Three Whistles: A Coming-of-Age Mystery

Information

Prologue

June 1963

Oh, man, I’m re-e-eally flying! slurred the teenager. I can’t drink any more beer. I think I’m gonna be sick. Hey, where’s everybody? I must be talkin’ to myself. He called to his friend, Hey, where are you?

You don’t look so good, said a voice from behind.

Who said that? Who’re you? You’re all blurry. Keep your head still, so I can see you. Shit, I don’t feel so good. The teenager swayed, having drunk at least fifteen cans of beer.

Here, move over to the rails. You look like you might throw up, the voice encouraged.

Okay, and he staggered over to the pier rails. At the same time, a gloved hand lifted up a thick, short pipe and swung it hard at the back of the teenager’s head. He moaned, made three soft airy sounds, and then fell against the rail. The dark shape grabbed his legs and helped him topple over the side of the pier into the dark water below. Only the crescent moon recorded the splash.

BOOK 1

The Sharp Street Tribe

CHAPTER 1

1973

Hey, Sam, I got an invitation to my high school class reunion. Clay waved a piece of paper at Samantha. The invitation says it’ll be a combined reunion for the classes of ’63 and ’64, so that covers most of my old neighborhood friends. It’s in September. Want to go?

Sounds like fun, but you should go alone and spend quality time with your buddies. You’ll have a better time catching up with everyone without me, she replied. Besides, I have a lot to do here on the ranch, and I’ll also be very busy with October Fest since I’m chairing it this year. You go. I’ll hold down the fort.

It would sure be great to see the guys again. It’s been ten years since I saw them last. He looked down at the card he held in his hand.

Go to the reunion! You need to see your old friends. After all, I get to see my closest friends from childhood all the time since we all stayed here in Central Texas, Sam said with sincerity.

Sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me so you can party.

What will you be doing at the reunion.

Well, partying, of course.

So, you can party, and I can’t.

Sure! Sounds reasonable to me. They laughed.

This will be the first time we’ve been apart since we got married. I really hated it when you were in the army, especially when you were in Vietnam. I never knew where you were, and I constantly prayed that you’d be safe and come home to me in one piece. It would have been even worse if we had been married before you went to Vietnam. I was so happy when you got back, and then you topped it off by asking me to marry you.

Then maybe you should come with me. I’d like that, and I’d really like to show you off to the guys.

No. I really can’t go. I’ve got too many obligations here at that time. Besides, you’ll only be gone a week. You go and have fun. I’ll survive for a week.

Clay got on the phone and called his old friends on the east coast to confirm their attendance at the reunion. When Clay reached Bouncy, he told Clay that he’d uncovered new information concerning the death of one of their friends on the night of their graduation celebration. Clay questioned him, but he’d only say that he needed to share the information with everyone at the same time. He wouldn’t say anything else over the phone. He did say that Smarty was planning a neighborhood reunion while everyone was in town. That would be where Bouncy would share his new information. All the guys he talked to were as curious as he was about Bouncy’s new information, but no one knew any more than Clay.

Clay also called his parents and made plans to stay with them while at the reunion. They were elated that he was coming to visit but disappointed that Sam wasn’t. They really liked her, and she liked them, as well. They had come to Texas for Clay and Sam’s wedding two years before, and Sam and her parents had given them a million dollar welcome. They enjoyed themselves immensely. Because of the distance between Texas and the east coast and because of other commitments, Clay had only seen his parents once since the wedding. Clay promised to fly them to Texas for Christmas, and that seemed to ease the news that Sam wasn’t coming to the reunion with him.

After Clay finished all his phone calls, he joined Sam in the den, plopping down on the couch beside her. It’s all arranged. You’re going with me.

What!

Just kidding. Mom and Dad were disappointed that you’re not coming with me, but they were excited that I’ll be visiting. By the way, I invited them to come here for Christmas. Hope you don’t mind.

That’s a great idea! You know I love your parents, and I love to entertain, especially during the holidays.

