A couple of the guys were out there shark-fishing when Tommy walked out, a Coke in his hand. He lay down on a fishy-smelling bench and watched. One of the guys hooked into a two-footer, a small one. Tommy leaned over the railing and watched, finished his Coke, tossed the cup into the sea, and offered comments as the shark ran and pulled the drag on the reel. It was a lazy, fine night and the talk, after the shark had been pulled up, stabbed repeatedly, thrown back, was idle.
Couples, mostly island guys and summer girls, would walk out, say hi, stand around watching the lack of action, and then walk away. Guys began to drift out as the evening progressed. They’d made the rounds, failed to make a pick-up or weren’t interested, and the little group at the end of the pier gradually grew until there were eight boys ranging in age from Tommy’s thirteen to about eighteen. One of them started bragging about a summer girl he’d just been out with. According to the way he told it he was the world’s best lover and the girl had practically raped him. Tommy snorted. After three trips up to the point, he felt that he was a man of experience.
Once started, the talk, naturally, stayed on the subject of girls and, in particular, what girls carried in their pants and how best to get to it. Everyone, Tommy discovered, was an authority. One guy of about sixteen was telling how, once he’d done it, this summer girl played with his cock until it got hard again. Tommy said, “There’s a better way.”
They laughed. Being the youngest, Tommy came in for a lot of kidding. “What do you know about it?” the last bragger asked.
“If she really wants to get it up fast,” Tommy said, “she gives you a blow job.”
There was laughter and general comment, the gist of which was that Tommy would go like a skyrocket if a girl even looked at his cock.
About that time Cowboy Gore came ambling out. Cowboy was an old guy, but he was nutty. His hair was gray and long and he smoked all the time, so that his fingers were always brown with nicotine stains. He smelled like he hadn’t had a bath in a year or so. Cowboy was always hanging around. He had a trust fund set up and some lawyer in town doled out a few bucks a month to keep Cowboy in cigarettes and pay his meal ticket at the little restaurant on the old boat basin. Cowboy had just enough sense to know that he could afford just about one six-pack of beer a week if he wanted to keep himself in smokes. He spent a lot of time walking the roads to the beach, picking up bottles and cashing them in for the two-cent deposit. He’d save his pennies until he had enough for a six-pack, and then the six-pack would make him roaring drunk. He always wore a pair of boots and a hat, and that’s why they called him Cowboy. He was sort of a town clown, and the younger boys found him useful sometimes, for the merchants all knew him and would sell him beer. He’d go in and buy a six-pack for you if you gave him one. He was always hanging around and they didn’t mind, because he just listened, most of the time. His mind was so weak that he couldn’t follow most of the talk. He leaned on the railing and smoked, drawing on the cigarette with wide, Hollywoodish gestures.
“You ever had a blow job?” Tommy asked the loudest laugher.
“One thing for sure, you haven’t,” the older boy said.
“Wanta bet?” His very smugness made him sound truthful. For once, they listened. And he, being front stage center for once, told them all of it. He told it so convincingly that there was silence until he was finished and then some quiet laughter. The laughter was subdued, because Tommy had told it so well there was a sticky, musky feeling in the air.
“You’ve been reading dirty books,” said one of the older boys. There was, however, no conviction in his voice. There’d been a ring of truth in Tommy’s story.
“He’s right,” Cowboy said. It was so rare for Cowboy to talk that they all looked at him. “He’s right.”
“You tell ’em, stud,” someone said, trying for a laugh.
“You just go up and you whistle,” Cowboy said.
There was a chorus of catcalls and laughter. Cowboy looked disturbed. He worked his lips, trying to find words.
“Boy, if she’d take on old Cowboy I don’t want any of that,” someone said.
“She’s—pretty,” Cowboy said.
“Shut up, Cowboy,” Tommy said, his stature fading faster than it had been built.
“And she likes—” He couldn’t find the word. He made a circle of his fingers and punched his forefinger into it, grinning at them.
“He’s gonna beat your time,” someone called out to Tommy.
“You’re lying, you dumb bastard,” Tommy yelled at Cowboy. “You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”
“Girl—up there,” Cowboy said, pointing toward the north end of the island, the point. “Very pretty.” He punched his finger into the ring of his thumb and forefinger and smirked. “Big house. You whistle.”
“Now wait a minute,” one of the older guys said. “Are you saying you’ve screwed this broad, Cowboy?”
“Long time,” Cowboy said. “Long time.”
“When, you bastard?” Tommy said, standing in front of Cowboy and looking up into his wizened face. “This week? Last week? Last month?”
“Long, long time,” Cowboy said, wrinkling his forehead in thought and making theatrical gestures with his cigarette.
“This year?” Tommy asked.
“Long time.”
“Has it been winter since you screwed her?” Tommy asked. “Was it this summer or has it been cold since you screwed her?”
“Cold, lots of times,” Cowboy said.
“This girl has only lived there since the winter,” Tommy said.
“Looks like you and Cowboy both got great imaginations,” someone said.
“Look, damnit, I’ll prove it to you. She’s been asking us to bring a friend. One of you bastards think you’re man enough to take on a real woman, you can come along.”
“Whoooo,” they yelled. Tommy tried to yell them down, but he was outnumbered and then the conversation failed as another shark snared itself on one of the rigs and Tommy went off alone, still smug in his knowledge that there was a girl up there and thinking that he was going up there on Monday and a little pissed-off because no one would believe him.
Mack Allen followed him into the pier house and sat beside him on a stool at the counter. Tommy had another Coke. Mack said, after a long time, “You’re not lying?”
“Up you,” Tommy said angrily. Mack sat silently for a long time.
“Want me to go with you?”
Tommy snorted. “I ain’t begging. Me and Don can handle it.”
“How about I go with you next time?”
“Suit yourself,” Tommy said. “I’m going Monday morning.”
“Yeah, O.K.,” Mack said. “I’ll come on over to your house early. O.K.?”
“Suit yourself,” Tommy said, wondering what Don was going to say.
For a few days the guard on the Pine Tree cut was alert. He walked around in his uniform, his gun at his side, and watched the big Cats tear into the trees with roaring efficiency. After a few days, however, it became apparent to the guard that those other guys had just taken off. Construction workers were like that. There was a big operation getting underway down in South America and he wouldn’t have been surprised to know that at least a couple of the four missing guys had just decided to go south. There certainly was no threat apparent on the island. The woods looked sort of thick, but they contained nothing more than a few foxes and a coon, maybe. There were no houses around, not within a half mile to the north and about the same on the south, with a new golf course coming right up to the edge of the cut on the south side. About the only danger the guard could see was the danger of being hit in the head with a stray golf ball if you went over on the south side of the cut near one of the few places where you could see through to the course. So after a while he found himself a shady spot where he could sit and watch both Cats working, unless one of them went around on the other side of the diminishing bunch of trees in the cut. He didn’t see it happen.