The Hut, page 25
Eddie pointed out the flush, little door leading into the “utility” room. Fortunately, the door was unlocked (or maybe it always was?), so we all squeezed into its tight confines, along with his backpack of beer.
“Ahhh, this is the life. Ain’t it, boys?! Told ya it was cool” said Eddie, staking his claim to victory.
And for a long while, perhaps an hour or more, we sat up there drinking beers, telling dirty stories and having an absolute ball sitting on top of the world.
Everything was cool and copacetic, that was, until, it wasn’t…
It was a matter of light. Or in this case, complete lack thereof.
You see, our ascent into the heavens had been significantly aided by several powerful spotlights stationed around the tower’s base. At precisely ten p.m., according to Brian’s trustworthy Omega watch, the lights suddenly went out! I’m not talking about one or two of them; I’m saying every single one went black and we were left a zillion miles in the air, in a tiny room, a little bit buzzed, in total and complete darkness! Not good.
We were, to put it mildly, s-c-r-e-w-e-d!
“Ahhh, shit!” I think we all said it at the same time.
There was no way in hell to climb down in the pitch dark. Fall down, yes. Climb down, negative. Four underage teens, with beer, stuck on the top of a water tower, and potentially late for curfew, a fate ten-times worse than death. If there was ever a time for a cuss word, this was it.
“Ahhh, damn it!”
There you go…
We spent the next hour talking about a plan to get down. Most of the ideas were just plain stupid. What was funny at first quickly became menacing. As far as we could figure, our choices were three-fold: climb down now and risk death, stay overnight and scramble down at sunup (by which point my parents would most certainly have an A.P.B. out, really not an option), or try to find some way to draw attention, (prompting certain arrest and subsequent life sentence).
There was one thing for sure; THESE WERE NOT GOOD CHOICES!
Thoughts of being grounded for the rest of the summer were quite real. Maybe not for Eddie; he might not even be missed, but the rest of us for sure. Patrick’s dad was notoriously strict as hell, and not shy about using his belt. Bri’s dad was also tough, being from New Bedford honed those skills, and handed out punishments on the regular. And my folks? Mine?! You kiddin’ me? Forget it!
The choice was made by Big Patrick, taking up slack for the fortuitously absent Tommy. “Gentleman, say your prayers; we’re headed down!”
So, that’s what we did, leaving our booze behind. I literally worried about leaving fingerprints and wiped every bottle down with my t-shirt. Ok, perhaps I’d read too many Hardy Boy mysteries.
Slowly we step, inch by inch…
We moved like snails, blind snails, blind snails that wanted to live, Patrick leading the way. Even Crazy Eddie was cautious. He might have been crazy, but evidently, he, too, wanted to cling to life. I was the last man out, quickly calculating my odds of landing safely on the other three bodies ahead of me if we fell. The odds weren’t good. I grabbed the iron railings so tight my hands were bleeding and tried not to pass out...
Then, about a quarter of the way down, we were suddenly illuminated by a large spotlight and heard a commotion on the ground. Thoughts of prison inmates escaping Alcatraz crossed my mind. Somehow we’d been spotted. But by whom? Our immediate assumption: it’s da po-po. Good news, we could now see the ladder; bad, we were busted! Or so it appeared.
Then we heard loud and clear: “This is the Bourne Water District Security. You are illegally violating registered town property. Descend immediately in a safe and orderly fashion!” The somewhat familiar sounding voice emphasized ORDERLY rather than safe. We froze. In addition to The Voice, below we saw amber flashing lights. No police blue. Not a red fire engine or even an ambulance red. It was amber. I was confused. “I repeat, descend from that tower immediately, or face serious consequences including immediate arrest.”
“What the hell?! They’re gonna shoot us!!” Did I say that aloud? Yikes!
With plenty of hesitation but no real choice we reluctantly climbed down the ladder rung by uneasy rung, all the while illuminated by the mysterious light.
Until Patrick, the ballsy first man down reached the last rung and shouted back: “Fellas, you’re not gonna freakin’ believe this!”
