Mossy Creek Part 14

In short order-that's less than a half hour in dart time-the Mossy Creek team was eliminated, and the Grahams had been crowned the champions. My brand-new Mossy Creek Labor Day Dart Compet.i.tion trophy would go to Bigelow to be displayed in the window of Dan's Uncle Shorty's Ford Dealers.h.i.+p. To add insult to injury, anyone in Mossy Creek who needed a new or used pickup truck would have to go to Shorty's for it and walk past the well-polished symbol of their shame. That or make the trip all the way to Atlanta.

In the break between games as wagers were being paid and another round of drinks were being ordered, I was forced to get back to work.

Now that the team compet.i.tion had been decided, everyone's attention focused on the highlight of the evening: the individual event between Randy 'Punch' McPherson, who worked over at the Mossy Creek furniture factory, and William 'Tell' Chesney, a bank teller from the Bigelow National Bank.

As you might surmise from the nicknames, these men were serious darters, the real deal, although I believe Punch had acquired his name by virtue of the job he did at the factory rather than his darting expertise. He did have the size to do some damage as a pugilist, but he seemed to be the peaceful sort. That aside, facing anyone with the moniker "Tell" would be a challenge.

Both men had brought a table full of people for support, including their wives and, in Punch's case, his mother Miss Alameda McPherson. A regular at O'Day's, a dedicated scotch drinker, and a sports fanatic, Miss Alameda would cheer on two ants in a race for the sugar bowl if no other compet.i.tions were available. All in all, it was a rowdy crowd and getting rowdier with every downed beer and shot. I noticed police officer Mutt Bottoms at a table in the back of the room and felt a little easier about my furniture not getting smashed to smithereens if a dispute arose.

When the time came for John D. to introduce the compet.i.tors he had to shout to get everyone's attention. Last minute bets were being hurriedly placed as he spoke: "From Bigelow, we have last year's All-County champion William Chesney."

Someone from the Bigelow side yelled out, "That's Tell Chesney!"

John D. held up a hand in apology, "Like I said, William 'Tell' Chesney."

"And from Mossy Creek, our hometown favorite," he paused for effect, "Punch McPherson!"

Boos and hisses sounded from the Bigelow side of the room, and a few of the heavier drinkers banged their pint gla.s.ses on the tables like a bunch of drunken Vikings at a woolly mammoth feast. Miss Alameda shouted something over the din that sounded like, "Oh, can it!" But, I couldn't be sure.

That's when Tell began to unpack his darts.

The room fell silent. This time I could hear Miss Alameda's cry as loud as a banshee's wail.

"Those are Hammerheads!"

"They're made of t.i.tanium, too," Tell informed her and the onlookers in a smug tone.

Later, I would learn that he'd been sponsored by the Bigelow Women's Club, who'd put on three spaghetti dinners and two bake sales to buy him those darts.

"That's cheating!" Miss Alameda declared. "Those darts have retractable points!"

Half the Mossy Creek side vocally agreed with her.

John D. was given the unenviable task of delivering bad news. "We have no rule in place to disqualify any type of legal dart."

"Those aren't legal! They're t.i.tanium, for cripe's sake!" Miss Alameda hated to see her son at a disadvantage, especially when she had fifty dollars wagered on the outcome.

The rest of the Mossy Creekites agreed with her.

"There's nothing I can do about it," John D. confessed, although I could see by the expression on his face that next year the Bigelow darters would be facing Mossy Creek t.i.tanium if he had to buy the set himself.

Miss Alameda stood to her full height of four foot nothing and faced Tell. "Well, you had just better keep your toes behind that line. I'm gonna be watching you. We don't like cheaters here in Mossy Creek."

Whether it was sarcasm or belated good manners, Tell simply replied, "Yes ma'am."

After a few more huffing breaths and an evil eye that would make most men shuffle their feet in a hurry to leave, Miss Alameda settled back into her seat. Then she dug in her purse until she found her gla.s.ses and put them on.

