We had narrowed our search to three prime suspects, each of whom we would endeavor to observe, and came up with neat nicknames. Inside our circle of trust we referred to them as The Butcher, our potentially Pinky-less friend, The Baker, the perpetually overheated Barkeep Creep, and The Candlestick Maker, that long, tall, possible gun-for-hire killer chick. Together, they made for an eclectic who’s who of hardened criminals. Or at least probable assailants, and we wanted to know more.
As much as we would have loved to include “The Narc” on our highly coveted most wanted bad-guy list, perhaps even give him top billing, the little rat, we resisted the temptation to stalk him purely out of spite, and eliminated him from consideration. The lucky prick!
Tommy had argued, and a few of us hurried to agree, that if we were quiet and waited long enough, and didn’t screw up, somebody would see something, and that something would be big! Of course since we were teens, staying quiet and being able to stand still for two minutes were dually lacking from our collective repertoires, but what the hell; everyone was copacetic and agreed to take a shift. To that end we toasted with exuberant swigs of a deviously putrid mixture of warm Bali Hai and Boones Farm, courtesy of one Rick the Stick, in our version of a Neanderthal ritual. We even coaxed proverbial lightweights Mary Ellen and Dereck Shifter to join in the one-swig-for-good-luck movement, punctuated by a rousing L’Chaim, led by Mary Ellen and me: “To Life!”
When you’re a jet…
We organized assignments into three locations, The Bar, The Club, and The Cottage.
After way too much arguing—“Can you little girls sit still and shut the hell up!”—Tommy reigning in the troops, it was decided that Tommy, Rick, Eddie, and me would stakeout the cottage, Ken, Patrick, and Mary Ellen would spy on The Bar from the back parking lot, and Stevie and Dereck Shifter would scope out the front stairs of The Club for any suspicious comings or goings. Not everyone was happy with their station, Stevie belly aching the most, but who was gonna push back against Tommy’s directives?
Correct—Nobody.
We all knew our way around every backyard, shrub, tree, and cut-through on the island, and could do so blindfolded, so navigating the territory and remaining unseen should not be an issue. That was, if Stevie, being Stevie, or Eddie, being Eddie, didn’t somehow blow it. The key to tonight’s operation was “eyes wide open, mouths slammed shut!” That in of itself warranted a miracle.
And with one more stern warning from Tommy,
we were off to spy.
Heaven help us…
Chapter 57
Chutzpah
It’s time to tally what was going on here.
I mean we’re talking about a tiny, little, peaceable island. An island transformed by its rich and varied history, where native Native Americans and fierce wolves once reigned. An island with the longstanding theme “It’s Summer, It’s Mashnee, It’s a Blast!”
Point being, with the possible exceptions of The Coyle Brothers rumored to have rented a cottage when they were running from the law, and an associate of the notorious Raymond Patriarca doing the same, there were really no “bad guys” here. Yes, there were some guys that were bad, a few perpetually cranky neighbors, maybe a late-night fight or two at the bar, that sort of thing but no criminals or hardcore thug types kibitzing with the locals, at least that we knew of.
The biggest worries for your typical Mashneeite were limited to unfortunate run-ins with Pepe Le Pew or a batch of ill-placed poison ivy (I see you’ve been to Hog Island…), and that was about it. Ok, maybe you got a bad peach or plum from Pucker-Up because you bought them too late in the day, but that’s about it.
We were protected. We were isolated. We lived without danger. We were detached from the rest of the world. My goodness, we lived in a modern-day paradise! But, a perfect storm was brewing on our cozy island. You could taste it in the air and sense it in your bones.
And it was happening now, it was urgent, and it was on our watch:
A severed finger.
Murdered body.
New York thug.
Stolen boat.
Threats.
Arguments.
Bombshells.
Peeping Toms.
Craziness.
Survlience.
Suspects.
A lot to keep track of with more coming...
Did I mention this is where we need you?
No sense looking from side to side; I do mean you. Yes, that you. The one reading. The one who’s been to the island. To stay. To visit. To live. To work. To play. Perhaps many decades ago, but you remember, you recall. So, here’s your chance to help. We can’t do it all alone, after all, we’re just kids. Risk-taking, dare-deviling teens still rough around the edges and lacking a bit of common sense. I’ve tried to make that clear. It’s a lot of responsibility, having to solve these crimes and restore the very moral fiber of the island. Our island. We got ourselves in deep here. Too deep. I admit it. But you understand why?
So here’s the thing. You can help. Right Now. This very moment. Because tomorrow’s too late. Who knows, an hour’s time might be too late.
Although it’s rather simple, that in no way diminishes its enormous import. Trust me. Now, you’ll need to stop reading for a moment. There. Just close your eyes and remember the lively noises that you’ve missed and the signature scents that you’ve longed for. When every day was free and easy and fleeting and fun and so, so, precious. Take a trip back, to a good place, to a great place, to the best place you’ve ever been, to the best summer’s you’ve ever had. The most fun. The best of friends. Recall and relive. Reminisce and remember. It’s 1970. You were young and reckless and free,
Please come back.
We need you.
Chapter 58
Wait
It was Tommy, Rick, Crazy Ed, and me who chose to stake out Mr. Pinky’s cottage; after all, he was still our prime suspect and we were the de facto leaders of tonight’s covert operations (correction, Tommy was). Mary Ellen, always one step ahead of the rest, had the good foresight to bring her Polaroid Instamatic camera just in case we got lucky and saw something picture worthy, since the Bird’s camera had predictably run out of film. Somehow in our hurry, Eddie wound up in charge of it. Not the best idea; we’d be lucky if he didn’t spend the entire night snapping pictures of his testicles!
