Primed and raring to go, dressed in carefully selected dark garb, we waited until ten o’clock when the island was nice and dark, aided by a dank, thick mist creeping in from the ocean, to begin our clandestine operation. Everything about the night made for perfect cover, and it was Go Time!
We plotted our trail up to Mashnee Road from The Club and arrived undetected. (Not certain who would want to detect us, but still…) There were no cars in the driveway and only one dim light illuminating the house. No cars were out front either. It appeared no one was home, but we proceeded cautiously nonetheless.
We each found good places to hide around the periphery of the cottage. Close enough to see but far enough away as to not be seen. For Rick, that practically meant hiding behind a telephone pole when no shrub was tall enough, but whatever. My spot was alone on the side yard facing the kitchen, where a row of hydrangeas had been planted. I stayed quiet and low, happy with my position. Tommy and Eddie were similarly well hidden in the backyard.
We had been watching the cottage for about an hour, doggedly determined to wait until past midnight and risk curfew if necessary, when a black sedan pulled slowly into the driveway, making the signature shell-crunching sound as it did. The car then sat there with its lights off, idling, for the longest time. The guys and I waited with bated breath for something to happen, our minds racing with more crime scenarios than we could keep track of, when finally, something did.
The passenger’s door slowly opened, revealing a long, tall, muscular-looking lady who stepped out, looked around, then said something to the driver. She was a striking woman, wearing some kind of a weird cape thing, with long elbow-length gloves and knee-high boots. All black. Her walk was more of a militant march as she high-stepped it directly to the side door, hesitated a brief moment looking about, then opened the screen door and traipsed right in. Ah ha, The Candlestick Maker! As if on cue, the mysterious dark sedan pulled away with its headlights off—and slowly drove off.
****
Meanwhile, the Flaherty Boys and Mary Ellen were stuck with Stevie as their partner, as was Dereck, poor souls, while they scoped out The Club. Needless to say, the brothers were none too happy having Stevie on their crew, but this was no time to argue, despite their legitimate gripe. In an attempt to be useful, The Bird volunteered to keep track of The Club’s front staircase and adjacent parking lot for any unscrupulous comings and goings. While Ken, Patrick and Mary Ellen kept watch at the bar’s rear entrance from the back lot.
Mary Ellen was further tasked with keeping a written journal of any findings, and happy to do so armed with her cute pink ballpoint pen and handy-dandy notebook.
It was an hour or so into the mission when the guys called over the walkie talkies to report “a noticeable trend” which had started to emerge in the back of The Club, seen first by Mary Ellen, who then clued in Patrick and Ken. Both, responding with a collective “Ah ha” moment!
Apparently, Barkeep Ben kept coming out onto the rear staircase landing, looking around rather frenetically, becoming visibly upset and noticeably muttering to himself, then would re-enter the bar and come back out five or ten minutes later. It was probably nothing. But it seemed strange, even for him, but our cracker-jack team of experts was in the business of strange.
Accordingly, Mary Ellen made the appropriately detailed journal entry along with a copious notation filed under “additional remarks:”
Surveillance suspect certainly looks like a killer…
****
Just a short time later Mary Ellen radioed again with an important update, making another keen observation. “Guys, that New Yorker, Mr. Pinky, just pulled his green car into the back parking lot and he’s headed upstairs.”
“Holy moly, Barkeep Ben just appeared. It must have been Pinky he was waiting for!”
“Hold on ...now they’re arguing—loud. We can hear them. Oh my goodness, the Barcreep just grabbed Pinky’s arm and Pinky shoved him hard. What the heck…?! Hey, guys, maybe we should call the police or even The Lump on The Bump? This is getting serious, and I don’t want us to get in any trouble!”
“Cool your jets.” It was now Patrick on the walkie-talkie apparently grabbing it from Mary Ellen. “Pinky headed back to his car and he just turned and yelled something upstairs to Ben. I’m not sure what?”
Mary Ellen regained control of the walkie-talkie, sounding panicked; - “Guys, I heard him. He said, ‘Meet me at my cottage in twenty minutes or else!’ I’m sure of it. Oh, then Ben gave him the finger.” Holy Toledo!