The coin toss went in Punch's favor, but Miss Alameda still demanded to see the coin herself, with her bifocals. Regina, the c.o.c.ktail waitress, hurried over to deliver a new round of drinks to Miss Alameda's table in hopes of lowering the old lady's blood pressure and blunting her killer instinct.

The first round was even. Both men hit three twenties. The room, held to an uneasy murmur during the actual throwing, erupted into cheers and shouts of certain victory. The Mossy Creekites composed a cheer of, "t.i.tanium or not, Punch is hot!" and repeated it until John D. called for quiet.

Punch, smiling at his friends in the audience, picked up a new, full pint to salute them before taking a long pull. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand to the cheers of his compatriots, but then he frowned. He raised the gla.s.s and looked at it.

"There's something wrong with this beer," he said in a room suddenly silent enough to hear the foam rise to the top of a stout.

Now, those are simple words. Words that wouldn't alarm anyone-except a bartender. I suddenly felt the ulcer I'd had five years before begin to warm up. I watched with a sinking feeling as Miss Alameda demanded to taste her son's brew.

After one gulp, she turned her beady eyes toward the bar. "There's b.l.o.o.d.y Irish whiskey in this," she proclaimed, and I had no reason to doubt her. After all, she'd been a regular at O'Day's long enough to prove she knew her way around a bar and the many spirits therein. "What are you tryin' to do? Spike my boy's beer to get him drunk?"

When a person's life is in danger, a strange phenomenon happens in the mind. Time slows, possibilities waver, and most of all, you realize what you're going to miss in life. Right then, I missed the solid ash, major-league baseball bat I used to keep under the bar I ran in Chicago. I'd given it to the new owner when I left, thinking I was escaping the need to use it by moving to a calmer, more civilized place. Watching the growing amazement and anger on the faces of the crowd filling my pub that night, I knew I'd made a fatal error in leaving the bat behind.

"Let me taste it," I demanded, holding out my hand for the mug. There was always the slim possibility that Punch's sainted mother was wrong. Beyond that, I needed time to think.

Miss Alameda marched over and shoved the gla.s.s at me across the bar. I tasted it.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she was right.

"Now, wait a minute," I said. "I had nothing to do with any spiking of drinks."

Miss Alameda just crossed her arms and scowled at me. A Mossy Creek fan sitting at the bar was a little more descriptive. "How about you step outside with me for a little dance in the parking lot," he said, pus.h.i.+ng off his stool and bracing both hands on the bar.

"Hold it!" Regina shouted. "Michael didn't pour those drinks-" She pointed her finger at my temporary bar help, Buddy. "He did."

That was the instant I decided to give Regina a job for life. The crowd turned as one toward Buddy. He cringed back into the corner near the dish sink, hoping, I suppose, that no one would breach the sanct.i.ty of the bar itself.

Everyone seemed to freeze, except for Mutt Bottoms. I saw him slide from his seat and go to the pay phone on the wall. I prayed he was calling for help because right then, it looked pretty bleak for Buddy. And for my stock of expensive cognac he was splayed against.

"Give him over, Michael," one of the men at the bar said.

"Now, gentlemen," I put on my best blarney smile. "He's new. Tonight's his first night. Surely, he made a mistake, but-"

"They paid me to do it!" Buddy shouted, pointing directly at Mr. Tell 't.i.tanium.' "He said they always did it that way in Bigelow."

The leprechaun was out of the bag, so to speak. Before I could remember any vocabulary that might stop a lynching, three men shoved up the bar hatch and dragged Buddy out into the room. I looked at Mutt. He looked back at me. Then, he tried to block the troublemakers, but they dodged him. The best weapon I could find behind the bar was an industrial sized flashlight, so I picked it up. I made the sign of the cross, silently muttering an old Irish prayer, May you be in heaven before the Devil knows you're dead, and vaulted the bar to meet Mutt on the other side.

"What should we do with him?" One of the men asked the angry crowd.

Miss Alameda pushed her way to the front of the onlookers. "In the old days we woulda' tarred and feathered any cheatin' varmint from Bigelow!" she shouted, shaking a bony finger at a wide-eyed Buddy.

