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.
