I did track down the place's Chief of Police. Sort of a character. Smart enough fellow, but a little on the quirky side. For example, he wore one of those classy straw hats that you sometimes see the gentlemen wearing around these parts, a blend of casual, tropical, but for the most part, a message that around here we take it slow and relaxed. He referred to himself as Connally, I assumed a last name but I wasn't all that sure when a passerby called out to him, "Hey, Connie!"
The Chief was cooperative but still mighty conservative about what he chose to divulge. More than once he let me know that his primary mission was to keep the peace in his little seaside town. What happened in other places, he left to those in those other places.
He never had any problems over at the O'Hara compound, except when the O'Hara daughter let her friends get too wild. Every now and then, he used to have to call Mr. O'Hara in Boston and give him a heads up that he needed to send someone over.
The Chief did give me a bit of a lead, an unexpected one. He asked how Captain Galloway was doing and if he'd been fishing lately. Apparently Cap was a frequent house guest at the compound. Chief Connally said he would see every so often O'Hara and Galloway together on the beach, surf fishing. He added the detail that they looked like they out there more for the cigar smoking and the b*llsh*tting than for the fishing.
I ended the day taking some snapshots of the sights with my Kodak Brownie. I'm not all that sure why, but I did.
I grabbed a couple of Baby Ruths from the airport newsstand to get me through the flight. Going back, we had a bit of headwind, making us ten minutes late. Only five of the original nine made the return flight but we did pick up a newcomer, aan attractive enough redhead returning to Radcliffe.
On the way home, I picked up a couple of over-stacked pastrami sandwiches, one on whole what, the other on rye. I also grabbed a couple of those whole dill pickles that Big Al kept in a jar right by the cash register. I wasn't sure Boo could handle the pastrami, so I got him a few ounces of sliced ham.
So upon settling in for the night, I sat down and had some pastrami with hot mustard and a highball glass of Southern Comfort. Trust me, that combination works much better than it sounds. After the pastrami, I then started working on a can of Charles Chips. Boo and I ate and sipped our way through the whole nine innings of a Red Sox game on the radio. You know I think like baseball even better over the radio than seeing the game live. It gets the old imagination involved. To hear that crackle and static coming out of that Philco Cathedral radio always brings a little peace to my fractured soul, a comfort snatched out of the cool night air, as if by some magic I was being transported to somewhere I wasn't. I reckon it must be some sub-conscious childhood memory thing going on. Red Sox won, 5-4, over the Yankees.
Boo snored and in the middle of the night hacked up a fur ball. After all that whiskey and pastrami, I woke with a headache, and one in the gut. But I knew that in spite of this miserable aftermath, next week I'd do it to myself all over again.