All the guys seemed excited that I’d be at the reunion. Several didn’t think I’d come because of the distance. Bouncy told me that he has new information concerning the night of our graduation celebration but wouldn’t tell me anything more. The other guys got the same message.

Wow! That sounds mysterious.

I hope not. Clay had told Sam about his childhood friends and some of the events from his youth, but he had never gotten into the details that she always seemed so interested in knowing. She was an avid reader and especially loved mysteries, so she had a keen interest in Clay’s graduation celebration in 1963. One of his friends had died there that night, and while his death was officially an accident, it remained a gnawing mystery to some of the guys. He’d told her about that night and the investigation that followed in great detail but had never spent much time telling her about his group of friends and their adventures before that night. She somehow thought that the answer to the mystery, if there was one, could lie in these boyhood events. While he found that hypothesis interesting, he doubted it. However, Bouncy’s comment about new information got Clay to thinking about that night and the years preceding it.

Since we have a long weekend and nothing planned, would you like to hear some of the stories about my childhood and the boys that I grew up with?

Yes! Sam exclaimed, and she was ready to sit down and begin right away.

With her reaction, Clay said, Maybe that’ll satisfy the detective in you, and who knows, you might help uncover something I’ve overlooked.

Let me get a cup of coffee, and we can begin right now. Want a refill?

Sure, and he drank down his remaining swallow and handed her his empty University of Texas coffee mug. When she returned and sat down beside him on the couch, he started telling his stories from the beginning.

CHAPTER 2

The Boys in the Neighborhood

I moved to Sharp Street in the summer of 1953, when my parents bought a house in Northview Heights. We moved in June, which would allow time for me to meet kids in the neighborhood before school began in September. I was excited, but I was also apprehensive about my suddenly changing world. I would celebrate my eighth birthday in July, and a new neighborhood, new kids, new school, and new teachers were all a bit intimidating. But I ventured forth with as much confidence as I could muster.

My dad and several uncles were firemen, so between them and friends, we had plenty of help on moving day. I stayed out of the way but directed traffic for stuff destined for my new room. There, I unpacked a few things then strapped on my belt with holsters and pearl-handled cap guns, put on my cowboy boots and hat, and proceeded out into my new neighborhood. I sauntered down the sidewalk doing my best Hopalong Cassidy impression, looking for gawkers and an opportunity to invite other kids to play. I knew I looked cool in my cowboy stuff even though I wore shorts and a tee shirt. Ahead, I saw a door open, and a boy walked onto the porch.

I think he sees me. He’s walking this way. As I watched him, I continued to think, Should I draw on him or wait for him to make the first move. I better wait. He’s not showing any guns.

As he got closer, he said, Hi, cowboy, I’m Billy Barrett. What’s your name?

I’m Clay Ashworth. That’s my new house over there. Do you want to play cowboys and Indians?

Naw, I don’t have any guns, and I don’t like to play those kind of games.

What kind of games do you play?

Oh, mostly just playing ball or racing or stuff like that.

Wanting to make my first friend in the neighborhood, I replied, Well, I’ll go put my guns away, and we can play that.

Okay, I’ll walk with you. How old are you, Cowboy?

I’m seven, but I’ll be eight in July. How old are you, Billy?

I’m almost eight. My birthday’s in October.

We’re the same age.

I have a brother who’s almost nine. After you put your guns away, we’ll go to my house, and you can meet him.

From that day forward my name to all the kids in the neighborhood was Cowboy. I didn’t pick it, but the boys in our neighborhood liked to give out nicknames, and apparently, first impressions often generated a name whether you liked it or not. I’m sure glad I wasn’t picking my nose when I met him. I’d hate to be known as Picker or Booger. As I found out later, we already had a Booger. His real name was Luke Hillier, but everyone called him Booger. He had bad allergies and constantly messed with his nose. He was seven.

