Hooligans

CHRISTMAS CREEK

The thirty-horsepower motor growled vibrantly behind him as Stick guided the sailboat out of the

mouth of South River and into the bay. Buccaneer Point was two miles away. Five miles beyond it was

Jericho Island, where a sliver of creek, two or three hundred yards wide and a quarter of a mile long,

sliced the small offshore island into Big Jericho and Little Jericho. Stick set his course for Jericho.

Clouds played with the face of a full moon and night birds chattered at them as the sleek sailboat

cruised away from land, its sails furled, powered by the engine. Stick flicked on the night light over

his compass. It was 8:45. He would be there in another fifteen minutes. He checked his tide chart.

High tide was at 9:57. The bar would be perfect.

Weasel Murphy was crunched down against the cabin wall, his thumbs still shackled behind him.

“1 already told you,” the rodent-faced gunman said arrogantly, “1 don‟t know nothin‟ about

nothin‟.”

“Right,” said Stick.

“I get seasick; that‟s why I didn‟t go along on the boat. You can‟t understand plain English?”

“You start getting sick,” said the Stick, “you better stick your head over the side. Puke in my boat and

I‟ll use you for a mop and throw you overboard.”

“Fuck you,” Murphy growled, but his arrogance was less than convincing.

“Cute,” Stick said. “I admire your stuff”

“How many times I gotta tell you,” Murphy said, “I don‟t know nothin‟ about snatching no Fed, or

the Raines dame. That‟s all news t‟me.”

“Where‟s Costello heading on that schooner of his?”

“I told you, I don‟t fuckin‟ know! They was just goin‟ out to have dinner and get away for a few

hours. We was all tired of looking up some cop‟s nose every time w turned around.”

He shifted slightly.

“Where the hell are we going?” he demanded.

Up the lazy river,” Stick said.

“You‟re a full-out loony, you know that. You need about fifty more cards to fill out your deck.”

“Big talk from a man who can‟t ever scratch his nose,” Stick said.

“Look, these things are killing my thumbs,” Murphy said. “Can you at least loosen them a little? My

whole damn arm‟s goin‟ to sleep.”

“I want to know where Kilmer is and where Costello‟s going. You just tell me that, we turn around

and head for home.”

“Shit, man, how many ways can

“You already have,” the Stick said. “You‟re beginning to annoy me. If you won‟t tell me what I want

to know, keep your mouth shut or I‟ll put my foot in it.”

They went on. The only sound now was the bow of the boat slicing through the water, and the

occasional slap of a wave as it rolled up into a whitehead and peaked. Stick was using running lights,

although occasionally he snapped on a powerful searchlight for a look around. Otherwise he watched

his compass and smoked and said nothing.

At 9:05 he passed the north point of Big Jericho, swung the trim boat in toward land, and followed the

beach around to the south. A minute or two later the moon peered out from behind the clouds and in

its gray half-light he could see the mouth of Christmas Creek. He turned into it, cut back the motor,

and switched the spotlight on again. He swept it back and forth. Murphy straightened up and peered

over the gunwale. A large heron thrashed its wings nearby and flapped noisily away. Startled by the

sudden and unexpected sound, Murphy slumped down again.

Then he heard the sounds for the first time.

A sudden whirlpool of movement in the water near the boat.

“What‟s „sat?” he asked, sitting up again. “Hey, there it goes again. You hear that?”

The Stick said nothing.

The sounds continued. There seemed to be a lot of turbulence in the water around the boat. Then

there was a splash and something thunked the side of the sailboat.

“Don‟t you hear it?” Murphy croaked, staring wide-eyed at the circle of light from the spotlight. The

Stick still didn‟t answer.

Stick had stopped in an all-night supermarket on the way to the boathouse and bought a large beef

shoulder. It had been soaking in a bucket of warm water near his feet. Now he took it out, laid it on

the rear bulkhead, and slashed several deep gashes in it with a rusty machete. Blood crept out of the

crevices, seeping slowly into the seams between the boards.