Then, we all saw who he was pointing at and laughed.
There was a solo figure below us with a rather immense spotlight attached to his blue “cruiser” parked just behind. The cruiser’s amber lights were flashing. The figure itself was dressed in quasi-police garb, official-looking hat, stiff-collared shirt with short knee-length bellowed pants, and high, black leather boots. But some things were off. Not quite right. The uniform, the lights, the cruiser. I recognized the fake wannabe cop right away.
It was him. The Narc! From Mashnee!
“You boys are in a heap of trouble!” He asserted, talking like some southern hick. “This area is protected town property and you illegal trespassers are putting your lives in danger. Now, there’s gonna be hell to pay!” His voice was now raised. He continued. “Now get your butts down here real quick and gimme your names. You’re being reported. I’m paid good money to protect this property and protect it I shall!”
We were all down now. This is when Eddie lost his cool and had to be restrained by Patrick’s full might.
“You no-good, M-F-er, fake cop you. You Narc. I’m gonna rip your friggin’ head off…!” he shouted, “lemme at him!” Subtlety, not being one of Eddie’s strong points.
Things were quickly escalating and looking bleak for our fearsome foursome, real cops could be there at any second, when we unexpectedly caught a break.
“Hey you, skinny kid.” His comment was directed squarely at me.
I wanted to slug him.
“You’re Alison Rocket’s little brother, aren’t ya?”
“Why do you wanna know?” is about all I could muster.
He went on. “And you’re the kid that saved my cousin Lisa, Lisa Evans, when this no good juvenile delinquent (He pointed at the still-restrained Crazy Ed, Patrick now struggling mightily to contain him.) flipped his car on the dike a few years back, aren’t ya?” He continued.
“Well,” I responded nervously, “I didn’t really save anyone. I just ran for help; that’s all.”
“Heard you did more. Come over here and have a chat with me, little man,” said the spider to the fly… Then he more-than-awkwardly placed his arm around my shoulders (He smelled a distinct mix of foul body odor and Vitalis hair tonic.) as the weird, scrawny, pimple-faced, phony-baloney cop-wannabe led me away from the others, who were looking on ready to pounce, Eddie still screaming profanities in The Narc’s direction.
“Listen, kid,” he said like the fake cop he was, my temptation to call him a phony-baloney eating at my gut, “I’m gonna cut you a break. The others too, though they don’t deserve it,” he continued. “My cousin said you saved her leg and that’s good enough for me, despite all the trouble your sister and her druggie friends have caused. So, this is what I’m gonna do.” His hand now perched on his chin like some ancient philosopher. “I’m gonna give you and your derelict friends exactly two minutes to get the heck out of here and never come back again. You hear me loud and clear, little kid?” (I was now picturing my knuckles meeting his scrawny jaw bone, but held my tongue).
Then he turned and shouted at the others. “Gather your crap and get the heck out of here this very second, and I MEAN RIGHT NOW!!” screamed the little worm in his high, nasally voice. It seemed like a tossup whether we were gonna run or punch his lights out, but despite Eddie’s boisterous protests, better judgment won out and we skedaddled to his car.
And fast!
Obviously, we were lucky. Super lucky. Beyond lucky. It was well known that The Narc had “multiple connections” at the Bourne Police Department and lived solely to rat people out, either to the fuzz or Knight. Assuredly, that would have been our fate had we not caught a break. I could only imagine the trouble we’d have been in! On second thought, let’s not.
Thank the mighty stars we got away, but not all scot-free.
A few days later, in a retaliatory strike that epitomized the evil-minded doings of the Narc, he planted a sandwich bag full of pencil shavings and oregano in Eddie’s maintenance bag left by the pool, and phoned the cops reporting he found marijuana. Fortunately, the savvy Bourne Cops who came to The Club declared it phony baloney on the spot, and had a good laugh, which didn’t deter good ole Mr. Knight from suspending Eddie from work for a week and docking him pay. The rest of us were just glad we weren’t hit by the shrapnel!
