Blunt Darts

heavily on his left shoulder, with the awkwardness and impact that you see only when an athlete who knows how to fall from combat goes down because of an accidental shot from his teammate. He also missed the pass.
    I was standing a count before he was. I hoped that what I’d done would so embarrass him that he’d think only a punch could avenge him. He came up spitting sand and obscenities. He wound up with his right fist and let fly at my head. I parried it with my left, slashing the edge of my hand into his forearm. As I slashed, I cocked my right hand, fingers outstretched out slightly cupped to avoid jamming them, and then wove it up and into his solar plexis. There was a noise from his mouth like the sudden flapping of a sail that’s lost its wind and purpose. He sank to one knee and started to gag. I dropped to one knee, reached back for hairbrush, and then yanked him by his hair over my other leg. I spanked him hard and loud with the hairbrush. He had about enough air to go “Emphh!” on each swat and wriggle a little.
    After about ten strokes, my palm was beginning to ring, the way it feels if you catch a hardball in the wrong part of the glove. I tossed the hairbrush onto the blanket and looked around for his friends. They were transfixed about twenty feet away. I rolled Big Boy off my leg and stood up. I reached down, gripped his belt dead center at the small of his back, and lifted him like a four-limbed suitcase. It’s really pretty easy to do, even with a heavy man, since you are able to lift him at an almost perfect balance point, but it’s impressive as hell. I then walked purposefully down into the water until I was at mid-thigh. I yo-yoed him five times into the water to help focus the sting the spanking imparted. He was making little gurgling sounds. I carried him back up the beach and stopped in front of his friends. I dropped him like a sack of battered junk.
    “And if you do this again,” I said to them, shaking my index finger, “you’re all going to bed without any supper.”
    As I returned to our blanket, the elderly man caught up with me. He was grinning and hopping from one foot to the other. He started pumping my hand.
    “Boy, oh boy, son, that’s the best show I’ve seen since the war! That miserable bastard’s been terrorizing this beach for years. My name’s Graden. Charlie Graden. If you need anybody to stand up for you with the cops or anything, you call me, me and Edna. We’re in the book. Boy, oh boy!”
    I smiled at him. “Thanks, Mr. Graden. If this were twenty years ago, I’ll bet I’d be the one shaking your hand.”
    “Damn right!” he said, giggling. “Take care o’ yourself, son.” He trotted, only a little uncertainly’ back toward his chair.
    When I reached the blanket, Val had already packed everything back in the chest and had her tank top on.
    I said, “We can stop for lunch...“
    She glared up at me with tears in her eyes. “You’re just as bad as they are, you know. Only you don’t know it. You could have handled that boy easily, any time you wanted. You used that whiny voice to encourage him to come back.” Now her voice cracked with emotion. “I thought you were a sincere, caring guy looking for a poor little boy. But all you are is a showoff too, just like those college kids. The only difference is, your shows are a little more clever and a lot more violent.” She picked up her cooler with one hand, yanked up her blanket with the other, and strode determinedly off, trying unsuccessfully to gather the sand-trailing blanket into a bundle with just one hand.
    As I picked up my keys and shook out my towel, it seemed that her version edged closer to the mark than the old man’s and mine did. I spent most of the drive back to Boston trying to persuade myself the other
    way.
     
     
     

     
     
    I stopped at the apartment to shower. While I was drying off, I found the telephone number of one of the two contacts I planned to speak to that afternoon.
    Dave Waters and I had been first lieutenants together in Saigon in 1968. He absorbed a lot of indirect abuse during his first week until the day that a good ol’ boy told him to shag his black ass after some coffee. About ten minutes later Dave began absorbing a lot of direct respect. The good ol’ boy told the doctors he’d been hit by a Renault.
    The last number I had for Dave was with the Denver P.D. I tried it.
    “Lieutenant Waters’ line,” answered the voice.
    “May I speak to