The Hut, page 24
“First, I gotta say I probably should be giving this info to the cops instead of you guys; didn’t consider that before.” He frowned thoughtfully. “But I guess a deal’s a deal. But hey listen, I want nothin’ more to do with this, and you definitely didn’t hear any of this shit from me, no matter who asks! Comprende, groovy little buddy?”
“Got it. I mean, yes!” I responded.
Tommy just silently glared at him, his patience running thin.
“Oh yeah, so listen, this info’s so juicy I’ll need an extra sawbuck. No problem, right little guy? It’s totally worth it…”
I reluctantly nodded and reached deep into my pockets, the front ones were now empty so I reached into my back pocket and handed over my last few bucks.
Crap. Who knew the price of counterintelligence was gonna be so high? In a fair world the “guys” would have reimbursed me. However, as I was once again reminded: “Life, they say, is not fair.”
Especially this summer.
“So here’s what else...” Burt continued, as Tommy and I huddled close.
“That guy’s lookin’ to mess someone up real bad, and he’s gonna pay this broad a small ransom to do it. Now, I’m not sure if she’s an actual hit-chick-for-hire or what, but it sure sounded that way. Not that I heard everything man. I mean, had to concentrate on the gig first, right? But I caught enough to know you’re onto somethin’, kid.”
Burt was now lighting up a Marlboro and taking long, slow drags (said he was convinced it helped his singing voice).
“But wait, there’s more, kiddo.”
“Holy hell, what else could there be?” I blurted, as Tommy rolled his eyes again.
“He said the target was a guy. Some jerk on the island knows something he shouldn’t and can’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut. I heard that part just as I was tunin’ my guitar to play ‘Bad Moon Rising.’ Radical song, by the way. Really pissah.
“Anyhow, I think they struck a deal. They shook hands, for whatever that means. The whole meeting couldn’t have lasted more than fifteen or twenty minutes. But it was definitely tense.”
“So get this... Her purse is still sitting on the table, right? So she grabs it, puts it in her lap and opens it. She leaves it open wide, takes a cigarette out and holds it between the fingers of her right hand, about ready to smoke it, and the guy leans over and slides a thick envelope into it, never losing eye contact with the broad for a second. Just glad they didnt see me seeing them, little man, and that’s gonna cost you a bit extra, my good dude. Sorry.
“Oh yeah, know something, sure, he was wearing one glove. Who knows, maybe he was queer? Different strokes for different folks, right?”
“Anyway, that’s all I got, kid. Oh, tell Alison I’m super disappointed and crushed that she never showed up. What the what’s up with that little rocket man? Tell her I said there better be a rain check happening…”
“Hey, man, I gotta split. Let’s get the rest of this stuff into my wagon, k?”
So we finished helping him load up, both of our minds going a mile a minute. Burt gave us the peace sign he was pulling out.
“Thanks, guys. Peace, Love, and Granola!”
Whatever…dude.
Chapter 50
Fuzz
The Lumps on the Bump had been hired by Reginald G. Knight to make our lives miserable, of that we were sure. It started a cat-and-mouse game that would last the rest of the summer. The next summer too. Maybe longer.
There were actually two Lumps contracted through the “Lower Cape Cod Security Company, Incorporated” to engage and repel all potential evildoers and no-gooders who dared drive, motor bike, or otherwise set foot on the hallowed grounds of Mashnee Village. The protection of which was duly assigned to: Weekday Guy and Weekend Guy. Naturally we had nicknames for them. Flim and Flam. I think The Stick came up with them. Pretty good. Simple, yet effective.
And while the nicknames were similar, all similarities ended right there.
In fact, the two were a classic case of opposites. Tall and skinny, short and round. High and squeaky, loud and gravelly. Neat and clean, sloppy and unkempt. Ok guy. Total prick. The Ying was Flim. Flam, the Yang, I think.
