Sleep with the Fishes (6 page)

At the
New York Route 602 bridge over Char Brook, New York State Trooper Price was roused from deep contemplation by a speeding motorist. His radar gun flashed “70.” A tan BMW with ski racks and Jersey plates was barreling west, Pennsylvania or bust.

Price groused as he put his cruiser in gear and sped after the violator. Every weekend, a vacationers’ tide carried urbanites out to country homes, usually just up the road in Pennsylvania. It was on this New York approach to Frustrumburg that weekenders felt they were on the homestretch and could put the pedal to the metal. Thus the speed-trap vigil.

Trooper Price had a lot on his mind. A certain person whom he’d met at the bowling alley the night before called to tell him her bra was missing and reasoned it must still be in his car. That is, his wife’s car, the one he drove to Friday Night League. The gnawing question had been whether he should return home and try to retrieve it, preferably without drawing attention to himself. But if Debbie had already found the bra, he had no ready excuse.

And it all depended on where the bra was. If it was wedged in the cushions, or under the seat, Debbie would not find it. She was eight months’ pregnant and not likely to go snooping around the car’s floor. On the other extreme, it was possible that the bra was in plain view. Price had been a little snookered, a little late, and in a little bit of a hurry when he got home. He might not have noticed it.

“Christ! It could be on the backseat,” Price moaned for the umpteenth time that day, then flicked on his rollers.

His cruiser snapped up behind the BMW, which had slowed even before the red, white, and blue strobes came on. The motorist got brownie points for alertness and submissiveness.

But it took a blurp or two from the siren to get the BMW to pull over. Not uncommon. It was the “Who,
me
?!” routine, a ploy that made Price roll his eyes. But the vehicle did capitulate, making a right onto a narrow dirt clearing. The BMW pulled well away from the road, next to an abandoned fruit stand in a cornfield.

Collecting his citation book and ballpoint, Price called in to report his doings. The dispatcher acknowledged, and mentioned that his wife had called and wanted him to phone home. 10–4.

Stepping out of the cruiser, the tall, square-shouldered trooper’s mind was on only one thing: a big white brassiere. He removed his Smokey Bear hat and tossed it on the seat, his forearm mopping sweat from his brow, a hand running through his blond flattop. Price neglected to unclip his sidearm holster.

The driver’s brawny arms were folded, and he looked up at Price from under a dark beetled brow.

At first Price was so distracted by the brassiere problem that he had to think what to say. Then it came to him.

“Did you know you were exceeding the speed limit, sir?” He noticed the guy was wearing a red and white striped shirt that was way too small for him, chest hair bulging out between the buttons.

A nickel-plated snubnose appeared in Johnny Fest’s armpit.

There was a crack of gunfire and an echo. The BMW roared away leaving devils of dust in its wake and Price sprawled in the cornfield.

“What’ll it be, mister?”

Omer was lost in admiring his surroundings, which reminded him of the old-time sandwich shops still found in the South. In point of fact, Omer thought it a dead ringer for the place where he’d met James Earl Ray in 1968. It was late morning, and the Five Star was empty. He targeted Chik with a congenial smile.

“Tea with lemon, please.”

“Pie?” Chik clinked a teacup down at Omer’s elbow.

“Sounds delicious, but no, thank you.” Omer was readying to ask a question, but Chik headed him off.

“You, uh, just passing through or are you, uh, looking for anything—like antiques, directions…videos?” Chik squirted the countertop with seltzer from the fountain and began to mop it with his rag. He figured that any stranger was a possible referral for his sideline, video sales and rental. The naughty subject was awkward for strangers to broach. Then again, Chik thought this guy might be there because of those tapes he’d sent off to Venice, Florida. They were Chik’s directorial debut, starring Chik and “Cherry,” the persona Penelope from over at the Duck Pond had chosen. Chik always held out hope that he might be discovered as the porn artist he really was.

“Actually…” Omer flashed a gossiper’s smile. “I am looking for someone.” Omer bounced his eyebrows meaningfully. So did Chik, smoothing back his hair.

