fletch said, “You do nice work.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“How come you guys didn’t arrest me the other night?”
“The chief said not to,” said the driver. “He was feeling mellow.”
“He feels mellow every time he comes back from his retirement home in Mexico. He counts the grapefruit or something. Makes him feel mellow.”
“He’s retiring soon?”
“Next year sometime.”
Fletch said, “I was hoping he’d retire before I got to the station.”
They turned onto Main. It was difficult talking through a grill to the backs of heads. Fletch wanted to open the window, but the window jack handles had been removed. The police were probably afraid someone would try to commit suicide by bopping himself on the nose with one.
The smell was beginning to make Fletch feel sick.
He repeated, “This is a very poor environment back here.”
From his appearance, Chief of Police Graham Cummings could not have been anything else. Short-cropped iron-gray hair. A jawline like a shovel scoop. Broad, massive shoulders. Steady, brown eyes. A man of his appearance in any town would almost automatically be given the job of police chief.
“What’s your name?”
“Fletch.”
“What’s your full name?”
“Fletch Fletch Fletch.”
Alone in the chief’s bare, utilitarian office, they sat on either side of a gray aluminum desk.
“By any chance, could Fletch be short for Fletcher?”
“It could be.”
“Is Fletcher your first name or your last?”
“My first name.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Smith.”
“Fletcher Smith,” the Chief said. “Seems I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”
“Fletcher Smith?”
“No. Just Smith. Where do you live, Smith?”
“I forget the address. Where your goons picked me up this morning.”