“Hey, Stick.” I got his attention. “If we’re gonna catch ’em, I gotta see what’s happening,” I said boldly, with a new sense of confidence that was heretofore unbeknownst to me. “You stay here. You’re too damn tall; they’ll see you a mile away. I’m gonna spy in that window.” A decision I would live to regret.
Without waiting for his wise-guy response (though I did catch a glimpse of two middle fingers going up), I bolted to my feet and nimbly scurried to the window.
The evening breeze swept through the cottage from one window to the other, carrying the curtain along with it. I had to push it out of my face a few times as I peeked over the window sill to see inside. I had a good view of the sparsely illuminated living room as Barkeep entered.
Meanwhile, Rick had repositioned himself for a better view of the street just in time to see our #1 suspect, Mr. Pinky, two houses away, being confronted by the perpetually gorgeous and currently enraged, Detroit’s own Ms. Rochelle Vargas. The chaotic scene was becoming more bizarre by the second! Was he trying to distract her from what was going on inside the cottage? Of course he was. I bet he set this whole thing up, and he couldn’t afford more witnesses!
I quickly turned my attention back to the cottage as Barkeep Ben’s voice boomed, “Frankie, where the hell are you? Get out here! Now! I’m fed up with this bullshit. That reporter broad knows too much. You said you’d pay me more? This is too risky, man. If you still want my silence, it’s gonna cost you ten G’s extra. Frankie! Where the hell are you?”
From out of the bedroom came a tall figure. It wasn’t Frankie.
“Frankie’s not home, dear. She said in a gruff voice, but I am.” With that the dame pulled a gun. A Gun! It looked like a derringer. But ole Barkeep moved fast, faster than I would have thought possible, and in one stunning motion grabbed a fireplace poker and slammed it over her head making an ugly sounding thump, reminiscent of a watermelon cracking open, her pistol flying in one direction while her wig (a WIG!) flew in the opposite direction, revealing a partially balding man underneath, slumping unconscious to the floor, blood oozing from his head and his gun laying harmlessly on the ground!
Ah shit, this isn’t good.
I turned to locate Rick who had the walkie-talkie, wanting him to call for backup, but he was nowhere in sight. Somehow, I was alone.
“Holy shit,” I mouthed.
Then, things got worse…much worse.
I didn’t see him coming, and without warning, Mr. Pinky barreled through the front door of his cottage. He stood nose to nose with Ben, threatening him. Completely ignoring the crossed-dressed man lying in the corner moaning. Ben fired off a salvo. “I know you hired her to kill me, Frankie. You shoulda just paid me. You cheap bastard. No one gets the drop on Ben. No one! Now you’re done for, asswhole!”
That’s when I saw Pinky try to draw a gun on the insane bartender. But the act proved futile. (Maybe because Pinky couldn’t get a good grip?) Ben reacted faster, (This guy was chock full of surprises.) brandishing a long steel butcher’s knife from his waistband and lunged at Pinky!
I flinched away. I couldn’t look. Didn’t look. But I heard the scream. Loud, hideous and awful. I’ll never forget it.
Then somehow I gained the nerve to peak in again… and was forever sorry I did.
Chapter 59
Avenger
It was surreal. An incomprehensible scene right out of a horror movie. There was blood. I’m not gonna lie. A lot of it. But it wasn’t squirting all around like in the movies. Instead, it was oozing down the big guy’s body and thoroughly soaking his clothes. Some of it started to collect in a growing pool around Mr. Pinky’s awkwardly placed feet. He just lay there not moving. Not at all. He was, I was pretty certain, D-E-A-D, as in dead, like for real, and Jeezus H. Cripes, I had practically witnessed it! A murder!! A real one!
All I could do was stare in disbelief at the limp body. A second dead body. I wanted to cry but was afraid to make a sound fearing I’d die for certain. But that didn’t stop tears from forming or my entire body from shaking, or my bladder from threatening to burst.
Barkeep Ben was moving fast and frantically. He was a crazed lunatic with a secret to keep, and I was the knower of that secret. The injured drag lady was just starting to sir in the corner. Ben paid him little attention. First he gathered some towels together like he was gonna clean up the blood or something, running in and out of the bathroom. Finally, he returned to the corpse and just stood over the guy, even chuckling as he conjured up his next move, the blood-stained butcher’s knife still clutched in his hand.
It was at that moment that everything went wrong. For me!
A mere nano-second before I was going to high-tail my ass the hell out of there, head straight to the authorities, then keep running and never be seen again, Rick the effing Stick, hiding out of view with the walkie-talkie, blew my cover!