“Really? Maybe I can help you. Maybe, in fact, you’ve come to the right place.” Chik winked, pouring hot tea into Omer’s cup.

Omer leaned forward and looked both ways along the counter.

“Have you seen anyone new in town? A big fellow, probably a bit sweaty, with a city accent?”

Chik chewed on that a moment. He leaned on the rag and looked at the ceiling. Could this be some kinda double-talk? Sure—
Big & Sweaty
—that jived. It was one of the new titles in his last shipment—that is, the tape itself was “new in town.” Boy, word sure got around fast sometimes. Chik snapped his fingers.

“
Big & Sweaty.
Sure, mister. That’ll be seventeen fifty. Wait here, I’ll go get it.” Chik came around the counter and headed for the door. His Camaro was within spitting distance.

“Excuse me,” Omer interjected. “Where are you going?”

“To the Camaro. It’s in my trunk.”

“Excuse me.” Omer held up a finger. “You have him in your trunk?” Omer blinked.

“I have it in the trunk.
Big & Sweaty
, right?” Chik still had hold of the doorknob.

“Yes.”

“It’s in my trunk. What, don’t you have the bucks?”

“Yes. But you keep saying ‘it.’ Last I knew, this man was a he.”

“Lemme get this straight, mister. Do you want the videotape or what?”

“No, I’m looking for a man who’s big and sweaty and just in town, probably at a motel.”

Chik headed back behind the counter, waving one palm in the air.

“Hey, I don’t know who sent you, buddy, but I only deal in food service and videos, man. I don’t know who…”

“Could we start this all over again? I’m looking for a certain man who I think may have come this way. I’ll gladly give you $17.50 if you’ll tell me whether you’ve seen him. If not, I’d like you to keep an eye out for him. Should you actually identify him and verify that he was here, I’ll give you a $50 bonus. The deal is all on the condition that you keep this quiet for twenty-four hours. If he’s not here by then, he’s not coming.”

Chik played with the corner of a dishrag.

“How’s that sound?” Omer persisted.

“Haven’t seen him. Make it an even twenty up front, fifty later.”

“Fine!” Omer smiled and put out a hand to shake on it.

When they’d parted paws, Omer whipped up one of his fatherly smiles and popped on his tweed crusher.

“I’ll stop by later.” He handed over a twenty. “Remember: big, sweaty, dark hair and eyes, city accent, dangerous.”

“Got it.” Chik immediately began to fold and crease the bill. “Hey, you sure you don’t want any videos?”

Omer shook his head, winked, and peeled out the door.

Sid was
at it again. He’d decided to take advantage of his very own trout pond. It was so small compared to the river, and calm, what could go wrong?

It was the middle of the afternoon. He stood on the breast of the elfin dam and gauged his target. His side of Ballard Pond was scrub and brush right up to the edge of the water. However, the opposite side was slightly higher and better groomed, presumably by that Smonig character. Sid assumed it was his neighbor’s property, but just the same figured it was so high that a man standing there would spook the trout.
Sports Astream
had warned of such blunders, going so far as to suggest camouflage garb for an upstream approach in a thick fog.

Ballard Pond was smooth, dark, and quiet. The bottom of the pond, what he could see of it, was leaf laden but shallow enough to wade in hip boots a few feet from the edge. If he crouched and waded up his side of the pond, Sid guessed he’d be able to sneak up on them without the camouflage and also have some room to back cast.

As the fish weren’t rising to the surface for food, Sid reasoned they were feeding underwater. But on what?

He turned over a stone at the pond’s edge. Just some little black sluglike bugs. He reckoned they were nymphs, although he’d never actually seen any before, not in person. So he tied on a #14 Gold-Ribbed Black Nymph and moved from the dam and up along the leafy bank.

It was slow going. For one, the leaves and mud were deeper than he thought. For two, each mucky step spawned a great gray mushroom of mud. At least the current moved most of the murk behind him, toward the dam.