This time.
Chapter 52
Hangman
They stole my boat.
I was sure of it.
My morning routine at Mashnee was totally predictable. I always began the day with my early morning run, unless of course I had been called to duty by the business of professional sleuthism.
On this particular morning I wanted to get out on my boat as early as possible. The seas were incredibly calm, which was going to make for a great day of guys, girls, (maybe) beer, food and water skiing. But first I had to clean the boat up and head over to Memorial Beach to refuel. I knew the tank was fairly low and my dad would be pissed if he wanted to use the boat and it wasn’t properly gassed up with at least three-quarters of a tank. Preferably full. We had a deal: I used his credit card to buy gas and the rest was my labor and responsibility. Plus, the boat had to be clean and shiny, spotless really, and ready for any kind of surprise inspection my dad might throw at me, especially on weekends.
Fine. Fair ’nuff.
So, I hustled down the narrow, sandy path leading from the ballfield and back parking lot to a portion of the beach where about nine or ten Mashnee families kept their dinghies, ours being one of them. Most of the small rowboats were smartly painted in an array of classic and colorful pastels, many with bottoms showing signs of rapid deterioration from the necessity of being dragged to the ocean’s edge at low tide, if you were alone with nobody to help lift, as was too often the case.
As I approached our dinghy, its placement struck me as off, and the gray painted oars were protruding slightly from underneath, something I never did. Then, when I flipped it over, having to give a bit of heave-ho, I knew for certain. Something was wrong. Quite wrong.
I noticed a set of deep drag marks leading from the dinghy through the granular sand leading toward the ocean. No question, the rowboat had clearly been moved. Dragged. Then I quickly spun my head toward the ocean, anxiously scanning for our mooring and the Can Of Worms Too, and was beyond relieved to see our skiff still tied up and bobbing slightly with the current.
Oh well, someone had just “borrowed” my dinghy to get to their boat. Pisses me off, but people were always lending and borrowing stuff at Mashnee, no big deal, just being neighborly and all that, but it was usually with permission.
Whatever, it was just a dinghy. Right? Sometimes people borrow them, no biggie.
Then I saw something much more alarming. Like a five-alarm alarm. I was fastidious when it came to tying my dad’s boat. I always ran two, thick, heavily braided marine lines through the mooring clip, securing one with a bowknot and the other a midshipman’s hitch—knots I learned to tie in the Coast Guard Auxiliary training course my dad made me take. Even from my vantage point on shore, I could see that one rope was missing. I couldn’t quite see which one, but one thing was definitely clear…
Somebody messed with my dad’s boat! Oh man.
I couldn’t row out fast enough. My head racing with thoughts of various and insidious punishments my father might dole out if anything happened to it!
And it got worse. Much worse. Upon arrival I instantly knew the boat had been breached. Cushions had been moved, lines used, the anchor untied and there were some gum wrappers, a discarded can of Coke, and a wet towel on the deck…. I was beside myself.
My eyes were frenzied as I searched for further evidence of infusion and piracy, noting a grease smear on one of the rear upholstered seats, and my other braided line, the one I use as a second to help secure to the mooring, lying carefully looped on the floor, and configured into some kind of a knot…
Shit!
Somebody really had breached our boat. Dammit! Thieves? Joy riders? J.D.s? Who would even do something like this? There was only one answer.
Memorial Beach kids!! It must have been.
This was payback. For certain.
Had to be! Probably those Jackson brothers and their band of summer instigators! Those cross harbor bastards… It figured… Then, just as I was set to round up the guys to mount an all-out assault on all things Memorial, I looked down and noticed something strange and particularly unnerving about the knotted rope lying on the carpeted deck,
At the end of it, there was a noose.
Complete with a hangman’s knot.
I instantly froze in place, startled. Are you kidding me?! Would the kids at Memorial Beach really do this? Take my dad’s boat? And leave a noose? Is this a bad joke? A threat? Whatever it was, it was damn serious!
