The Scarred Man by Basil Heatter Read Free Book Online Page B

Stud's eyes as he watched me.
        My neighbors on the adjoining boats were mastering their fears, emerging from their holes like rabbits in the presence of wolves. On the 34-foot Chris-Craft to starboard two young women in bikinis had spread themselves on towels on the foredeck. Cooney gave them time to settle down before suddenly offering in a very loud voice to perform a staggering series of perversions upon their persons.
        The two young matrons drew themselves up in attitudes of outrage while their husbands rushed from the cabin and glared aggressively in our direction. I hoped their sense of discretion would triumph over their valor. It did. They looked across at the half-dozen outlaws and elected to remain where they were. But not without what they hoped would be a last word.
        "You guys cut that out," one of them said.
        "What?" asked Cooney with an air of innocence.
        "Talking to my wife that way."
        "Is that your wife?" said Cooney. "That mollyfock. Why she likes what I'm sayin' to her, don't you, baby? She wants some of what I got right here, what you could never give her, you mother. Or maybe you'd like some yourself.
        Come over here and bend over, Charlie. Let me see your fucking little…"
        "Cool it, Cooney," Stud said in a lazy voice.
        There were shouts of "Call the police!" One of the two men had already jumped down onto the pier and was starting toward the dockside phone.
        "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Charlie," Stud informed him. "Not unless you want that tub at the bottom of the river tonight."
        The irate husband hesitated. In his hesitation, he was lost. He retreated to the boat and all four of them went below, slamming the hatch behind them. The Beaks returned happily to their beer. It was one up for them in the endlessly enjoyable game of fucking up the straights.
        "You ain't gonna be so popular around here from now on, Billyboy." Stud said with a grin.
        I shrugged. The game had been largely for my benefit. It had been a test, like dragging on the joint.
        "You don't care?" Stud said.
        "Not much."
        "Ten bucks says they throw you out of here tonight."
        "If they do they'll have a lawsuit on their hands."
        "Yeah?"
        "They would have to prove that I invited you here in the first place and that I encouraged or condoned your language in the second. Even if they were able to establish that, which they couldn't, I would still be in a position to offer into evidence the. bathing suits those two women were wearing."
        "What about them?"
        "Provocative. They were nine-tenths naked when the incident took place."
        "Like they was askin' for it?"
        "More or less."
        "You kin me, Billyboy."
        "Have another beer."
        Stud took the can and bit straight down into the aluminum. He chugalugged the contents. When he had come up for air he said, "You guys split. I want to talk to Billyboy alone."
        The Beaks mounted their chromium-plated steeds and gunned them into life. All except Cooney. Cooney walked down to the Chris-Craft and hurled his beer can against the closed hatch. The hatch remained closed. He made a final obscene gesture with both hands, worked around his sissy bar into the saddle, and roared off.
        "Those H-47s must come pretty high," I said, watching all that chrome magnificence vanish around the bend.
        Stud looked interested. "You ever ride a hog, Billyboy?"
        "No."
        "Then how'd you know they were H-47s?"
        "Harley-Davidson 1947s. When the police impounded them at Islamorada, they were so listed."
        "Yeah, well, you got it a little backward. A bike like mine there is an H-D 47 with the knucklehead engine. That means a seventy-four cubic inch displacement. The rest of it's all bullshit, but it costs. Like that seat is a minestrone highback, and it's got those MCM pipes