"Who owns San Sebastian? This is beginning to sound like one of Rossini's operas…"
"Tom Partmos, Joey's brother. The San Sebastian is out of Rockport. You see, the whole code idea started up over in P-town about eight years ago when everybody started buying the CB radios. Fishermen figured it was a good way to let certain friends or relatives know where the fish were without telling anyone else. The P-town fishing is almost all done by Portuguese families you know, and there's a lot of family loyalty. Some of these families have three, maybe four boats owned by brothers, uncles, or cousins. Well the beauty of the code is, you talk to your relatives on the CB and nobody else knows what the fuck's comin' off, right?
"You say: 'I'm standing in front of the five and dime eating popcorn,' and nobody understands, except your brother, who knows that means you're ten miles off five-fathom ledge and have found a nice school of haddock. Or you might hear your cousin call you and say he's at the bowling alley with a six-pack of Schlitz. An' you know that the bowling alley is really Grayson's Channel, and Schlitz means he's found mackerel-"
Fascinated, I listened to the explanation of the strange messages I'd been hearing aboard the Ella Hatton on the CB radio. These weird nonsense messages did have a meaning: telling "friendlies" where the action was.
But I was getting nowhere fast. Dan Murdock was not to be seen, though he might be lurking somewhere in the crowded bar. My watch said 10:45. If I left now, taking time only to visit the head, I would be home before midnight. That seemed to make sense. I wended my way through the crowd. to the john. As I was coming back after washing up I saw him. He was emerging from a tiny nook that held a pay phone. It wasn't a booth, just a small bend in the big room where one could-in theory at least-talk with some privacy. He didn't see me as he went back to the bar.
I realized now that if I'd just left the Race a few seconds sooner, I'd have been home free. But the argument started before I even returned to my table. I walked past the bar, noticing that Dan Murdock was doing everything possible to make himself conspicuous there. Whom had he called? I was turning the possibilities over in my mind when I heard the first of the insults.
I'll tell you how to know when there's a fight about to start in a crowded bar: every conversation stops… but one. And that one grows louder and more heated until it stops, because one of the conversants is getting hit in the chops. As soon as I heard that one, rising, ominous dialogue, I knew something was brewing. Two men were shouting now in the silence of the Schooner Race. It was no surprise that it was Joey and Mike, rival captains of the Antonio and the Caterina. Perhaps the thing could have been amicably resolved if Mike had not mentioned Joey's sister. He not only mentioned her, but some specific parts of her anatomy as well, and the strenuous use she was giving them. According to Mike-who I think I could safely say was not a gentleman-Carlotta Partmos had been intimate with various and sundry lower forms of marine animal life, and also with other members of her family. However, she had curiously avoided anything in human form between these two extremes. I found this incongruous… And Joey Partmos found Mike's jaw with a left.
I was still stunned by Mike's remarks, but learned a few seconds later that Joey had begun the insults by mentioning the sexual misadventures of Mike's wife-especially her fondness for military bases. These comments were without foundation of course; they were meant to inflame the opposition. This they did.
It would have been ugly enough if the fight had been contained, but as so often happens at hockey games, the benches emptied; and the crews joined in. The ill feeling between the two boats had a long history-I learned later on-and now it was just boiling to the surface. The most amazing thing, though, was not the donneybrook but the detached, almost amused composure of the remaining patrons. Except for the dozen or so brave souls attempting to separate the combatants, the crowd remained passive, evidence that this sort of thing was not uncommon in the SR.
Whether I was too old or too high-born I couldn't tell, but I decided when the fight was only seconds old that the social climate of the Schooner Race had disintegrated to the point where I wished to depart posthaste. But this was made difficult by the enormous crunch of humanity that pressed against us as the crowd, in its eagerness to avoid the brawl. I swayed back and forth in the long room, like water sloshing in a trough. I fought my way from the bar toward the door. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Danny Murdock. He was sitting in another booth. He stared after me as I went to the door. But I didn't make it.
Four feet from my goal, I was flung backward as a body crashed into me. I reached down and picked the man up, holding him under the arm. He was heavy and tired. Attempting to drag him over to a booth away from the action, I locked my arms around his chest and began to drag him back. This was a mistake, because just as I had clasped my hand around my plaster wrist another combatant charged us, butting him in the chest with his head, and then finishing off with a short choppy right to his neck.
The man slumped in my arms. To all bystanders, it appeared as though I was not helping him, but setting him up for this abuse-much as the movie tough guys work in teams: one man to hold the victim, the other to work him over. The illusion did not stand me in good stead. Instantly, both the attacker and I were set upon.
They say you never see the knockout punch. Maybe so, but you surely may catch a glimpse of one that does a good deal of damage. This came winging my way, in the form of a hairy fist, from over the shoulders of the ranks nearest me. It landed on my left cheekbone, which is called the zygomatic arch. This bone is the part of the skull that wraps around the side of the middle face, protecting the sides of the eye sockets. It is easily broken. But even if not broken, trauma to it causes rapid subcutaneous extravasation of blood to the region. This is all to the good. But in a matter of hours the trapped blood begins to die and discolor, resulting in a pronounced bluish-black darkening that is called eccymosis. In short, a black eye. As I jolted backward and began to slump down, I knew I was going to get a hell of a shiner. I crept forward, hunched over. Someone came in low, battering my rib cage on both sides with his fists. I didn't like it at all. In fact it aggravated me, and I wanted him on the floor. I first distracted his attention by ringing his chimes. I made a tight fist with my right hand with my thumb along the top of it. I hooked this pointy thing around and into my assailant's left ear as hard as I could. He didn't slow down fast enough, so I did it again. My hand came back wet and gooey. Caught his eye a bit. Gee, sorry about that, but quit hitting me in the ribs. He bent over and lifted his hands to grab for his injured head. I shook hands with him and yanked down hard and back on his right arm, placing my right foot out so he'd trip over it. The arm drag worked and he slid down at my right side, groaning and rolling around and grabbing at himself.
I was just beginning to shout my apologies when someone shot a forearm into the nape of my neck. I struck hack, flinging my left arm around behind me blindly. My cast smacked something hard and hollow sounding, like a head. But it was too late; the neck chop had done me in. Suddenly the world seemed like I had two pairs of sunglasses on and my ears were plugged. I let the force of the blow take me forward; I stumbled on as far as possible to get out of the way. Friendly arms reached out to me. I felt myself half-dragged to a table. I faintly remember a couple of kids slapping me on the back. l remember seeing a cop, and several men being held by their friends and led out of the place. The world came back into focus as I was holding a glass to my lips and drinking. There was a faint clangor of bells. No, ice cubes against glass.