Then I noticed, crumpled up in the center of the noose was some kind of a note scribbled in thick black ink on the back of, my father’s boat registration of all things, and it read:
NOT SO FUN
WHEN IT’S YOUR BOAT
IS IT LITTLE PUNK
RUNNER BOY!!!
Holy mmmmoly!
Not for the first time that summer did my stomach flip over, filled with butterflies, my head pounding to an all-too-familiar theme.
What the eff have you got yourself into this time, Jimmyrocket?!
The answer was trouble.
And no way could I tell anyone, especially my dad, if, that is, I ever wanted to drive my boat again…!
This was one retaliatory punch I’d have to take like a man.
Chapter 53
Suspicious
The next night we called another meeting at The Hut.
Not that these meetings were all business by any stretch. We loved hanging out at The Hut, especially with girls and beer in attendance. By now, Christine was a permanent figure on my arm, and her best friend Sally, was never far behind. Tommy’s gorgeous girlfriend, Tina, from back home (I told you she was miss teenage massachusetts, right?) was making regular weekend appearances, sometimes bringing a friend, and the rest of the guys were constantly flirting with everything female that moved, especially hitting on any newbie renters.
Man, the awkward pickup lines that were used on these poor girls, the most popular of which had to do with showing them the “special and little known features of the island.” Guy code for a make-out walk to the beach, or the dock, or the ball field, or better yet, The Hut!
But, tonight we needed to sort stuff out.
Big. Important. Stuff.
The evening was dank and drizzly with a touch of coolness in the air; an unwelcome precursor that summer was fading, although the night’s gloominess did seem a fitting backdrop to our rather serious mood. The beach was damp enough so that footprints were left in the sand, mostly bare, a few with sneaker tread designs. Long hair was wet. The girls’ hair was wet and frizzy.
In fact, there were so many in attendance we couldn’t squeeze everyone inside, even with the girls snuggled up, so a few hearty souls sprawled across the sand and seagrass, getting soaked, and not caring. At this impromptu meeting, there were major decisions to be made and serious risks to be calculated.
First, everyone had to be sworn to secrecy. Or re-sworn, if that’s even a word. Tommy made sure of that and we were eager to do so. “Listen up, ladies and gents. Ok. Here’s where we’re at. We’ve got more information on what’s going down on this island with the murder and finger, but we can’t have any of ya’s blabbing about it to another living soul. Everyone got that straight? If we’re gonna solve it we gotta keep our ears open and our traps shut. Meaning everyone. Got it (Tommy devil-eyeballing each one of us into submission)?”
“Well, gang, looks like we’ve got ourselves a prime suspect.”
“Wait,” chimed in Rick, “you mean someone from the bar last night?”
“Sure as shit,” Tommy continued. “Tell ’em about it, Rocket.”
“Yeah, so Burt Jones came through for us,” I started. “There was a meeting and it looks like our boy from New York wearing that golf glove and maybe minus a right pinkie finger, is looking for some sorta payback. Maybe even hired this real tall, tough chick to take somebody out! For real, man! We just don’t know who.”
“Then we gotta stake that shit out. Right, guys?” Ken and Patrick shouted at almost the exact same time.
“Coke’s on you, little brother (who nonetheless towered over him)!” said Ken, the eldest. “Whatda you guys think?” His eyes scanned around for confirmation.
“Hey guys—” Of course Mary Ellen needed to insert her “responsible” two cents “—you know that’s something we’ve been warned against and now with the cops on the bump and everything we could really get in big trouble. Shouldn’t we just turn everything over to the authorities at this point if we know something…or even our parents or someone?”
“Nooooooooooooooo!” The poor girl was unmercifully booed.
Well, that settled that.
“Now, guys. Here’s the plan…”
Everyone leaned in and huddled together as Tommy got down on one knee in the wet sand holding a pointed stick and drew a diagram… “Here’s the Club, here’s the back parking lot, and here’s our boy Mr. Pinky’s cottage…”
Chapter 54
Life
