tossed in a padded cell.â He flipped the pieces back over his shoulder and they blew across the sand. âNow give me back my ten-spot.â
âNo way,â I said. âI worked really hard.â
He stuck out his open hand. âIâll count to three,â he growled. âOne.â
I stood up. âI did what you asked,â I said.
âTwo.â
âI did the best I could. Iâm not the governor. I canât write you out a pardon.â
âThree!â He lunged forward and pulled the typewriter out of my hands.
âNo!â I yelled as he spun around and ran down the beach with the typewriter held overhead.
âCome back with that,â I shouted.
I was too late. He waded into the water and heaved the typewriter about twenty feet farther out, past the drop-off.At first the machine, in its closed case, floated and bobbed up and down on the waves. Then slowly it began to tilt to one side and sink, going down like the
Titanic.
I dove for it. The water was all sandy, and it disappeared before I could reach the spot.
I came up for air and looked back at the bully. He was a big single-celled blob that hadnât evolved.
âLet this be a lesson to you for now,â he shouted. âIâll get my ten bucks later.â
I hated people who tried to teach me a lesson. I was going to say something that would probably get me killed, but at that moment I spotted Pete and my mind went spinning out of control.
He was tapping his way across the beach with a fake blind manâs walking stick made out of a painted cane fishing pole. On his face he had a pair of huge wrap-around sunglasses that were tinted so dark I couldnât see his eyes. Hanging from his neck was the old Polaroid camera. He tapped a few more feet, then hollered, âGet your picture taken. Two dollars. Have a lifetime souvenir of you and your loved ones on Fort Lauderdale beach for only two dollars.â
No wonder Mom was concerned about his behavior. And if Dad found out about this heâd have the stick and Iâd be the rat. âOver here!â I hollered, as I dog-paddled toward the shore. âHey, blind boy, over here!â
âIâll be right there to take your picture, sir,â he shouted, and waved his arms around. âDonât move.â
He stirred up the sand with his cane as he clumsilymade his way toward me. I wanted to kill him. But then I thought better of punching him in the head in front of people who might really think he was blind. Theyâd probably beat me to a pulp, and pamper him.
âWhat are you up to?â I growled when I got my hands on his shoulders.
He rotated his head back and forth, and smiled widely.
âThis is not what I meant by evolution,â I said. âWhat you are doing is criminal. Mark my words,â I stressed. âThis is going to lead to trouble.â
âItâll lead to big money,â he said. âSee.â He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. âI bet you donât make this from writing postcards.â
I snatched the money out of his hands and began to count. âWow,â I said. âSixteen bucks.â I put it in my pocket.
âSome fish were smarter than others,â he replied. âIâm already on my second box of film. Watch this.â
He tapped a zigzag path through the beach crowd. I watched as he whacked a few of the sleeping sunbathers on the butt with his pole. They flipped over with a shout and he began to apologize wildly. Then he acted as if he had gotten turned around and began tapping his way directly toward the crashing waves. The people he had whacked saw him as he sloped down toward the water and they ran to catch him and turn him in the proper direction. I didnât hear what he said next, but in a moment he had them all lined up and was preparing to take their picture.
I couldnât stand still any longer. Iâve created a
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