Ripples turned out to be the most difficult element to control. But without too much commotion, Sid got far enough up-pond so that he stood thigh deep and had room to cast without snagging bushes.

False casting, he got out thirty feet of line and let her rip. Nice cast. Nothing. His retrieve was impish little jerks, all the way to about five feet in front of him. Nothing. Another cast, another retrieve. Nothing.

“Psst.”

Sid twisted around. It was Smonig, back by the willow. He was greasy up to the elbow and holding his truck’s distributor. Sid scowled at him.

“Ducks…” Russ began in a stage whisper.

Sid held up an arresting hand and shook his head. No interruptions. Sid turned away.

Snubbed, Russ shrugged. He was just trying to tell Sid that a family of ducks had flown off the pond not fifteen minutes ago. The trout would be spooked from feeding for hours, though they might be tempted with worms or corn. Or maybe a little cheese. These trout were fresh from the stocking pond, and all they knew about food was what Purina put in a pellet. Russ ambled back toward the gaping gray jaws of his truck.

“Ducks. What I wanna hear about ducks? Can’t he see I’m, like, busy?” Sid shook his head, but gave a glance back to see if Smonig was watching. Nope, the jerk was gone. Back to business.

Sid kept moving farther forward with the idea the fish were clustered closer to where the creek entered the pond. Trout always hang out in highly oxygenated water—
Rod & Creel
gospel—and usually that’s where the water’s splashing around, though sometimes it’s where the water’s real cold.

As Sid moved forward, he found himself creeping under the towering canopy of a pin oak. Unbeknownst to Sid, leaves dropped from the pin oak in great number each fall, and they accumulated directly beneath it in quantity. So much so, in fact, that they gave the false impression that the pond was shallower than it was.

In midcast, Sid brought a foot forward onto the oak leaf bottom, and his leg sank steadily into deep mud.

Anticipation swelled as the water topped his hip boot and loaded his leg with thirty pounds of cold brown scum, bubbles of methane filling his nostrils with a horsy stench. The leg kept going down, and the chilly water approached his groin. Reflexively, he raised his arms over his head and started sucking in air, as though that might somehow make him lighter.

Like a bug on flypaper or a mouse on a glue trap, Sid brought the other foot forward to pull the sinking one out.

Chest deep in mud and chin deep in water, it was beginning to dawn on him that there were a lot more angles to this angling business than he’d figured.

There was only one way out. He had to bid farewell to the hip boots, unclip them, slither free, and make like a mudskipper by wallowing to the shore generously slathered in fetid mud. Once free of them, however, Sid couldn’t resist trying to recover his hip boots.

Plastered hat to socks in muck, Sid stomped toward Ballard Cabin, rod in one hand and a lone hip boot in the other. A twist to the spigot knob brought a hose to life, and he rinsed off both himself and his gear. Then he headed for the shower inside.

That’s where Sid learned about the little black “nymphs.” Bugs they were not. Leeches they were.

For those
who think four-dollar pitchers are only served in heaven at a tavern with a ten-cent jukebox, the Duck Pond is cloud nine. Yuengling is served in smooth-sided fifty-two-ounce pitchers, and a 1964 jukebox plays a single for a dime. Album sides are four bits.

What with the advent of compact discs, though, the music at the Duck Pond was limited largely to pre-1990 tunes. Nobody seemed to notice. Certainly not Big Bob. His favorite band was Boston, the Doobies taking a close second. And as it happened, Big Bob was personally responsible for wearing the Boston
Boston
album smooth, at a cost variously estimated by regulars to be somewhere between two and three hundred dollars’ worth of plays. The demise of that first album came as a relief to some, but soon thereafter Big Bob supplied his own copy of Boston’s second album,
Don’t Look Back.
Having drawn the short drink stirrer, Russ was picked by fate to tell Big Bob that he was limited to one play and one side of
DLB
a night.

