Denny fought off as many of Buddy’s punches as he could but his arms were going numb with Dentner’s weight pressing down. Suddenly the weight lifted and Denny saw Paul holding Dentner’s shirt collar in one hand and Costa’s in the other.
Through it all, Joe continued crushing Crawford’s fist. He stared Crawford down the entire time.
Tina had made her way through the crowd and was holding the sobbing Julie in a protective mother’s hug.
“Crawford, if you ever lay a hand on my daughter again, I will end you. Are we clear?”
Crawford swallowed hard and nodded.
“Say it.”
Crawford winced and Denny could clearly see the frightened child that hid behind the bully. “I… I won’t touch her again… ever.”
The crowd, initially stunned by the scene and content as spectators, began to stir. A group of the men had gathered in a circle around them and muttering began to turn to louder voices. Finally, inevitably, the mob started closing in.
“Hey, get your fucking hands off those kids!”
Paul let go of their shirts and held his hands up, trying to show he was only trying to help. Costa and Dentner shrunk away behind Crawford. Paul helped Billy and Denny up, trying to ignore the rising voices in the crowd.
Joe stared at Crawford for another long moment before letting him go. Crawford pulled his hand back, opening and closing his fist, as if surprised it still worked.
A burly man lumbered closer to Greymore. A couple other guys moved in next to him. Joe stepped in front of the big man. “Henry, no need for this to get any worse. That piece of shit,” he moved his chin in Crawford’s direction, “ever put his hands on your Becky, you’d have the same little chat Dale and I just did, right?”
Joe turned to one of the others, “Sully, you have a son a year or two younger than Billy. How would you like Dale Crawford and his little gang messing with him?”
Sully and the third man looked up at the big man, Henry, for direction.
Joe went on, “This has nothing to do with Paul Greymore. Those kids are too old, too big, to be picking on Billy and Denny. And nobody but chickenshit bullies put their hands on a young girl. Paul just broke it up. You saw it the same as everyone else here did.” He spoke this last line loudly. “Okay?”
The big man, Henry, thought about it for a minute. It was a long minute and the murmurs began again. In the distance a siren wailed. He looked at Greymore curiously, then back at Crawford. “Sure, Joe. We just want to watch the end of the game.”
Joe nodded, put one arm around Tina and Julie, the other around Billy, nodded at Henry and the others, and headed down the stairs. Denny felt Greymore’s arm on his own shoulder and followed Joe down. Only when they were almost back to the parking lot did they hear Crawford’s screams.
“This isn’t over! This is NOT over!”
As they piled into Joe’s car, the approaching siren grew louder and somewhere deep in his heart, Denny was sure this was not over, not even close.
(44)
Moses Blaakman, known now as Frank Rodman, was sure he’d made the right choice about his lodging five minutes after meeting Betty Chandler. She would be a bottomless pit of information—that is, if her non-stop chit-chat didn’t drive him crazy first. He listened patiently to her life story.
Betty Chandler had moved to Haven just a year after the events of ’61 were through. She and her husband had retired from New York, having sold a fairly successful catering business. Real estate in Haven, needless to say, was going cheap. Betty’s husband Greg had heard a rumor there were plans for building up Haven into a resort area—golf, activities on the lake—and figured on making some investments. The stories were not accurate, but Greg and Betty fell in love with Haven and bought a big old Victorian in the center of town. Minor restorations and renovations, and they had a bed and breakfast. It never really made them any money, but in truth, neither cared. They loved the area and loved people. Anyone that did happen through town stayed with them and raved about the meals. Greg passed on quietly in ’71 and Betty decided to keep the place running.
Chris’s timing was perfect and he worked himself into a dinner invitation after introducing “Frank” and Betty. Over a delicious meal of baked ham, beans and potato salad (which Betty apologized at least a hundred times wasn’t something more) the talk made its way from the usual “where are you from, how long will you be in town” back to the return of Greymore and the missing children. “Well,” Betty breathed, “if you ask me, there’s something very weird going on here, and I don’t mean that Butcher nonsense either.” Frank was immediately interested in hearing more. He was trying to figure a way to prompt her to continue, but Betty Chandler needed no prompting. “Chief Crawford’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and that boy of his, nothing but no good.”
Chris looked up from his plate. “What’s going on with Dale?”
Betty was in constant motion, refilling drinks, wiping the table, picking up plates, and always ready to say more. “He’s been getting caught drinking, getting in fights, and I heard,” here she pauses, ever the storyteller, “he even got into a fight with that Paul Greymore. Didn’t win that one.” She chuckled, seeming to enjoy this fact more than she probably should.
Chris looked up again, frowning. “Now how on earth did you hear about that, Betty?”
Betty looked momentarily annoyed—to think anyone would question her ability to find things out—but this passed quickly into a knowing smile. “Don’t you worry about how I know, young Mr. McCauley, but I do know.”
Chris shook his head. “Well I hope you’ve got it right before you go spreadin’ it around to anyone with two ears.”
Now she really was getting annoyed—no—pissed off. “I don’t think I like what you’re suggesting, Chris.”
Chris looked torn—wanting to really tear into an argument—but not until he finished his dinner. He took a couple more quick bites while he contemplated his reply. “I think you know perfectly well what I’m suggesting, and why. Let’s just say it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve told stories that were not a hundred percent… accurate.” He quickly followed this by shoveling three more forkfuls of potato salad into his mouth, as if afraid Betty would tear the plate away from him in anger.
To Frank, this was beginning to look like an old and familiar dance. Betty’s smile hardened and her eyes narrowed as she stared at Chris. He didn’t seem to notice, being so focused on his meal. “You’ll never let that go, will you? What’s done is what’s done and I can’t change it. I said my sorrys to you and I meant them. But don’t you come into my house, sit at my dinner table, eat my food, and try to give my houseguest the idea that I’m some old busybody who spends her days whispering about every little this and that, no matter if they’re true or not. That is not what I do and you know it, Mister McCauley.”
Chris looked like the embodiment of an ad for “the guy who went too far.” Whether he was upset about accusing Betty or just afraid he’d jeopardized any future dinner invitations, he backed down. Wiping the last remnants of beans from his plate with a slice of bread, he looked sheepishly from Frank to Betty, suddenly aware of the uncomfortable tension he had ignited. “I’m just saying I was there and I know exactly what happened and I want to make sure you do too.”