“Pity you can’t stay and meet my wife. Maybe you’d want to take her with you.”
“Nice talking with you, Burt.”
“God, she’s awful. Don’t make it such a long time again, John. Anytime you’re in town, drop by.”
“I will, Burt. I will.”
“The fuzz. The fuzz. The fuzz.”
Two screwdrivers. A grilled cheese sandwich. Three gin and tonics taken in fast succession. Lying on the beach felt good to Fletch. The sand cooling down in the setting sun had enough warmth to it to permeate his skin, his muscles, his bones. The nearly horizontal rays of the sun were crossed laterally over his body by a twilight breeze.
Unabashedly, he slept.
It was Sando who shook him, saying, “The fuzz. Stash anything you’ve got. A bust.”
Darkness. The bubble lights of the police cars rotated over the sea wall Silence. Forms carrying riot sticks were ambling down the beach. The people on the beach who were able to move were moving as fast as they could without losing a sense of smoothness, trying not to appear as if they were hurrying away. Some were walking into the ocean. A few went to the edge of the water and strolled one way or the other along it, their profiles on the moonlit surface of the water. The foxes had come into the chicken yard. Fat Sam came to the front of his lean-to and sat cross-legged on the sand. Gummy Montgomery remained propped on his elbows. Fletch did not get up. Nowhere could he see Bobbi’s little form.
The police passed to Fletch’s right and left. There were seven of them. They wore riot helmets, with the visors pulled down. Chief Cummings, a tall man with heavy shoulders, was with them.
They stood in an imperfect circle around Montgomery. The chief stuck his riot stick into Gummy’s stomach and leaned on it, gently. “Come on, Gummy.”
“Jesus Christ. Why me? Why always me?”
“Your Poppa’s worried about you.”
“Tell him to go fuck off.”
“Let’s go, Gummy.”
The chief leaned harder on his riot stick stuck in Gummy’s stomach.
“I don’t have anything. Jesus Christ, I’m clean.”
The stick was pressed almost to his backbone.
“Harassment!”
Gummy tried to hit the stick away with the side of his forearm but only succeeded in hurting both his forearm and his stomach.
“Harassment. Big word for an eighteen-year-old.”
“I’m seventeen. Leave me alone!”
Another policeman, a short, stocky man, suddenly pounced on Gummy, banging his ear with the back of his hand, his fist closed. He began to swing at his head again from the other side.
Gummy scrambled to his feet to escape more blows.
Fletch, having given the matter some thought, went behind the stooping, off-balance policeman and pushed him over. The policeman’s head plowed into the sand where Gummy had been lying.
A third policeman, in surprise, turned to swing his riot stick at Fletch.
With full force, Fletch belted the policeman in the stomach.
A fourth policeman, a big man, in a gesture of bravado, ripped off his helmet and charged at Fletch bare- fisted. Fletch punched him twice in the face, once in the eye, once on the nose.
Fletch heard a crack. Saw a flash of light. Felt his knees pointing toward the sand. He said, “Shit.”
***
His head was in Bobbi’s lap. There were true stars in the sky.
“Jesus,” he said.
The beach was quiet.
“Does it hurt?”
He said, “Jesus.”
“Sando came and got me. I thought they’d killed you.”
“Oh, my God, it hurts.”
“He said you belted a policeman.”
“Two of them,” Fletch said. “Three of them. I’m still on the beach.”
“What can I do to help you?” Bobbi asked.
“Shoot me.”
“I haven’t got any stuff.”
Fletch hadn’t meant that. He decided to remain misunderstood.
“Why am I still at the beach?”
“You thought you’d be in outer space?”
“I thought I’d be in jail.”
“You’re all right. They’re gone.”
“Why didn’t they arrest me?”
“I’m glad they didn’t.”
“I expected them to arrest me. I belted three policemen.”
“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.”