Everybody was sure Big Bob would be emotionally crushed. And in turn, they were sure Russ would be physically crushed. Contrary to popular speculation, though, Bob took it very well. In fact, he was quite moved that Russ was such an up-front kinda guy. And as it happened, Big Bob came to consider Russ his barroom sage on matters of the heart, though matters of intellect were still the realm of
Newstime
magazine.

“So she looks at me kinda funny. I don’t know how to describe it, Russ. She wuzn’t laughin’ at me, but she wuzn’t takin’ it real serious. Do ya think maybe she thinks I’m too big for her?” Big Bob sloshed some more Yuengling in Russ’s mug, then his own. They sat at a pedestal table with a flecked plastic top. A wagon wheel chandelier bedecked in illuminated plastic duck decoys hung overhead.

“What can I tell you, Bob? Louise is four foot ten and you’re six foot five. What would you do if a girl eight feet tall asked you out?” Russ was already looking around for a way out of the heart-to-heart. He really wanted to huddle with motor-head Lloyd over the International’s distributor troubles.

“That’s different. Guys is supposed to be taller’n the gal anyways. Besides, we’re talking about people at normal sizes.” Bob stared at his beer and tried to decide when he wanted his
DLB
album side—sooner or later.

“O.K., Bob, point taken, but I was after your gut reaction. Someone who’s big is a little intimidating, that’s all. Hey, whatever happened to that girl Maria, the timberman on that bridge job of yours? She’s five eleven.” A ray of hope—Lloyd had just strolled in with Kris. If Russ could only catch his eye, get him to come over and sit down, Bob would probably withdraw to the jukebox.

“Nothin’ happened to Maria. The point is, Russ, I like the little ones, whut can I tell ya, and I don’t think it’s fair that just because I’m the size I am, I can’t find a small girl. Why, I remember reading in
Newstime
, October of ’85, a feature on midgets and dwarfs and stuff—how that little guy from
Fantasy Island
—he married a girl who was twice his size. And so did a lot of those fellahs. All real normal relationships too. Now why can’t it happen th’other way around? Russ?”

A dark look shadowed Bob’s brow. Russ jumped back on track.

“Yes, but what you’ve got to realize, Bob, is that if you’re going to create a narrow set of parameters, no matter what they are—say, you insisted on a girl with an I.Q. of 180—there are going to be fewer who meet the requirements. You’re going to have to maybe ask out twice the number of small girls before you find one who’s not intimidated by your relative sizes and before you come up with a winner. Hullo, Lloyd!” Russ shrugged at Bob, who was still entrenched in his dilemma.

“How ya guys doing?” Lloyd gave a knowing look to Russ. “Hey, Big Bob, how’s the pile-driving? Could you do me a favor? Can you get Little Bob to stop callin’ me Doc? It really bugs me the way he keeps callin’ me Doc. Say, ya look in a glum mood there tonight, Big Bob.”

“It’s nothing, Lloyd, probably just thinkin’ too much. I’ll talk with Cropsey about callin’ ya Doc. He’s got a kinda inconsiderate side, that’s all.” Bob stepped out of and over his chair, headed for the jukebox. “If you guys’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go look at the tunes.”

“Thanks, Lloyd.” Russ sloshed some Yuengling into his savior’s glass.

Lloyd tilted his head in Big Bob’s direction. “Girl trouble again?”

“Girl trouble always. It’s not that I don’t care, but it’s always the same thing.” Russ rolled his eyes.

“Uh-huh. Like a guy I know. All he ever wants to talk about is the trouble with his confounded International Harvester pickup.” Lloyd grinned, stroking his Vandyke.

“Hey, I don’t always…”

“You’re right. Last time it was the Dodge. I still say that if you clean your battery posts the Dodge would start right up.”

“Doubtful, Lloyd. Battery posts aside, it hasn’t been run in five months.”

“So what’s with the International?”

“Distributor.”

Lloyd’s gal Kris stepped up, a sharp, petite woman with short-short dusty brown hair. Big Bob always tried not to look at her.

“Ya fellahs motor-headin’? Ugh. Look, I’m gonna beat Penelope in Duck Hunt. Spare some quarters, handsome? Russ, honey? Ya eatin’ all right? Ya look tired.”

