“Where do you get the food?”
“At the supermarket.”
“You just go in and take it off the shelves?”
“Yes. How else?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to rip him off. Just once. If only I could figure out where the stuff comes from.”
“I don’t care. It’s good stuff.”
“You said he’s going to be having a delivery in the next few days?”
“He’s got to have. He said he was short tonight, but he gave me all I could pay for. He’s always been good to me.”
“Did he ball you, too?”
“No. Wendy was there and Karen. I think they had just made it together.”
“It would be beautiful to rip him off.”
With apparent absent-mindedness, Fletch began to play with his wallet. He tossed it up in the air to catch it and a picture fell out. Bobbi said, “Who’s that?”
“Nobody.”
She put the soup pan down and picked up the picture. She looked at it a long time. “It must be somebody.”
“His name’s Alan Stanwyk. You’ve never seen him.”
“Who’s Alan Stanwyk?”
“Somebody I used to know. Back when I was straight. He saved my life once.”
“Oh. That’s why you carry his picture?”
“I’ve never thrown it away.”
“On the back it says, ‘Return to
“I ripped it off from there.”
“Were you ever in the newspaper business?”
“Who, me? You must be kidding. I was in with a friend once and happened to see the picture. On a desk. I grabbed it. He saved my life once.”
“How?”
“I smashed up a car. It was on fire. I was unconscious. He just happened to be passing by. He stopped and dragged me out. I understand he lives somewhere here on The Beach. Are you certain you’ve never seen him anywhere?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“I never had a chance to say thank you.”
Bobbi handed him back the picture. “I want to go to sleep now, Fletch.”
“Okay.”
Still sitting, he lifted off his T-shirt. When he stood up to take off his pants and turn off the light, she got into the bedroll.
He joined her.
She said, “Are you really twenty-six?”
“Yes,” he lied.
“I’ll never be twenty-six, will I?”
“I guess not.”
“How do I feel about that?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
She said, “Neither do I.”
So on Saturday morning he got up, pulled on a pair of shorts, and went to the beach.
Creasey was there, lying on his back, elbows akimbo behind his head. At first Fletch thought he was catatonic. He may have just awakened. The beach still had morning dew on it. Up the beach, Fat Sam’s lean-to cast a long shadow.
Fletch flopped on his stomach.
“What’s happening, man?”
Creasey spoke without looking at Fletch.
“Nothing much.”
“Everything’s cool with me,” Creasey said. “Hungry. Haven’t any bread for feed, have you?”
“Twelve cents.” Fletch took a dime and two pennies from his pocket and tossed them on the sand near Creasey.
Creasey snorted. He was not impressed by the dime and two cents.
“You must be one of the world’s greatest rip-off artists,” Creasey said.
“The shitty store dicks know me now.”
“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