There was a loud splash near the stem, then another, even louder, just beyond the bow. Fear began as

a worm in Murphy‟s stomach, a twisty little jolt. He began to look feverishly at each new tremor in the

water, but he could see nothing but swirls on the surface of the creek.

Then he thought he saw a gray triangle cut the surface ten feet away.

“What was that?” he asked.

The worm became a snake. It crawled up through his chest and stuck in his throat. His mouth dried

up.

“This is a little nature trip, Weasel,” Stick said, taking a grappling hook from the bulkhead storage

box and burying its hooks in the beef shoulder. He wrapped a thick nylon fishing line around it

several times and tied it in a half hitch. “Ever hear of Christmas Creek?”

“I told you, I get seasick. I don‟t have nothin‟ to do with the fuckin‟ ocean.” His voice was losing its

bravado.

Stick saw the bar dead ahead, a slender strip of sand, barely a foot above water.

“Well, you‟re right in the middle of it. This is it, this is Christmas Creek,” Stick said. “One of the

local ecological wonders.”

There was another, more vigorous splash of J the starboard bow and this time Murphy saw it clearly,

a shiny gray dorsal fin, It sliced the surface for an instant and then disappeared in a swirl.

“Good Christ, those‟re sharks,” Murphy gasped.

“1 was about to tell you,” said Stick. “This is a breeding ground for gray sharks and makos, and this

is the month for it. That‟s why they‟re so fidgety. I‟d guess there are probably, oh hell, two, three

hundred sharks within spitting distance of the boat right now.”

The first shark Murphy actually saw breached water three feet away, rolled over on its side, and dove

again.

It was half the length of the sailboat!

“Sweet Jesus,” Murphy muttered to himself. He was still trying to maintain his tough facade, but his

eyes mirrored his growing fear. He dropped back onto the floor of the cockpit and cowered there.

“This bloody piece of beef here will drive them crazy,” Stick continued. “I thought I‟d just give „em a

snack, let you see one of the wonders of the world.”

Murphy hunched down lower.

“C‟mon, fella, watch the show,” said Stick. He reached down and pulled Murphy up and slammed

him against the bulkhead. He threw the piece of meat overboard, holding it by the nylon cord. It had

hardly hit before the creek was churned into bubbles. The water looked like it was boiling. The

frenzied killers streaked to the bloody morsel. Their tails whipped out of the water. Fins seemed to be

slashing all over the creek. The creatures surfaced in their frenzy, their black marble eyes bulging

with excitement, their ragged mouths blood-smeared from ripping at the beef shoulder. A great, ugly

mako breached the surface, twisted violently in the water, then suddenly lurched into the air as a

large gray disemboweled it, the attacker thrashing its head back and forth as it tore a great chunk

from the other shark‟s belly. More blood churned to the surface. A half dozen more sharks converged

on the mako, ripping it to shreds. Then one of them turned and charged the sailboat.

Murphy screamed, a full-fledged, bloodcurdling scream.

The big gray turned at the last moment and scraped down the side of the sailboat.

All Murphy saw were insane eyes and gleaming teeth.

Within seconds the hook was empty. Stick pulled it back in.

“Lookit that, they even gnawed at the hooks,” Stick said with a chuckle.

“What‟re we doin‟ here?” Murphy whispered, as though he were afraid he would disturb the

predators.

“I‟ll tell you, when these bastards are horny, they‟re downright unreasonable,” Stick rambled on.

He swung the sailboat in a tight arc, pulling as close to the sandbar as he could. He knew the creek

well; knew, too, that the bar dropped off sharply on its north side, sharply enough to get in tight. Stick

grabbed the back of Murphy‟s shirt and hauled him to his feet.

“What the hell are you doing? Lemme alone, lemmee the mobster howled.

The boat nudged the bar.

Stick threw him over the side.

Murphy shrieked. He landed on his side in the soft sand, rolled over, still screaming, scrambled to his

feet, and sloshed through ankle-deep sand to the middle of the bar. He stood there, his hands behind

his back, his eyes bulging with fear, watching the fins circle his diminishing island.

