Fletch

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.”

“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.”