The scene became even more bizarre when Ken spotted our favorite T.V. reporter, the lovely Miss Rochelle Vargas, partially concealed in the playground’s shadows, also watching the suspicious event unfold.
Patrick had the last say, “Ok, Barkeep, just walked back inside. Something big is happening here. We’re gonna keep watching the bar. Maybe a couple of you guys should come over here too? We could use the reinforcements.”
“Ok,” Rick whispered into the radio, “we’re sending over Eddie with the camera, and Tommy’s coming too. Rocket-boy and I will keep watching the cottage. Hang tight, posse’s on their way!”
****
Back at the cottage, all was quiet. Despite my protest, Rick, big head and all, decided to crawl to the cottage and take a peek. He looked in the bathroom window and caught a quick glimpse of Ms. Candlestick Maker taking a leak. He quickly crawled back to where I was hiding with a strange, contorted look on his face, even for him.
“Rocket boy…” Shhh, quiet Rick!... “She was standing up pissing.”
“Say what?”
“You’re not gonna believe this. Too-tall, The Candlestick, when I looked in, she was taking a wiz standing up. Like a guy! I shit you not! I didn’t see his dick or anything, but that chick’s a dude, dude! I’m not even making this crap up!”
“Ok, Dick Tracy, good work now get the hell back to your spot and stop talking!” Naturally, Stick gave me the middle finger. Actually a pair.
I continued our vigilant surveillance, waiting patiently in the mist and darkness for who knows what. Although all the action seemed to be back at The Club, I was convinced Mr. Pinky’s cottage was still the place to be. I could feel it in my gut. I had developed a keen sense for trouble, since we were in so much of it!
I can just hear it back at school. “So, Jimmyrocket, tell the class what did you this summer..?” Oy vey!
A few minutes later, a car I immediately recognized as Pinky’s green Pontiac, crawled slowly past the cottage with the aforementioned New Yorker visible at the wheel. He paused every so briefly in front of the cottage then continued past it, turning left onto Captains Row. What I couldn’t see was how far down the road his car traveled, or if he had, perhaps, pulled over and stopped? The Butcher.
“Hey, guys, you still there?” The walkie talkie quietly crackled. “Barcreep’s on the move… and you won’t believe this. I think that reporter is following him. Should we tail them?” Mary Ellen questioned, (smart enough to do so in a whisper).
“No, we’ve got that covered. You guys stay there in case something else happens. Keep watchin’ the bar. Tommy and Eddie are on their way down. Sure hope they don’t run into them and screw this thing up…” Rick took charge.
The radio crackled into silence.
Getting restless watching the cottage, I decided to venture around a bit. Careful not to blow my cover, but anxious to see if anything was going on around us. Despite the rather grand entrance of that tall hard-ass chick, there’d been nothing happening since. I was antsy. I mean, she could be in there sleeping for all I knew. I slowly worked my way through a few backyards and over a street, when I saw someone walking alone on the far end of Rope Walk. Sure as shooting, it was the creepazoid, Barkeep Ben!
There was no mistaking his hunched-over form with sloped shoulders, frizzled hair and uneven stride. Picture Frankenstein, minus the screws in his neck. Why did he leave the bar and what the hell was he doing walking the streets? I had many more questions than answers.
I remained quietly watching him when my eye caught another brief movement from farther down the street. I spied more closely, and through the thickening haze spotted a female’s silhouette, slowly creeping through the shadows. I’d recognize that knockout body anywhere, even in the dark. It was my all-time-favorite next door neighbor, Rochelle Vargas. What the heck was going on here?! My gawd. She was following him just like Mary Ellen said! Why?
I decided to hustle back to the cottage to tell Rick. They were headed our way!
Rick was still concealed when I got back. From the neighboring bushes, I tactfully creeped over to him on my stomach like a well-schooled Green Beret, and filled him in on the strange goings-on. He, like me, was floored!
We sat tight in our hiding spots for about another five minutes, when the one and only Barkeep Ben rounded the corner and headed for the cottage’s front door. He rapped on the screen door a few times, fidgeting nervously. From inside I heard a deep voice say, “Come on in, Ben.” Crazy thing, it sounded like a man’s voice, not the tall gal we saw go inside. Hey, Rick was right!
Barkeep went in.
