Gummy said, “Oh.”
Fletch smashed him in the face with his fist.
Gummy’s head snapped back and turned, his long hair twirling. His feet moved slowly. He did not fall. He turned back, his head low, looking at Fletch through watering eyes. The look was resentful. The kid had never been hit before.
“I said Bobbi is dead, Gummy, and ‘Oh’ is not a proper response. You killed her. And you know it.”
Gummy stepped toward the door.
Fletch said, “I’ve got bad news for you, Gummy. Bobbi’s death means the heat’s on. Fat Sam is turning state’s evidence.”
“Bullshit.”
“He has written me a nice little deposition naming Chief Graham Cummings as the source. Everything is in the deposition, including your Hawaiian shirt. He’s pinning the actual sale of drugs on you. He insists he was just a receiver.”
The kid had stopped moving toward the door. His eyes were wide and innocent.
“I never pushed. I was just carrying.”
“You were transferring, baby.”
Gummy had blood at the corner of his lip.
“I never sold any of the stuff.”
“Fat Sam is laying it on you.”
“The bastard.”
“And he has signed the deposition in big, flowing handwriting with his real name which I forget for the moment.”
“Charles Witherspoon.”
“What?”
“Charles Witherspoon.”
“That’s right.”
“Where is this what-do-you-call-it?”
“Deposition. I left it in the city. Do you think I’d be crazy enough to bring it down here? He signed it Charles Witherspoon.”
“Shit.”
“Let me help you, Gummy.” Fletch opened the case of his portable typewriter. He placed an original and two carbon sheets in the carriage. “You need help.”
Gummy stood in the dark room with his hands in his back pockets.
“By the way, Gummy, I’m I.M. Fletcher of the
“You’re a reporter?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew there was something funny about you. I saw you riding in a gray Jaguar last week—I think Thursday night.”
“Did you tell anybody you saw me?”
“No.”
Gummy sat on the floor. He leaned his back against the wall.
“Does this mean I go to jail?”
“Maybe not, if you turn state’s evidence.”
“What does that mean? I fink?”
“It means you write a deposition and sign it. You say what role you played in supplying the beach people with drugs.”
“I carried the drugs from the chief of police to Fat Sam.”
Fletch was sitting on the floor cross-legged before his typewriter.
“You’ve got to tell us more than that. Tell me everything. I’ll write it down. And you sign it.”
“You know everything.”
“I need to hear it from you.”
“What are you going to do with the deposition?“
“I’m going to turn it over to a friend of mine who works in the district attorney’s office. We were in the marines together. He’ll know what to do.”
“I’ll get killed. Cummings is a mean son of a bitch.”
“I’m going to ask for police protection for you.”
“‘Police protection’? That’s funny.”
“Not the local police, Gummy. I agree Cummings is a dangerous man.”
“Who then? The state police?”
“Probably federal narcotics agents. Or the district attorney’s office. I don’t know. You’ll be taken care of. I want you to nail Cummings.”
“All right.” The light from the dirty window was white on Gummy’s long face. “Cummings was the source of drugs.”
“All the drugs?”
“Yes. All.”
“What is his source?”
“I don’t know. He goes back and forth to Mexico every few weeks. He tells people he’s building a house down there, or something. For when he retires. He brings the drugs back with him. No one questions the chief of police going through customs.”
“How does customs know he’s a police chief?”
“Aw, hell, have you ever seen his car? I mean, his own car? Plates front and back say ‘chief of police.’ He has a bubble machine on top. A police radio. He even has a Winchester rifle hanging from brackets under his dashboard.”
“I’ve seen it. He uses that car to get through customs?”
“Yes.”
“Does he wear his uniform going through customs?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been with him. With that car, he doesn’t need a uniform.”
“Does he take his wife to Mexico with him?”
“I know he has. And his teenage daughter.”
“How do you know he has?”
“I’ve seen them leaving town. When I’ve known where they were going.”
“Okay, Gummy. Now tell me how you get the drugs.”
“Every week or ten days, they arrest me. They pull me down to the station house for questioning.”
“Who picks you up?”
“Town police. Two of them, if I’m alone on the street. If I’m with you guys, I mean the guys on the beach, they send more. Like Sunday. There were seven of them. All dressed for a riot. They always expect somebody to jump on them. Like you did Sunday. By the way, Fletch, why did you do that Sunday?”
“I wanted to get arrested. I wanted to go to the station house with you and see precisely what happened.”
“They really cracked your head. It sounded like a gunshot.”
“It did to me, too. Is Chief Cummings always with the cops who pick you up?”
“No. But they always say the chief wants me for questioning. They’re a stupid bunch of cops.”
“What happens when you get to the station house?”
“I wait in the chief’s office. He comes in and closes the door. He pretends to question me. I give him the money, he gives me the drugs. As simple as that. Sometimes they keep me in a jail cell over night. It looks better.”
“How does the chief know that it’s time to pick you up—that you’re carrying money for him?”
“I park the minibus so he can see it from his office window.”
“How much money do you turn over to him, on the average?”