During the week, Flim manned the illustrious bump from eight p.m. until midnight, and the “Flam Experience,” aka our worst nightmare, happened on weekends, six pm. to one a.m., although he was well known for circling back a half hour or so later, in hopes of jettisoning his portly body onto some unfortunate bad guy (His body could accommodate multiple.), should the hint of trouble break out. That’s assuming, of course, the bad guys wouldn’t mind waiting a half-hour or so for slow, portly Flam to get his fat bee-hind to the scene of the crime, and another ten minutes for him to maneuver his portliness out of his brown and tan “Security Vehicle.” What a joke.
However, even with the slow-moving physique of a water buffalo and unpleasant temperament of a crocodile, do not be fooled; this guy was nothing but trouble.
Now we couldn’t really blame Knight for hiring island security; after all, lest we forget, there had probably been an actual murder somewhere around here! It was simply a matter of who they hired that bothered us, and the fact that the guy seemed a lot more interested in harassing the island’s teens than keeping them safe. I mean really, who are we kidding here?
Not only did he have the direct ear of Mr. Knight, but even worse, the Flam often teamed up with another arch nemesis, The Narc, who had the most annoying habit of showing up unannounced, right next to you, without a sound. I mean no sound. Zero. Zip. Nada. Nothing. Not a peep. He’d just appear without warning, a nasty habit indeed. We hated him.
It gives me the creeps just thinking about it. I mean, stealth is one thing, but this cop wannabe was beyond sleazy. Fortunately it was the only noteworthy skill the slimeball actually possessed.
Naturally, by now we were accustomed to getting harassed about violating rules in the pool or The Club and fully accepted the penalties that came with such obstinacy, be they my personal battles with Mr. Knight over having long hair in the pool or getting kicked out for too many cannonballs (What is the all-out obsession with cannonballs anyways?) or swearing in the clubhouse.
But the hiring of the Lumps on The Bump changed everything, and suddenly there were actual rules everywhere.
The tried and true tradition of hanging out on The Club’s front steps, had suddenly become loitering! Gathering in groups larger than six or seven, unlawful congregation! Dare to be in The Club’s parking lot past midnight? Curfew violation! Does roof stomping and door knocking strike your fancy? Ah ha! Malicious destruction of property! You get the drift.
It got so bad that even cutting through your neighbor’s yard was now a fineable offense! I mean, sheesh, we couldn’t do ANYTHING!
The rent-a-cops also appeared to have a direct buzzline to the Bourne Police, and weren’t afraid to use it. And, this summer, the police and Mashnee teens were already way too familiar. No need pouring gas on an inferno.
During this “crackdown,” the one thing we still had, thank gawd, was The Hut. It wasn’t that Flim and Flam didn’t know about it. I’m certain they were forewarned. But neither liked the thought of schlepping that far down the dark beach through the deep sand and wet seagrass in an area loaded with mosquitoes and more than the occasional skunk late at night, only to be greeted and outnumbered by who knows how many raucous teens when they arrived.
Their pay grade just wasn’t high enough for that.
Certainly they could have made a bigger stink about it, but I think they were more concerned about protecting Club property than schlepping to a distant hideout that nobody could see anyway. Plus, there was Tommy. And say what you will about a seventeen-year-old punk, but even The Lumps were intimidated by him. So although their security trips to The Hut were exceptionally rare, they were not nonexistent.
Not only did we have to be cognizant of our surroundings, but clever and crafty as well. We had devised several emergency hiding spots, some dug into the sand, with other prime hiding spots concealed in the tall seagrass.
Oh, and given our overnight experience at Aptucxet, we managed to devise a few of Stevie’s booby traps as well!
So if you weren’t invited, it was best to stay the heck away from our shanty. But on this particular night, and for a very particular reason, The Flam Experience showed up, unannounced and suddenly, as per modus operandi, this time with an uninvited guest…
Tommy took a look-see, stepped out of The Hut where he could see and be seen, then called back to his scattering league of summer comrades,
“Put the joints out, boys, it’s da fuzz.”
I threw up.
Chapter 51
Tower
It wasn’t like we were always in trouble, or dumb for that matter. There were plenty of days filled with nothing but blissful summer fun, when we were, for all intents and purposes, the perfect teenagers.