“I’m up at four-thirty about five days a week. When am I not tired, Kris?” Russ smiled.

Kris just shook her worried face at Russ and took the two crumpled greenbacks Lloyd was surrendering.

“A man your age.” With that, Kris trotted over to the Duck Hunt machine where the chocolate brunette Penelope snapped Bazooka and swayed to the Doobies, which had just come on the jukebox. The strains of “Jesus Is Just Alright with Me” swirled a bit of soul in the bar. Penelope had just gotten off work. The management at The Pond only needed a waitress for the lunch crowd. There was no dinner crowd.

“Kris has a mind to fix the sad state of your love life, Russ.” Lloyd clicked a plastic-tipped cheroot in his teeth.

Russ put one hand over his heart, the other in the air while admiring Penelope’s behind. She was shooting video ducks, a light pistol on one hip and a hand in the back pocket on the other. “Still trying to fix me up? I’m a duly deputized bachelor, Lloyd. Can’t she accept that?”

“In a word? Nope. And I think she’s still working on you an’ Penelope.” Lloyd flicked a lighter in the vicinity of his cheroot while also admiring Penelope’s behind, her pelvis twitching with each pistol blast. “And of course I’m still trying to work on what I gotta do to get that musky.”

“I told you, a tune-up on my…”

“A tune-up isn’t what ya need, Russ, I keep tellin’ ya that. Ya need to stop messin’ with your fuel mixture.”

“But I read somewhere that if you put a little less oil in the gas and adjust the mixture screw…”

“Look, Russ, let me get rid of some of that ear hair.”

“Ear hair?” Russ grabbed at his ears.

“Yeah, it’s comin’ in. Ya got one big black curly one right…”

“Ho, Smonig,” Sid interrupted. He jerked up a chair from the next table and sat. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Oh, er, hullo!” Russ lowered his hands from his ears. “Uh, Lloyd, I’d like you to meet my new neighbor, Sid Bifulco.”

Sid considered Lloyd’s outstretched hand a moment, shook it with obvious disinterest, and focused back on Russ. “Yeah, nice t’meet you. Can I buy you guys a Canadian?”

“Careful, Sid,” Lloyd piped up. “Offers like that are always accepted around here.”

Sid barely glanced in Lloyd’s direction as he pointed a ten-dollar bill at him. “Then I guess you won’t mind bein’ a good boy an’ gettin’ us the round.” Sid smiled at Russ.

Lloyd shrugged and headed for the bar. A guy who bought the drinks got special license to be drunk, stupid, or obnoxious.

“So, how was Ballard Pond?” Russ sat across from Sid. “Get any?”

Sid’s expression was fixed, but a bloody tint rose across what looked like two tiny hickeys on his neck, over his angular jaw, and up to his silver-tinged hairline.

“To be perfectly honest, Smonig, not so friggin’ good.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I didn’t mean to bother you out there, but I was trying to—”

“Smonig, that Trout Lady tells me you’re some kinda fishing expert around here. That right?”

“Well, I do a little guiding, tie a lotta flies, write…”

“Don’t let him fool ya, Sid.” Lloyd returned with the drinks. They poured them fast and sloppy at The Pond. “Russ here’s the local guru. Everybody around the Eddy tries to pump him for info on the hot spots. But Russ here’s got a price. Why, ya should have heard the little speech he made at the Five Star.”

“You got a price, Smonig?” With the smooth sweep of a magician, Sid used one hand to pluck his own drink and hold out the other for Russ.

“I charge by the half day, seventy-five dollars.”

“Seventy-five bucks, huh, for a half day?” Sid tugged pensively at an earlobe. “Tell me, Smonig, how many kinds of fish can you go for in half a day?”

Russ sipped his drink and winced from the bite. Though he liked it well enough, whisky was the exception rather than the rule. It wasn’t in his budget.

“Hm. Maybe two or three, but generally a client is after something in particular, like trout.”