Billy’s brother, Matthew, was nicknamed Seeds, since he seemed to always be eating sunflowers seeds and was constantly spitting out the shells. They had grandparents in Kansas who kept him well supplied. Billy didn’t have a nickname, but during the next year, I starting calling him Shortstop because of his height and his love for baseball, and it stuck. Thus I became a member of a group of about thirteen boys, all within a year or two of my age and all with suitable nicknames.

Within a day I had met all the boys in the neighborhood. There was Byron Coleman who was nine and called Limpy. He had had polio as a small child and walked and ran with a limp. At first I hesitated to call him anything. I’d just talk to him without using any name, but soon I realized that he was good-natured about it, and sometimes he even joked about his limp. Speedy was Anthony Sebastiani. He was eight and could run circles around all of us. He was great to have on your team when playing football or baseball. James Wall was eight and was called Bouncy. He had a way of walking where he’d rise up on the balls of his feet with every step. Walking beside him, I felt like I was on a carousel. Levi Eisenberg, nicknamed Smarty, was nine, a good athlete, and straight-A student. Neil Schwartz was called Gabby and for good reason. He talked all the time even when he didn’t have anything to say. He was seven. Twitch was William Roland. He was eight with a twitch in his neck that caused him to jerk his head slightly to one side. It was always difficult playing games with him since I couldn’t tell if he was signaling or just twitching. Isaac Kaplan was Marbles, seven years old and the marble champion of the neighborhood and school. He’d go to school with four marbles and come home with his pockets bulging. One of the guys had a horrible given name, so he really needed a cool nickname. He was Bolivan Shagnasty II. He was ten, the oldest and biggest of the group, and was nicknamed Mouth. With a name like Bolivan, I would have thought him deserving of a better nickname, but he did have a foul mouth. He had two older brothers to indoctrinate him, and he decided to teach us all the bad words (especially bad for our age) and their definitions. He practiced using them a lot, especially when he was upset. He didn’t curse around our parents and neither did we. The adults in our neighborhood didn’t use curse words in public, and they would not have shown any mercy on kids using them, especially my parents. The last kid in our group was Henry Goodson. He was seven and known as Tank. He was about as wide as he was tall, and he dreamed of becoming an Army tank driver when he grew up. When we’d play war, he always wanted to be a tank. His mother was divorced, and her mother lived with them. Being raised by his mother and grandmother, Tank was spoiled, and he had a temper. I mention him last since he stayed in his house playing alone more than the rest of us did.

My first year in the neighborhood was really exciting. Where I had lived previously, there weren’t any boys my age, but here, I had many playmates. We did everything together, and everyone got along in his own way. We played cowboys and Indians and war a lot. Even Shortstop learned to play and seemed to enjoy it. We all became fascinated with stories about the World Wars and their heroes and about the old west. Both were popular subjects for television and movies of that era. Smarty was particularly interested in Indians and was an avid reader of books on that subject. As we played, he’d share tidbits of information that he’d read about various tribes and their way of life. This made our playing more like acting. We’d scout along the creek that ran behind the backyards of several houses on our street. That was our favorite area to play Indians, since it was dense with brush and trees and had only a small stream. Smarty would mark our faces with charcoal or mud to simulate war paint, and we’d add more to our arms and legs. Those who had feathers, tomahawks or other items would wear them. We’d try to imitate customs and act out stories that he told us. Once, Bouncy’s dad made venison jerky for us to eat while we played, just like the real Indians. We became a tribe, and Smarty began referring to us that way. Soon we took on the name of the Sharp Street Tribe, and that name stuck with us throughout the years.

Our neighborhood was a typical, working class suburb built in the late 1940s and early 1950s. Our house was one of about twenty-five homes on the street. The street formed a large horseshoe that emptied into another neighborhood street, so there wasn’t any through traffic, making it an ideal place for kids at play. Schools and a park with baseball and football fields were within walking or biking distance. We used the fields often, especially as we got older. Shopping was nearby, as well.