Any one of us could be seen doing a neighborly good deed, or chasing down some little kid’s water-float as it blew down the beach. Some of us more than others, most likely dependent on their family standards and level of parental supervision, of which, at least in the summer, there simply wasn’t much.
Point being, most of the islanders loved us and would probably have called us “pretty good kids” upon query. Sure, we heard the assorted complaints about loads of long-haired-hippie types hanging out constantly on the front steps, which we regarded as a compliment, or scolded for cutting the wrong yard, but good kids were we. From good families who lived on the right side of the tracks. Or at least could afford a summer rental. Hey, and Bar-Mitzvahed too, or Christened, or Baptized, or whatever the heck their religious denomination called for. “Cream of the Crop,” some might say. And smart, too (ok, they never said that about Eddie), some even honor roll students (one, Mary Ellen). Yup, just a good group of nice, wholesome, friendly kids,
Except when we weren’t.
Which is starting to sound like an abundance of the time…
This being (yet) another. Oy vey!
It’s painfully obvious who came up with the lame-brain idea. Why we still listened to him remains a much bigger mystery. By this deep into the summer, especially, you’d think we’d have learned our lessons, Crazy Ed being synonymous with trouble, but no, gluttons for punishment are we, much more so when bored. Tonight, sitting on the front steps trying to see who could hold onto a lit match the longest before toasting their fingertips, we were certainly bored, bored to tears.
Then, Eddie started in. “You guys up for a little excitement in your lives, or are you gonna sit here doing nuthin but play with yourselves all night long?” His unsolicited comment ending with an “Dammit!” as a lit book of matches practically fried his fingers off, enough so to immediately emit the nasty odor of burning flesh, as he stomped around cussing and frantically flapping his hand in the air. Moron.
His inquiry met with utter silence mixed with unanimous rolling eyeballs. We’d been down this road far too many times before. But like so many things with teenagers, all it takes is one to show interest and the rest of the herd follows. In this case, Brain was the “one” and Big Patrick and I were apparently the sheep. Much to our chagrin.
His idea was right up there with the Aptucxet debacle, only significantly more dangerous, yet we listened.
“You guys know that water tower at the Bourne rotary, right next to Ho-Jo’s?”
Crickets. Not a sound, much less a nod. Nonetheless undaunted, Ed continued, “Well, at the top there’s a little utility room where you can see all the way to the canal and stuff. It’s an amazing place to party! That is, if you’ve got the balls to make it to the top. The ladder’s a little shaky…”
Oh good, just what we needed to hear. Obviously the dingbat had done it before; my only questions were about the suckers who evidently climbed with him and what their survival rate was.
“Listen, you crazy m-effer, that sounds like either a death or prison sentence, and I ain’t fond of either.” I felt compelled to assert, (in place of Mary Ellen not being around), Brian nodding his agreement. “Be nice to go just one night this summer without getting in trouble, ya know…?” I concluded.
“Did I mention I’ve got beer in the trunk? Cold Rolling Rocks all around, boys. Whadaya say, you ladies up for it?” Eddie taunted, with a big, shit-eating grin on his freckled punim. “Or are you chick’n?!”
“Fine, we’re in!” jumped-in Big Patrick, without consulting a soul, including mine who would’ve declined!
And per usual, ladies and germs, that was that! As my stomach churned.
We waited until it was darker, and then took Eddie’s car—Patrick shoving me out of the way as we raced toward the car, even though I called shotgun! Eddie revved the Roadrunner’s powerful engine then peeled rubber until the tires were smoking as we left the parking lot—so much for being inconspicuous—a word not in Eddie’s vocabulary.
Beer’s all around, loud music cranking from the radio, and Patrick’s mixture of loud belches and farts kept us well entertained on the short jaunt to our destination. Of course we had all seen the water tower before, perched upon a large hill, but other than Ed, never up close and personal.
Two things immediately struck me, there didn’t seem to be an access road up the hill (How do we even get up there?), and the skinny ladder attached to the tower’s side seemed to go up forever before reaching the top, somewhat akin to a high-wire act without safety nets. Crazy!
