7
I learned what happened from the next day’s newspaper account that called Puck Fetterland “an unidentified youth of about 16” who shot a man in an apparent drug deal gone back on Market Street. Apparently, they did not connect him to the robbery because there was a separate story for that.
Apparently after the shooting, police chased Puck up Market Street to Spruce and then up Spruce to the Great Falls. With the police blocking the bridge over into the Totowa section, Puck ran into the park, then onto the pedestrian bridge that overlooked the falls --from which he leaped 157 feet into the water below – presumably to his death.
But he did not die, despite being handicapped by his broken arm. Instead, he floated down stream to a pint where he could climb out and made his soggy way to my uncle’s house where I found him dripping on our front door welcome mat.
“The cops are after me,” he said. “I need you to hide me out.”
“No way,” I whispered. “My uncles would kill me.”
“Just let me in for a minute until I dry off.”
“Not for a second.”
“Screw you, then. I’ll go find somebody else to help me.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you,” I said. “You just can’t come in. Let me go find you some dry clothing.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” he said as I turned to go.
“You’ll get sick,” I said.
“I’m already sick.”
“Then I’ll get you a coat.”
“Forget the coat. Forget letting me in. Come with me.”
“Why?”
“Because the cops are looking for someone walking alone. There’ll be two of us.”
“I don’t want to get caught up in anything.”
“Look, man,” Puck said, pulling his pistol out of the drenched sling he still wore, water still dripping from the open end of the barrel. But he didn’t aim it at me, instead he said, “My gun’s all fouled up and where I’m going I’ll need someone to watch my back. Can you get the car?”
“Not now,” I said, glancing over my shoulder fearing that one of my uncles might at any time step out of the kitchen or living room.
“Come anyway,” Puck said. “You said you wanted to help.”