A few minutes north of our neighborhood, there was a small town center with a grocery store, drug store, five and dime store, a diner, several gas stations, three churches, a synagogue, and a movie theater. Almost every Saturday we headed to the theater to watch movies, especially when we were elementary age. South of the neighborhood was a small mom-and-pop grocery, called Summers Store. It had a deli and plenty of candy and cold drinks. Mr. and Mrs. Summers let us hang out there as long as we weren’t loud or rowdy. Across the street was a filling station with a garage. Mr. Peterson, the owner, was always ready to help us repair a flat or make adjustments to our bikes. We spent more time at these locations than at the town center. Our parents preferred these locations since there was less traffic and fewer roads for us to cross. The owners always welcomed us warmly, calling us by our given names and sometimes by our nicknames. Once, Mouth got upset about something and started ranting his obscenities outside Summers Store, and Mr. Summers promptly told him to leave and not return until he washed his mouth out with soap and water. Mouth didn’t say anything to Mr. Summers. He just left, but I don’t think he washed his mouth out with soap and water because the next time I saw him, he was the same old Mouth.

We were fortunate to have grown up in a neighborhood and town like ours. There was little crime, so our parents didn’t worry about us playing outside. We rode our bicycles all over the community. During the summer, we played baseball most every day, and in the evenings, we’d play Kick-the-Can, Hide-go-Seek, or catch lighting bugs and make rings or necklaces out of them.

Our town center had a trolley that was converted to a bus route in the mid-1950s. The route went west to the major downtown area and port and northeast to the bay and amusement park. It was a twenty-minute bus ride to either destination, ten cents for children twelve and under. As we got older, we took the ride to the beach and amusement park regularly, especially during the summer. It was an ideal suburban location for growing boys, and we lived a good life in and around the Heights.

* * *

You know, I’m finding it hard to relate to having so many friends close by. Growing up on a ranch, I seldom saw my friends except at school or church or when we visited each other’s homes, and that wasn’t often, Sam said.

Yeah, it was neat having so many friends in my neighborhood. There was always somebody to play with.

And y’all were an eclectic group of boys, or should I say tribe. Names like Schwartz, Sebastiani, Eisenburg, Ashworth, all sound so diverse and ethnic. I never thought much about ethnicity when I was a kid. Did you?

Sometimes I did, especially when the guys made racial comments to each other, though I never had any directed at me. I do have some stories that’ll show you what I mean. But yeah, Speedy looked Italian, Marbles looked Jewish, and I guess Gabby looked a bit Germanic. I never really thought much about it, and if I had, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

You’ve mentioned some of the nicknames before. Some are really funny, and some are terrible, like Mouth and Booger. Based on your first story, the nicknames seem to fit. I bet you were a really cute, little cowboy.

"Yeah, the nicknames were good. I don’t know about cute, but I loved everything cowboy when I was little. I guess I still do; look where I’m living.

Do you miss your old stomping grounds? You’ve never talked as if you do, except about your family and friends who are still living there.

You know I’ve dragged you to the coast a number of times since we met. I guess I do miss the ocean and the ecology and topography that surround it, but I love your family’s niche here in the Hill County. I wouldn’t trade this or you for anything.

Ahhhh! That’s sweet. She hugged and kissed him tenderly. He pushed her down on the couch and returned her kiss with more passion.

Down boy. Save that for later. I want to hear more of your stories. She said pushing him gently away.

Aw, you’re no fun this morning, Clay said smiling as he sat upright on the couch next to Sam. Where was I? Oh yeah. If you recall, the movie theaters in the ’50s were loaded with cowboy films. We went to the movies most every Saturday, but not every movie we saw was about cowboys.

CHAPTER 3

Saturday Matinee Movies

Saturday mornings were movie time for kids in the 1950s, and our local theater carried all the popular kid flicks; Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rodgers, Lash LaRue, Abbott & Costello, to mention a few. A cartoon, a newsreel about world events, and a cliffhanger serial from some older movie, such as Buck Rogers, usually preceded each movie. We’d get there early in hopes of getting good seats and to be first in line at the snack bar. The cost for a movie was ten cents for children, twelve and under, increasing to twenty-five cents by the late ’50s. Fifteen cents would buy popcorn and a drink, and if you felt rich, you could buy most candy selections for a nickel.