The first issue was solved when Eddie pointed out a narrow, graveled path (not an actual road) barely wide enough for a two-wheeled vehicle, let alone a car. Nonetheless, he forced the Roadrunner into the tight confines, ignoring the awful screeching of tree limbs severely scratching to his car (It was covered with gobs of “bondo” putty anyhow, the original hideous lime green “paint job” long faded like a distant memory.), and shouting like a banshee all the way up the hill, his car bottoming out at least twice.
“To hell with the water tower, I thought, we’re gonna die before we ever get there anyway,” and for a while, it looked like I was right!
The car arrived at the top a few minutes before our kidneys did. By then, we were all hysterically laughing as we exited the car and looked up and up…
“Jeezus H. That thing goes on for-ev-er!” Brian stated the obvious while straining his neck to look up, until his ever-present felt hat fell off.
“No way am I climbing up there,” I quickly joined in, hoping in vain to gain support, of which came none.
“Gimme one more beer, and I’m as good as up there,” boasted Patrick, immediately earning him a viscous high five from Edward, both their palms turning bright red!
“Then it’s settled. Gentleman, we’re climbing up!” summarized Eddie.
“Ahhh sugar!” I reflexed. “Here we go again.”
Immediately after, we encountered our first problem. The metal ladder started a good ten-foot higher than the ground, meaning someone’s shoulders were about to get hurt. Accordingly, Big Patrick and Crazy Eddie bucked up—once, twice, three… Shue! Eddie won, so it was Patrick’s broad, often sunburned shoulders we would be abusing. Worked for me.
And before anyone asks (because I was skinny): “There’s no friggin way I’m going up there first!” My line of demarcation, firmly drawn in the sand.
“That’s ok,” chimed in Brian with that perpetual giggle of his, which made everything he did sound fun, even immense danger. “I’m game! First-to-the-top wins all the beer, suckers!” And onto Big Patrick’s sturdy shoulders he went, albeit a bit wobbly at first, as they inched themselves closer to the ladder’s bottom rung with me and Crazy Dude trying to keep them steady, when Brian, giggling so hard he was shaking Patrick, turned back to ask, “Hey, who’s bringing up the brewski’s?” The question answered itself as he turned his head to see that Eddie had a backpack strapped on and was giving a hearty, shit-eating grin along with a thumbs up. At least he was good for something…
“Don’t fall with all MY beer, pea brain.” Giggle, giggle, and giggle.
Looking up, man-oh-man that tower was freaking high (I would later find out some 200 feet!), and the ladder looked to be from another era, not good, not good at all. I was literally shaking awaiting my turn, as I watched Brian barely grab the bottom rail and hoist himself up, his progress announced by a large arm fart sent in the direction of Patrick’s face! As you can imagine, lots of swearing and good-natured shouting quickly ensued. What the heck were we even doing?
Then, gulp, it was my turn. Eddie helped get me on Patrick’s shoulders while The Big Guy warned me of certain and painful death, should I decide to expel any smells or bodily fluids in his direction whatsoever, his bright crimson face underscoring his threat. So I climbed up, as slow as molasses, inch by inch, rung by rung, grip by grip, holding on for dear life, my hands bruised, as I nervously ascended!
Even as strong a kid as he was, Big Patrick struggled mightily to get Eddie on his shoulders, the two of them looking like a high-wire act gone bad. Finally, Eddie was stable enough to somehow grab the rung and hoist up, the heavy backpack shifting dangerously as he did. The next trick, getting Patrick up, was much more difficult, and poorly planned. If it wasn’t for him finding a large tree branch to drag over, there would have been no way for him to join us. But he did.
Ok good. So, now there were four morons on the ladder!
I was so busy hanging on for dear life that it didn’t occur to me that we might be seen and reported to the Cops. Gawd knows that would have been strike three for all of us, but up we went throwing caution to the wind. But by the grace of God, somehow we all landed “safely” on the top platform, a million zillion miles from the ground, and you know something? The view was beautiful and we were on top of the world! Maybe this was a cool idea after all. We could see the canal!