“For God‟s sakes, what‟d I do? I didn‟t do nothin‟! Get rue offa here. Jesus, Mary, and lose ph,

please, get me offa here!”

Stick leaned toward him. “Now listen good, Weasel. The tide‟s coming in. This bar lies very low in the

water. Another five, six minutes, the water will cover it. At full tide, in about forty-five minutes, it‟ll be

up to your waist. Do you get the drift?”

Murphy looked around, wide-eyed. There were sharks all over the place, circling the tiny island as if

they could smell him.

“Here, I‟ll give you a break,” Stick said. “You won‟t have to look at them.”

Stick turned the spotlight off.

“No-o-o,” Murphy moaned.

The moon dipped behind the clouds. Murphy was rooted to his spot. He was beyond fear now, afraid

to move in any direction. He squinted into the darkness but it was too dark to see anything.

But he could hear them.

“Get me offa here, please,” Murphy pleaded. There was no bravado left.

Stick replied, “The tide‟s coming in, Weasel. In two or three minutes you‟ll feel it around your

ankles.”

Murphy‟s feet squirmed beneath him. He had trouble catching his breath. He was overwhelmed with

fear. Then he felt the first cold, wet fingers seeping through the soles of his shoes, down through the

shoelace holes, around the tongues of his expensive brogans, clutching at his feet.

Murphy suddenly started to babble. He couldn‟t talk fast enough. His words tumbled over each other

arid he started to stutter:

“They‟re going to Thunder Point! To Chevos‟ p-p-p-place! They went out on the boat to celebrate. .

“Celebrate what?”

“Costello‟s the new capo di capi.”

“When are they coming in?”

“They‟re due to get to the marina about t-t-ten. ..“

“How do you know that?”

“That‟s when I‟m supposed to be back. I g-g-got a coupla hours off „cause I get seasick.”

“Who‟s going to be there?”

“It‟s everybody. It‟s the whole goddamn w-w-works, except maybe for Nance. I. . . I swear to G-G-

God I don‟t know where he is. Please, oh, God, please get me offa here. That‟s all I know. All I know,

I swear on my mother‟s eyes, I don‟t know another f-f-fuckin‟ thing. Jesus, man I‟ll p-p-pay you. What

d‟ya want? You want my car? I got a brand-new Chrysler convertible it‟s yours. Damn it, please. .

“That‟s better, Weasel. Okay, start walking this way.”

“1 can‟t, not in the dark, don‟t do..

“Just walk toward my voice.”

“1 can‟t m-m-move!”

“I‟ll keep talking and you keep walking and if you don‟t lose your cool, you‟ll make it over here. But

you better stop fuckin‟ around, Weasel, because the tide doesn‟t stop. It‟s gonna get deeper and. .

“I‟m walkin‟, I‟m walkin‟. Can I have the light, can I please have the fuckin” light?”

Murphy was dragging one foot after the other through the sandy water. Each step seemed to take him

deeper.

“I‟m going wrong!” he yelled at the darkness. “The water‟s up to my shins!”

“I warned you about the tide, Weasel. just keep coming. You‟re doing fine, but don‟t stop. If you stop,

they‟ll be on top of you in another five minutes.”

Murphy took another step and the water swirled around his knees. He began to get sick to his

stomach. He started running, lost his balance, and fell face down in the cold salt water. He scrambled

frantically, trying to get his knees under him, but with his hands shackled behind him he had trouble.

He swallowed a mouthful of water, then got his head up, coughing and gulping for air.

“Where are ya?” Murphy screamed when he finally regained his footing.

He heard the sailboat‟s motor, then realized it was moving away from him!

“Hey!” Murphy screamed. “H-e-e-e-y!”

The sound of the motor grew dimmer and dimmer. The thrashing of the sharks was drawing closer.

The water was almost up to his waist.

The last human voice Murphy heard was the Stick‟s, far off in the blackness of night. The man‟s

singing! Murphy cried out to himself

“Up a lazy river, by the old mill run -.

75