Tommy pulled his knife.
Suddenly, as if by divine intervention itself, there was a ruckus in the crowd, and I caught out of the corner of my eye a scraggly contortion of gray and silver and wire and sharp elbows and knock-knees and yellowed teeth and overgrown fingertips curling at their ends, all accompanied by a blood-curdling scream of unrepeatable expletives, spewing hot rancid smoke-infested air in every direction, and before anyone could process what the hell was going on, Betty O’Connor, THE Betty O’Connor, came flying out of the crowd, launching herself into midair like a world wrestling champion coming off the ropes, and landed a stunning cross-body block, smacking Tommy to the ground along with his switchblade knife, which she summarily scooped up and in one fluid motion, the likes of which even a SWAT team would envy, buried it deep into the Mashnee sand.
The crowd was stunned.
But good ole perpetually crabby Betty wasn’t our only savior that day, as she was instantly joined by a rugged bulldozer of a woman, adorned with sharp barrettes and thick extremities, whose eardrum-shattering battle cry was every bit as terrifying as that of her mother. Screaming like a banshee, Marylou Riley joined the fray and promptly cold-cocked the crowbar-wielding Memorial Beacher to the ground. Knocking him out. Cold.
It momentarily looked as though the day had been saved and peace would be restored to our quaint little island, until Crazy Eddie O’Connor, the third act of his family trio, charged through through the dense mob and sucker-punched the elder Jackson Brother smack in the jaw, starting a full-out brawl the likes of which you’ve (presumably) never seen!
I mean, everyone was fighting. Ronny Parker had some poor kid in a headlock and was pummeling him to pieces, Rick the Stick was sticking a flying elbow into little Jackson’s kisser; Howie Kauffman, the tallest kid in the fight, was throwing haymakers left and right and skillfully ducking the counterpunches.
Big Patrick Flaherty was holding court and taking prisoners as he dragged several would-be assailants off his brother’s back, all four Shifter brothers (and despite having been told not to, the three younger ones had shown up anyway) were squared off against opponents, each of them trading fierce blows.
Adrian Best was carefully selecting his opponents so as not to get his perfectly handsome face messed up, the Flaherty’s cousin Owen was rolling on the sand pulling down bad guys by their ankles and throwing wallops along with his boat shoes at the enemy, even peace-love-dove, Stoner, was duking it out, albeit with a joint in his mouth, while the Billing Brothers were body slamming just about everyone in sight.
Even the girls, led by the normally sweet and mild-mannered Mary Ellen Kramer, were throwing fists, and I swear I saw Christine and Sally biting and scratching kids from their own side of the harbor, while my sister and cousins were shoving huge wads of freshly chewed bubble gum into our unwelcome visitor’s hair. And of course, poor Stevie Bird was once again getting the shit kicked out of him, as he crawled around the sand looking for his crushed glasses.
There literally wasn’t a single kid not fighting, even when an entire brigade of Bourne police cars damn near flew down the causeway with lights-a-flashing and sirens blaring. Apparently, Betty had called them.
Then I got “The Look” from Tommy. You know, that look we had talked about and planned for. I gave him a quick nod back (as he was kicking the crap out of some poor schmuck), and immediately put my two-part mission into action.
Part one was actually fun and long overdue. I sought-out that scrawny kid who had tripped me four years ago at my very first Mashnee Road Race, the race I should have won, and did precisely what Tommy had instructed me, I knocked him the fuck out! That’s right out like a light, me, the peace-loving skinny runner kid! Granted he didn’t see me or my punch coming, but that didn’t take one iota away from the satisfaction of payback! Hey, who knew I even had a punch??
Part two was significantly more dangerous.
I immediately hauled ass, kicking up sand and zig-zagging past kids at top speed toward the Mashnee dock where all their precious little boats were tied up, one to another and thankfully, left unguarded. I blazed a path across the seagrass and down the dock’s hot concrete runway, my feet immune, but my eyes not daring to look back. It is said that fear is mankind’s greatest motivator, and let me tell you, man, was I motivated! By this time cop cars were skidding into the parking lot one after another, with their tires squealing and backsides doing rooster tails, but I didn’t care, this was tough-guy’s summer, and right then and there, I was a tough guy.
A real one.
As good as I was at tying a fairly impressive array of nautical knots, a skill I had learned at the Coast Guard Auxiliary Course, I was even better at untying them, and that’s exactly what I did! As fast as I could, boat after boat, knot after knot, giving each a little shove, and letting them drift unceremoniously into the Harbor, subject to the whims and wishes of its late-afternoon’s current. I probably untied four of them before being noticed, and when they did notice, an entire beach full of raging humanity came charging toward me, leaving me with no place to run, and most certainly, nowhere to hide.