"Yeah! Let's take him over to Mossy Creek Paving And Grading. They've got tar!" someone in the crowd yelled.

"Now, Miss Alameda," Mutt said in a softer, slower tone, probably aimed at buying some time until reinforcements arrived. "Chief Royden wouldn't go for no tarrin'."

Miss Alameda seemed to consider that hitch before walking back to her table and picking up one of the dozen or so darts that belonged to her son. She returned to the center of the fray and held up the dart.

"How about just featherin'," she said with an evil smile. She ran one finger along the feathered shaft, and the three men holding Buddy tightened their grip.

"I say we finish the compet.i.tion, but instead of hangin' the target on the wall, we hang it 'round this varmint's neck."

The crowd erupted into hooting and arguing. Depending on which side of the room, some thought it only fair; the rest were dead against it.

The men holding Buddy began pus.h.i.+ng him towards the wall which held the target. "Somebody get some duct tape," one of them ordered.

Mutt had to raise his voice to be heard. "I can't let you do this!"

The men stopped.

One of them, Jerry I think his name was, faced Mutt and gave him a choice. "It's either this or we take him outside and make him sorry he ever stepped over the Mossy Creek line."

Mutt considered the options for a moment. He also glanced at his watch. In the interim, someone slapped a roll of duct tape into Jerry's hand. Finally Mutt nodded, not permission so much as recognition that something had to be done. Being taped up would cause less damage and take longer than a trip outside.

Jerry and his a.s.sistants pushed a terrified Buddy up against the wall, took down the target and placed it in the temporary bartender's hands.

Miss Alameda sauntered up to Buddy and pursed her lips. "I think we need to turn him around. I won't be responsible for puttin' out an eye, even in a Big-e-load cheater."

Buddy looked somewhat relieved and turned on his own. But when the duct tape wouldn't stick to his s.h.i.+rt properly, a new tragedy befell him.

"Take off your s.h.i.+rt," Jerry ordered.

Buddy didn't move right away, but when Jerry reached for the b.u.t.tons himself, Buddy complied.

That's when a female voice somewhere in the crowd shouted, "Make him take off his pants, too!"

Over the roar of male laughter, Jerry ordered Buddy to comply.

Now it just isn't right to strip a man of his pride that way. Even though I had my own grudge rights, seeing that Buddy almost got me beaten to a pulp in my own pub, I still didn't think the punishment fit the crime.

"Don't do it, Buddy," I said.

All the men closest to the action turned at my words. I tightened my grip on the flashlight in my hand.

"It isn't right," I added.

Jerry and his friends took a few seconds to size me up. I'm not a giant by any means, but I'm big enough to inflict some damage in a fight. And, with four brothers, I'd had plenty of practice. I faced them, ready to give as good as I got.

Finally, Jerry said, "I'll give him the choice then." He turned to Buddy. "It's this-" he held up the target, "-or the parking lot. Which do you want?"

Buddy dropped his pants.

As soon as they had the target taped to their human backboard, the compet.i.tion resumed. I remained in the front of the now standing-room-only crowd and watched each dart fly.

Buddy, left with only his socks and jockey shorts for decency, was shaking so badly the compet.i.tors were literally firing at a moving target. In the following round, each man hit the mark and the compet.i.tion remained tied.

"Man, these guys are good." I heard someone say behind me. And I was forced to agree. At this rate, Buddy wouldn't have to worry about an inch of sharp steel, or t.i.tanium as the case may be, sticking into his back.

The next round was under way when there was a commotion at the front door. I turned to look over the heads of the crowd and saw Chief Royden, sweaty and looking ominous, pacing toward the center of the room with another uniformed officer at his back and Sandy Crane right behind them, trying to look official.

That's when the fight started.

From somewhere in the crowd, and I had a good suspicion where, a rogue dart was thrown toward the target. It hit Buddy almost dead center in his nether-end. A small dot of blood appeared in the cotton of his jockeys as Buddy let out a howl. Spinning around and ripping the tape away, he slugged the closest man to him, who happened to be Jerry.

