Or suspicion.
Except, of course, from us.
Hell yes, we planned to investigate.
There was something else I was worried about too, and told the guys. I had a weird suspicion somebody was messing with our hut. Not just messing with it, maybe even sleepy there a few times? I had found some un-accounted for gum wrappers lying about, a discarded bottle of Coke, a book of matches from a restaurant in New York City and some other vague signs of “life” in our hut, which I knew for certain didn’t come from us.
“Hey, guys, I think we have a big problem in The Hut,” I expressed my concern.
“What the hell are you even talking about, worry-wort?” countered The Stick. “I don’t see anything wrong with The Hut, other than you’re in it.” He jabbed.
“No, I’m serious guys! I think maybe someone’s been hanging out here at night after we leave, maybe even been sleeping here,” I continued, my voice cracking a bit from nerves.
“Hey, maybe it’s the guy missing his finger?” quipped Stevie.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” I agreed.
“Jesus eff-ing cripes, Jimmyrocket,” Patrick added his two cents to the conversation. “You’re always freaking out about something. Relax, nobody’s messing with The Hut, I’d know if they were. Nobody’s screwing with it. Your overactive imagination is just making stuff up, per the usual. Jeesh.”
And with that feedback, I kept all future opinions on the subject to myself, but never doubted that I was right. Somebody was messing with us.
Chapter 47
Help
We had a plan, and I needed my sister’s help. Well actually her friend’s.
Based on the fisherman’s information, I needed to have eyes and ears inside the bar area tonight, particularly observant eyes and ears.
My dad was out golfing with my uncle and his buddies over at the relatively new Paul Harney Golf Club in East Falmouth, and my mom was in the kitchen baking something that smelled good, when I motioned to Alison, perhaps a bit spastically, that I needed her outside.
Once we were out of Mom’s earshot, I hit her with a request.
“Hey, sis, gotta ask you for a humongous favor. Are you still friendly with Pete Jones’s brother, the one who plays guitar at the Boat ’n Bottle? I think it’s either Burt or Bruce, right?” I asked innocently enough.
“Yeah, sure, JR. It’s Burt. Absolutely love that guy, and did you ever hear him sing? Everybody thinks he’s really great! I swear he could legitimately make an album. Sounds a little like Bob Dylan. Why, baby bro?” (She always called me that.) “What’s up?”
“Can you find out if he’s gigging at Boat ’n Bottle tonight?” I said pleadingly. I need to arrange something with him. Something I’m willing to pay him for. It’s super important,” I concluded.
“Are you guys snooping around again? Stay put, I’ll be right back.” She ran inside for a minute then came out holding her little, pink phone book, and began leafing through it. “Ok. I’ve got his number. Let’s go use the pay phone at The Club and you can tell me what’s going on,” she replied, as any good, enabling sister would.
I filled her in and in turn she called Burt. His phone rang a bunch of times and just as I was reluctantly contemplating “Plan B” he picked it up. After some lighthearted banter, Alison f-i-n-a-l-l-y got to the point.
Was he working at The Club tonight?
No, why?
When was he working there next?
Tomorrow night. Why?
Could he add a show there tonight if he wanted? A late show.
Probably. Why?
Would he be interested in earning some extra money for doing so?
Umm, yeah, I guess. I mean, what for?
“My brother is involved in a, umm, project, and needs some help, yours in particular. Says he’ll pay you twenty bucks just for doing the gig, and another twenty for obtaining some necessary information while you’re there.”
“What is he bat-shit crazy! Pardon my French.”
Probably, yes.
Is he good for the money?
Definitely, yes.
If I do it will you come over and say hi?
Can’t promise. But probably, yes.
Ok, so what’s this about getting him information?
For that, I’ll have to put him on the phone to tell you.
Ok bye. Hope to see ya.
