“It averages about twenty thousand bucks.”
“Every two or three weeks?”
“Every ten days or so.”
“How do you transfer the money?”
“You said Fat Sam’s already told you.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“In a money belt. Under my Hawaiian shirt.”
“And that’s how you bring the drugs to Fat Sam?”
“Yeah. I carry the drugs in the money belt under the Hawaiian shirt.”
“How do you actually give it to Fat Sam?”
“I don’t. I just walk to the back of the lean-to and drop it. He knows where to pick it up. Then I line up like everyone else and make a phony cash buy.”
“I’ve seen that. You really fooled me. So what do you get out of this?”
“Free drugs. Like the man said, all I can eat.”
“No cash?”
“No cash. Never.”
“How did you pay for the minibus?”
“That belongs to Fat Sam. You should know that. Didn’t he tell you that?”
“No, he didn’t. I’ve never seen him use it.”
“He never leaves the beach.”
“Why does he never leave the beach?”
“He’s afraid someone would try to rip him off. Everyone thinks he’s carrying. Either drugs or money. He’s not, of course. I am.”
“How does he give you the money?”
“In the money belt. I pretend to buy drugs every few days. When I see the money belt rolled up at the back of the lean-to, I sit down and put it on under my shirt.”
“Okay, Gummy. You’re doin‘ fine.”
“Yeah.”
“When Chief Cummings takes the money and gives you the drugs, are you always in the room alone with him?”
“Yes. With the door shut.”
“Has there ever been another police officer or anyone else with you at the transfer of the drugs and money?”
“No. Never.”
“Do you think any of the other police officers know that the chief is the source of the drugs at The Beach?”
“They’re dumb bunnies. None of them know. None of them have ever figured it out.”
“Aren’t they suspicious that you, and only you, are brought in for questioning every week or ten days?”
“My Dad’s superintendent of schools. They think Cummings has a particular concern for me. I also think they think I’m informing. I suspect some of them even think I’m working for the chief, as a spy.”
“How long has this routine been going on?”
“How many years?”
“Yeah. How many years?”
“About four years.”
“How old are you, Gummy?”
“Seventeen.”
“So you couldn’t have been using the minibus as a signal to the chief originally. What were you using?”
“My bicycle. I’d chain it to a parking meter: He’d be able to see it through his office window. My bike had a purple banana seat and a high rear-view mirror.”
“How did you get started being the go-between?”
“I got hooked my first year in high school. The runner was a senior named Jeff. He blew his brains out with a shotgun. I didn’t know he had been the runner until next time I went to Fat Sam.”
“Was it Fat Sam who got you going?”
“No. The day after I was turned off I was pretty uptight, you know, pretty nervous. It was all beginning to hang out. In fact, I don’t think I had really known I was hooked until that day. Until Jeff killed himself and the supply turned off. A couple of cops met me at the bicycle rack, at the school. They picked me up and brought me to the station. I was scared shitless. The chief closed the door to his office, and we had our first talk. We made our first deal.”
“It was the chief who first got you going?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Fat Sam who gave you your first drugs?”
“No. It was Jeff. At the high school. He got his free. He had extra. He gave it to me. I guess, seeing I was the son of the superintendent, they figured getting me hooked would give them some extra protection. At least regarding the drugs in the school. After a few months, Jeff stopped giving it to me free and sent me to Fat Sam. He said I wanted too much. For a while, until Jeff blew his brains out, I had to pay for it.”
“How did you pay for it?”
“I burglarized my parents’ house three times.”
“Your own house?”
“Yeah. I was afraid to burglarize anyone else’s. I was just a little kid. I really hated stealing the color television.”
“Did your parents ever suspect you?”
“No. They would just report the burglary to Chief Cummings. Buy new stuff with the insurance money.”
“Do your parents know you are a drug addict?”
“Yes. I guess so.”
“Have they never talked to you about it?”
“No. Dad doesn’t want to make an issue out of it. After all, he’s superintendent of schools.”
“Okay, Gummy. Just sit there and let me type a minute.”
Fletch typed almost a whole page, single-spaced. He had Gummy sign the three copies. Lewis Montgomery. He had the handwriting of a nine-year-old boy. Fletch witnessed the signature on each copy.
“Is Bobbi really dead?”
Fletch said: “Yes.”
“She OD’d?”
“Yes.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“It’s time this whole scene broke up. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I’ve been wondering how it would stop. Jeff blew his brains out.”
“I know.”
“I do feel badly about Bobbi.”
“I know.”
Fletch put the third copy of the deposition folded into his back pocket. He put the typewriter back into its case.
Gummy said, “What will happen to me now?”
“Tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock, I want you to be waiting at the beer stand. Fat Sam will be waiting there with you. You’ll be picked up. Probably by plainclothesmen. Until tomorrow at eleven o’clock, I want you to shut up.”
“Okay. Then what will happen? What will the fuzz do to me?”
“They’ll probably bring you to a hospital and check you in under another name.”