It took over an hour to straighten out the aftermath. Chief Royden threatened to clear the place and take everyone involved to jail. That announcement quieted the room, because everyone wanted to stay to see what the official ruling on the dart compet.i.tion would be. Buddy was treated for his puncture wound and Jerry for a split lip by Dr. Champion's nurse, who happened to be in attendance, while each partic.i.p.ant recited his or her side of the story, so to speak.

The best excuse came from Miss Alameda. "Why Chief, didn't you ever play pin the tail on the donkey when you were a kid?" she asked with an innocent air. "I used to be real good at it."

This confirmed my suspicion about the origin of the rogue dart.

"Miss Alameda," Chief Royden said in a long-suffering tone, "you don't play that game using a person for the donkey."

"Well in this case," Miss Alameda sniffed, "that a.s.s deserved it. He's a cheat; he admitted it. He was helpin' Tell Chesney steal the trophy as sure as I'm standin' here. Ask anybody."

When half the room agreed and the Bigelow contingent remained suspiciously quiet, the Chief went on. "Who won?"

"n.o.body yet. It was a tie when I-when we got interrupted," Miss Alameda answered.

Chief Royden drew himself up to his full height, standing a good head taller than the rest of the crowd. He rested his hands on his hips like he was addressing a bunch of third graders on the ball field. "This compet.i.tion is the start of a new tradition in Mossy Creek, and you've acted like a bunch of children," he said, sounding thoroughly disgusted. "I'm shutting it down."

"But what about the trophy?" someone in the crowd asked.

The chief looked from one compet.i.tor to the other. "The trophy will be shared this year. Six months in Bigelow and six months in Mossy Creek. I officially call this compet.i.tion a draw."

A chorus of groans and muttered curses echoed through the room, in antic.i.p.ation of having to take back the many wagers that had been placed on the outcome, no doubt. A few looked glad they didn't lose any money, at least.

"Now, I want you all to be sure you pay your bar tabs before you leave."

"And please don't forget to tip your waitress," I added helpfully, as I winked at Regina. "We'll meet back here next year for a, hopefully, more civilized event."

Chief Royden looked at the erstwhile Buddy and said, "Buddy, you can put your clothes back on now."

As I said before, there are a thousand and one stories in Mossy Creek, and, for my part, I hope I never again have to bear witness to Buddy Dailey's nakedidity.

Next Labor Day, I think I'll hire a bouncer or put Chief Royden at a reserved table on the front row. That way he can keep an eye on Miss Alameda. And I won't have to invest in a new baseball bat.

The Mossy Creek Gazette 215 Main Street * Mossy Creek, Georgia From the desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager.

Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope.

Cornwall, England.

Dear Lady Victoria, Since the Labor Day brawl, we've all been laying low. I swear every time we see a stranger in a dark suit these days we think it's some spy of Ham Bigelow's.

By now, you've figured out that everybody in Mossy Creek knows everybody else's business. It's just an accepted fact that our news flies faster than a chicken being chased by a cat. It used to be that we could just pick up the phone and ask the operator what we wanted to know, like, "What time is it?" or "Who was that at dinner with so-and-so last night?" or "Ask Chief Roydon if he fixed my parking ticket yet, and tell him I'm bringing the homemade fruitcake over in the morning." That would have been Amos's ol' daddy, Battle, not Amos.

But every now and then, something still comes along that surprises us all. Until last month, if you wanted coffee in Mossy Creek you perked it yourself or stopped in at Mama's All You Can Eat Cafe for a jolt of plain ground Joe that could scald the grease off an axle. That was before Jayne Austin Reynolds came along. Named after your very own Jane Austen, see? We worried she might not like us if we didn't drink our brew with our pinkies raised. We are not uncouth people-we like our touches of elegance. After all, we were willing to fight for Isabella's elegant Englishman! But it turned out that Jayne's problem with us was right next door, in the form of Ingrid Beechum. You remember Ingrid? Bob the Flying Chihuahua's mother? Ingrid's had a bad year, and I won't pa.s.s judgement on her.