Fletch said, “She’s split.”
“For where?”
Vatsyayana’s look was one of kindly concern.
“That great candy store in the sky.”
Vatsyayana said nothing.
Rolled against the base on the sea wall in a blanket, not far from vhere Fletch had placed the rock the night before, was Creasey.
Fletch stood over him a moment in the dark, not sure whether Creasey was traveling or asleep.
Creasey said, “What’s happening, man?”
“I’m looking for Gummy,” Fletch said.
“Oh, man, he’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“That kid’s had it. I mean, how often can you be a beatin‘ bag for the fuzz?”
“You don’t know he’s gone.”
Creasey said, “He should have gone. Man, there has to be enough of everything. I mean, the kid’s been beatin‘ and been beatin’. Then he gets home and his daddy whumps him. Everybody’s beatin‘ up on that kid all the time.”
Fletch said, “I’m lookin‘ for Gummy.”
“Like my old skins. Man, I feel guilty for beatin‘ on them. Every night with sticks. Drumsticks. I beat on those skins. I mean, how do we know those skins don’t have feeling? Suppose when I hit them they hurt? Really hurt?”
“I don’t know about that, Creasey.”
“I’ve got a lot of painin‘ to do. To make up for what I did.”
“Don’t you think the drums will forgive you?”
“The Christly drums. That’s the idea. Beat up on anybody, anything, as much as you want, even drums, and they must forgive you, because that’s what The Man said. Christ.”
“I’m looking for Gummy. Have you seen him?”
“No. Where’s Bobbi?”
Fletch said, “She’s all right.”
“She split? I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“You saw her yesterday morning.”
“Yeah. She was all strung out. She’d had it. Fletch? You know, she’d had it. Last time I saw her.”
“I didn’t realize it.”
“She’d had it. Is she gone?”
“Yeah. She’s gone.”
“Jesus.”
Fletch stood a moment in the dark near Creasey, not looking at the rock, and then moved on.
At another campfire he sat down and waited a moment before speaking. No one was speaking.
“Anyone seen Gummy?”
No one answered.
The kid with the jug ears they called Bing Crosby was looking expectantly at Fletch, as if waiting to hear what Fletch had just said.
“I’m looking for Gummy.”
A forty-year-old man with a telephone receiver stenciled on his sweater, with the words under it DIAL ME, said, “He’s not here.”
Fletch waited a moment before moving on.
At another campfire, Filter-tip said he thought Gummy had gone home. To his parents’ house. Jagger said he thought Gummy had been picked up by the police again.
When Fletch stood up from the campfire, he found Vatsyayana standing behind. Vatsyayana walked a few paces with him toward the sea wall.
“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.
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.