Undeterred by the pursuing mob, or even the police who were now shouting obscure commands over multiple bullhorns, I untied several more even faster. The Memorial Beach Get-a-Lifers were now faced with a serious conundrum: keep fighting, face the police, or get to their friggin’ boats, six of them now adrift. They chose their boats, which left me with a problem I hadn’t anticipated nor planned for. How the hell am I getting off this dock alive? All the foot speed in the world couldn’t help me out of this mess as three tough-looking older kids crested over the down ramp to the dock and charged toward me, with the rage of fire in their eyes.
I was closer to a certain pummeling I had never been. Then, I heard the distinct clamor of multiple persons sprinting down the dock’s runway toward us, and although it wasn’t exactly the cavalry I had hoped, it sure felt like one to me, when I glimpsed my childhood idol, Tony Dupré and his boys hauling ass to save mine.
“Geeeeeeeeeeeet outttttaaa hereee, Jimmyrocket!” is all I heard.
There was only one way out, and I took it, jumping into their last remaining skiff, which happened to be a pretty basic Boston Whaler. And as vigorously as I could, I shoved off and used seat cushions as oars, leaving Tony to deal with the mess I’d created with those Memorial Beach kids who had, by now, lost their flipping minds!
When I was far enough away for safety, I abandoned ship and swam like my life depended on it back to shore, far enough down the beach to take momentary refuge in The Hut. Victory was mine!
By then everyone was shouting and scattering, either running from the cops or trying to recover their drifting boats and fortunately the melee quickly ended, albeit with plenty of bumps and bruises but no serious injuries. I’d had my hand on my sharpened belt buckle more than a few times, and I suspect others were taking solace in the fact that they’d had their weapons at hand as well. The very same weapons I thought were such a joke only a few hours ago, for a fight I never believed would happen.
Amazingly (my goodness, how the world has changed!) nobody was charged, nor arrested. No citations issued for assault, or disorderly conduct, or underage drinking. There were no concealed weapons charges, or larceny (Surely somebody must have stolen something?), no arrests for inciting a riot, no nuthin.
Naturally we did receive a “very stern talking to” by several of the men in blue, some of whose voices were quite heated as they lectured us. On the other hand, several of their comrades seemed to have enjoyed the show. After all, it’s not every day you’re called to break up a fifty-person brawl.
But, despite the Memorial Beachers’ continued threats to “return every freaking day for the rest of the summer to finish kicking the ever-loving crap out of you” (Hey, dude, which fight were you watching anyways?), there would be no more brawling that summer, nor any summer after. Although I can assure you, the collective chip on our shoulders remained fully intact until we were responsible fully grown men. Ok, in truth, make that never.
And on the plus side, my stock with Christine went up about ten-thousand percent. So much so, that she had a very special surprise for me later that evening as we necked, and more, on Hog Island! Somebody was no longer a virgin! Wow.
Now that’s a tough-guy summer!
Chapter 39
Search
Word spread quickly that the police lab had confirmed the finger was, in fact, a real human “right, fifth digit of a caucasian male, as confirmed by the Cape Cod Crime Lab,” causing the police investigation to intensify, as well as our own. We of course came up with another plan of action formulated while sampling a Cuban Cigar Patrick had scoffed, choking our lungs out from the smoke.
“It’s simple,” suggested The Sticketh Man, “we look in every single renter’s window on the island, until we eliminate each house of suspicion. Good bet it’s not a homeowner. But their’s too if we need,” sounding unusually serious.
“Hey, fellas,” interjected Mary Ellen, “I have a friend who works in the emergency room over at The Bourne County Hospital. I could have her check on any recent major finger injuries in the emergency room? But I don’t want anyone to get in trouble.”
“Good detective work,” bellowed somebody who wasn’t me.
Then another brilliant thought emerged, this one from smart Stevie Bird, made while adjusting his screw-ball glasses while engulfing his mom’s used cigarette.
“Listen, anyone with a cut-off finger is bleeding like hell, so they’d need tons of medical gauze and tape, right? “
“And maybe pills and shit too.” My brilliant interjection.
“Ok, let’s follow up on these leads and any suspects we have,” The Stick added white tipping the rim of his funky hat.
“No friggin’ way the cops figure this thing out before we do. Right!” Tommy demanded.
“RIGHT!!”
Ok, so maybe it wasn’t the most comprehensive plan in the world, but it was a start. So we sneaked around the island peeping into everything. As nonchalant as the situation allowed for, of course, so as not to draw attention. I naturally opted in for the most risky “peeping” assignment, given my vast and successful experience as a door knocker and roof stomper, and, de-facto fastest kid on the island.
