“You live there?”
“Weekends I spend in Hawaii.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Except for a pet roach.”
“And what do you do for a living, Mr. Smith?”
“I’m a shoeshine boy.”
“There was no shoeshine equipment in your room.”
“I must have been ripped off during the night. I’ll file a complaint before I leave.”
The chief said, “There seems to be a certain lack of coordination between yourself and your office, Mr. Fletcher.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your superiors at the News-Tribune called here yesterday. Your editor. A Mrs. Snow. Do I have that right? A Clara Snow.”
“Shit.”
“She informed me you are doing an investigation, for your newspaper, of drugs on the beach. And she asked that we keep an eye out for you. She said she thought you might be getting close to something. If you asked for police protection we were to understand who you are, and to give it.”
“Shit.”
“You are I.M. Fletcher of the News-Tribune.”
“You’ve got the wrong I.M. Fletcher.”
“Are you getting close to something, Mr. Fletcher?”
“No.”
“Well, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Fuck.”
The chief did not relax. He remained, forearms on the desk, looking directly at Fletch.
“Mr. Fletcher, it seems you have forgotten certain things. There is a certain little rule, shall we call it, which says that you are supposed to identify yourself as a journalist immediately to any officer of the law with whom you find yourself in conversation—even casual conversation. Had you forgotten that rule?”
“It slipped my mind.”
“We have you on a violation of that rule, Mr. Smith.”
“Entrapment.”
“Second, we know that you have been living here at The Beach with a young girl named Bobbi.”
“I have?”
“Where is Bobbi?”
“She split.”
“Where did Bobbi go?”
“I don’t know. Home, maybe.”
“I sincerely doubt that. Addicts seldom stray far from their source.”
“She got a bit ahead. Enough to trip on.”
“When did she leave?”
“Sunday night.”
“By what method of transportation?”
“She flew.”
“Then there is the fact that we found stashed in your room quantities of both marijuana and heroin.”
“Did you have a search warrant?”
“We weren’t searching. We just happened to find the stuff concealed in the stove.”
“I was hiding it from Bobbi.”
“You are guilty of possession of hard drugs.”
“I made the purchases as evidence.”
“From whom did you buy it?”
“Fat Sam.”
“Then why was the marijuana in City Police Laboratory bags?”
“Who knows Fat Sam’s source?”
“Why would you need to make a purchase of marijuana anyway? One purchase of heroin would be sufficient evidence.”
“I like to write a balanced story.”
“That story you wrote last fall about the Police Association wasn’t very balanced.”
“What?”
“I remember the story. And the by-line. I. M. Fletcher. You said the Police Association was nothing but a drinking club.”
“Oh.”
“You made very little of the fact that we have seminars, when we meet, on police techniques. That we raise money for the Police Academy. That last year we donated an ambulance to Ornego, California.”
“Thanks for reading me.”
“Do you get my point, Mr. Fletcher?”
“I’m getting it.”
“I want you out of town. Immediately.”
“Some police protection.”
“You may have some excuses for the matters I have already mentioned, including the possession of heroin, but I have on my staff three police officers who can attest to having been struck by you while in the course of their duty last Sunday night.”
“You didn’t arrest me then.”
“We were trying to subdue another prisoner.”
“It took seven of you to subdue a seventeen-year-old junkie?”
“Due to your intercession, three of the seven were wounded.”
“Why didn’t you arrest me the other night?”
“Did you want to be arrested, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Golly, gee, no, chief.”
“Mr. Fletcher, I am going to give you two orders, and you are going to obey both. The first is that any evidence you have regarding drugs on the beach you turn over to us. Do you have any evidence at all?”
“No.”
“None?”
“Just Fat Sam.”