One Saturday in the summer of 1954, our theater showed a movie classic from 1943, Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man with Lon Chaney, Jr. and Bela Lugosi. All of us wanted to see this movie real bad. Mouth’s brother had seen it and told him about the blood and guts and that it scared him so bad he wet his pants. Of course, we didn’t believe him, but it made us want to see that flick even more. Now in order to get to go, we had to be really good the week before and maybe even earn enough money to pay our own way. If there was a movie that I really wanted to see, I was always especially good that week. The big threat from my mom and dad forever loomed, If you don’t behave, you are not going to the movie on Saturday. My parents would supply the quarter for the movie, popcorn, and a drink, but I had to use my own money for candy.

For Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man, I almost didn’t get to go. I had to beg my parents because my mom was afraid that I’d get too scared. I boasted, My sister would get scared and cry but not me. After three days of being really good and extra polite, my mother backed down and let me go, and was I excited! Not everyone was so lucky, Mouth was grounded, Bouncy didn’t have the money, and Tank’s over-protective mother wouldn’t let him go. The rest of us left early to be first in line.

As we made our way to the theater in the town center, Gabby grabbed two apples from a neighbor’s tree, which was very close to the sidewalk. What are you going to do with those apples? They’re not ripe, stated Seeds. They’ll make you sick.

I don’t care, I like them green. Want one? Seeds shrugged him off. Gabby ate most of one apple and then tossed both of them over a fence as we walked along the sidewalk.

Twitch was in the lead and started carefully stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk. He was playing Step-on-a-Crack-and-Break-Your-Mother’s-Back. He looked at the rest of us and started calling the names of anyone who stepped on a crack. He’d holler, You just broke your mother’s back.

Well, none of us would dare think of causing such a calamity, so we all joined in the game. This caused us to pick up the pace, and soon Booger said, I don’t know why y’all are in such a hurry to get to the theater. They won’t let anyone in until just before the movie starts.

Speedy responded, Come on, Booger. Keep up, or we won’t ask you to go next time. You’re always so slow, and I bet you’ve broken your mother’s back ten times already.

Hey, wait. I’m coming, and don’t say that about my mother, whined Booger.

When we got to the theater, a line was already forming in front of the ticket window, but the line moved fast, and then everyone started to gather in front of the theater doors. We each bought a ticket and joined the herd at the doors. Gabby squeezed in between two girls and wormed his way forward. Speedy and Twitch followed close behind. Hey, stop pushing and don’t cut in line. We were here before you, said a large girl with curls.

Speedy replied, I’m sorry, but this is an emergency. You see the little guy leading the way?

The girl said, Yes.

Well, he ate two green apples on the way here, and he’s got a bad case of the runs, explained Speedy.

Twitch chimed in, Me, too.

The doors opened, and Gabby, Speedy, and Twitch raced to the snack bar. Limpy, Seeds, Booger, and Marbles raced to the door leading into the theater auditorium. They always liked to sit as close to the screen as they could. They would stake out their seats and then take turns visiting the snack bar. The rest of us went to the snack bar line first and were happy to take up seats near the rear of the theater.

I got my usual small popcorn, small drink, and Jujubes and joined in with the others to search for seats. I usually got Jujubes because they would last for the entire movie. We lucked out and got great seats in the center about fifteen rows from the rear. Most kids passed by these seats looking for a place near the front. If they couldn’t find any, they returned to empty seats nearer the rear. Limpy, Seeds, Booger, and Marbles were about seven rows in front of us, so Gabby and Speedy tossed popcorn and other items at their heads. They hit Marbles in the head a couple of times, and a boy in the row behind him got a little popcorn in his hair, as well. Both turned but didn’t suspect us, since we, except Twitch, pretended to be interested in the rear of the theater.

Marbles shouted, Cut it out, Twitch. The boy behind him yelled the same. Twitch started to protest but instead slid down into the seat to make himself less conspicuous. Almost immediately,