“And how many kinds of fish, fished for in all the different ways you can fish for ’em, are there around here?”

Confused, Russ blinked, then went to put his drink on the table but didn’t. “Huh? I don’t follow.”

“Don’t ya get it, Russ?” Lloyd interjected, snapping his cheroot at the ashtray. “Our new neighbor here is trying to figure out how many half days it would take to learn everything ya know about fishing around here.”

Casting an eye in Lloyd’s direction, Sid smirked, reached out a hand, and gripped Lloyd’s shoulder.

“You’re a sharp guy, Louie.” Sid gave Lloyd’s shoulder a few hard squeezes and let go. Lloyd puffed at his cheroot somewhat uneasily. “You got another of them there wheezers, Louie?”

“Wheezer?”

“Yeah, a cigar?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Lloyd handed one over.

“And a light?” Sid tilted his head back and to the side.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Lloyd lit Sid’s cigar.

Sid drew deeply and with obvious satisfaction on the cheap cigar. “Russ, I like your friend Louie.”

“Yup, Louie is kinda handy to have around, I guess,” Russ mumbled uneasily.

“Louie’s kinda, I dunno—whatsit the French say? A certain
I dunno what
? Anyhow, when you figure out your price, Smonig, swing by for a drink.” Scooting his chair out, Sid got to his feet and downed his Canadian. He set his glass on a folded ten. “Have another round on me, boys. Adios.” He ran his fingers through his hair, instinctively checking his peripheral vision as he walked from the dark barroom into twilight.

No sooner had Sid stiff-armed the front door than Big Bob stomped over to the slack-jawed Russ and Lloyd.

“Hey, Russ, who was that guy?” Bob helped himself to the pitcher.

“My new neighbor,” Russ said absently. “Moved into the Ballard place.”

“Guy sure looks familiar. Like an actor or something.”

Little Bob, his wife, Val, and his camcorder had just arrived. The latter was zooming in on Russ, Lloyd, and Big Bob.

“Or ‘something’ is about like it!” Lloyd started to chortle through his cigar smoke.

Russ gave a short laugh and mugged Sid’s half-lidded, smooth demeanor.

“Yo, Louie, you got another of them wheezers?”

“Sure, boss!” Lloyd unwrapped a cheroot and fit it in Russ’s mouth.

“Hey, guys, this is great! Doc, turn toward the camera.” Little Bob danced around for a better vantage.

“Bob, must you?” Val tugged at Little Bob’s shirtsleeve.

“Don’t call me Doc!” Lloyd moaned.

“I guess I’ll have to get my own spritzer,” Val chirped, drifting over to the bar.

“Light me, Louie!” Russ commanded through clenched teeth.

“Yes, Mr. Sid! Right away, Mr. Sid!” Lloyd chirped.

Russ blew out a cloud of smoke, reached back, and grabbed Lloyd by the beard. He gave it a waggle.

“Louie, you’re a peach!”

They disintegrated in laughter, which drew Kris and Penelope over to the table, whereupon the scene was replayed. Lively discussion accompanied ever more beer on their pal Sid’s ten. Before too long, Kris and Penelope played out their version of the scene, then Big and Little Bob were goaded into a stilted production that brought the house down. Every five minutes someone would inevitably blurt: “Light me, Louie!” and grab Lloyd by the beard. Big Bob got a share of the kidding over his contention that Sid was someone he’d seen before, a famous person.

Somewhere along the line Val traded Little Bob a dirty look for the car keys and snuck out. She was never much for barroom antics, especially what with the next day being Church Day.

The party marched on for a few hours, and Russ’s hoarse giggles were worn to tatters by the time the gang stumbled from the Duck Pond at last call. However, his taste for speculation on Sid was not exhausted. As they split for their respective pickup trucks and SUVs, the battle cry went up: “Light me, Louie! You’re a peach!” Rambunctious plumes of cold fog billowed from the revelers’ lips into the harsh beams of the parking lot flood lamps. The spring night had taken on a chill, and the moon had not yet risen.