“Jimmyrocket! You there? Mary Ellen says a car full of creeps from New York are in the back parking lot wanting to know the whereabouts of a certain ‘business associate’ they called ‘Frankie Dello Russo.’ Not too friendly about it either. Mary Ellen thinks they’re mobsters! JR…they’re heading our way!”
“RUNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
But he yelled it way too loud!
That’s when Barkeep’s eyes locked with mine. They looked like black marbles. Cold, devious,unforgiving and lifeless. He smiled widely, a droplet of drool slipping down his chin, and pointed the blood-dripping knife directly at me. At me, Mr. Dead Man Walking!
Rick quickly scattered away. But I froze. That’s right; Jimmyrocket, the Speedy Gonzales of Mashnee Island couldn’t move a freakin’ muscle. Not a single one. Zero. (Hi there, I’m still here waiting for you to kill me.) Until, the Barkeep shot out the door, screaming inaudible cusses, and lunged toward me wielding the murder weapon, now, with a terrified fifteen-year-old kid as its target!
Suddenly, a cold gust of wind slapped me smack in the face, curiously cold for a summer wind, too cold, but blowing cool nonetheless with enough force to snap me out of my fear-induced stupor and save my life.
I BOLTED!!
Man-oh-man did I run. It’s amazing what adrenaline can do. I had experienced it several times, a few times in particularly noteworthy situations, but never anything like this. I never felt the ground. Visions of Peter Pan danced in my head. I wasn’t running, I was flying, soaring, cascading, and no crazy-ass, murdering, low-life, scum-bag bartender was gonna catch me. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever! On my island? Who are you kidding? I was whipping in and out of backyards, every blade of grass, bit of gravel, and inch of blacktop familiar to my feet. I was moving like lightning, still hearing footsteps and afraid to look back. I was almost to The Club…almost to safety…almost to my crew,
I didn’t see the bike lying in the backyard. It shouldn’t have been there. I wished it wasn’t there. But it was there, and I went tumbling over it.
And face-planted into the ground! Momentarily stunned.
My head hurt. My ankle was cut. My knee was bleeding. I hadn’t even been caught and I was already a bloody mess. “Shit! Yo, Rick? Guys! Tommmmmmy!” “Somebody…HELP!” I gave a shout but to no avail. I took off the best I could but had given up precious ground. More frightening, I had lost track of Ben. It was momentarily quiet, too quiet. The hairs on my arm twitched as did the army of goosebumps accompanying them. I couldn’t hear a thing over my pounding heart and throbbing head and strained to listen for any sounds. I turned around the last cottage on Clipper, staying in the shadows while contemplating a mad dash of sorts to the shuffleboard courts, when I practically ran smack into him! This monster was like Bella Lugosi, and I was officially screwed.
“Got you!! You little pain-in-the-ass kid. Can’t mind your freakin’ business? Just like the rest of you little shits on this island. I hear ya talkin’ no good behind my back. Don’t think I’m stupid, little punk. This time you put your nose where it shouldn’t be. This mess all coulda been nice and quiet, just between us adults. But no, you and your clown friends came around to plot against me. Spy on me, will ya?” Ben had me by my hair. He stank some horrid mixture of BO and booze, looking crazed and enraged, as he towered over me.
“Goodbye, little squirt…”
I heard it first. But of course I would. Because I’ve heard it many times before. So I immediately knew what it was, if not exactly sure, who it was. The sound was unmistakably fast and loud and screaming and headed my way. Now all I had to do was buy time. Stall this lunatic just long enough to possibly have my life saved. Think of something, Jimmyrocket, fast, think!
“Listen, craphead.” I said with desperation. “I have pictures of you, you know. Pictures of doing it! Of killing him!! Polaroids, pal, right here in my pocket.” If I was going out, I was going out with a fight (a certified fifteen-year-old, wet-behind-the-ears turned tough guy)! Tommy would’ve been proud. The Jamoke hesitated doing whatever he was about to do and paused, looking curious as I faked reaching into my back pocket for photos, which didn’t exist.
“What the hell are you talking about, you stupid kid…?”
And that was all the time I needed.
Howling down the street at jarring decibels was a familiar motorcycle with its legendary, mysterious rider. A single headlight bore down on us. The motorcycle was army green. The rider wore a dark green helmet with a blacked-out face shield. Oh, and his entire body was painted in green camouflage. He was riding low and fast, hugging the handlebars as he cut through the mist, totally and completely naked!
