Sleep with the Fishes Page 2

  Sid folded his arms, raised his chin, and spoke forthrightly. “Well, Warden, you ask me, I’d say there’s only one way to find out.”

  Taken aback by the cut of Sid’s jib, Lachfurst came to attention, tapping a knuckle on the desktop.

  Twenty-four days later, Sid had his rod.

  At first the Warden just made a point of training the brass telescope perched in his office window on the athletic field. Then he happened by, gave Sid a few pointers. Then there was another office visit, a few fish stories, and then the fly rod and a how-to book. Then the fly-tying kit. And damned if Lachfurst didn’t have Sid make up a bunch of salmon flies for the Warden’s annual trip to Labrador.

  Worm and bobber fishing didn’t hook Sid “Sleep” Bifulco. It was the serious business of tackle fishing, of search and destroy. Catalogs filled with lures, lines, weapons, and gadgets. Magazines brimming with technique, exotic locales, and brash leaping fish. It all had a certain sense of fraternity, a sense of craft, hunt, and danger that Sid, a hood, enjoyed. Angling wasn’t just about whacking fish, it was about the respect that came with being a whacker of fish. And it took hold of Sid as if angling was what he’d always been meant for, as if being a wiseguy was a soured career turn. Besides, he’d grown fond of red hiking boots.

  Sid Bifulco—Izaak Walton reincarnate.

  Cryptobranchus alleganiensis is a salamander of grand proportions. It has a record length of twenty-nine inches and almost exclusively haunts rocky-bottomed segments of the Susquehanna River. By all reports, this muddy, girthsome, and deeply wrinkled beast is like some aquatic English bulldog, and twice as handsome. They call them hellbenders, and their apocryphal appearances in the Delaware River are favored upon a dot on the map labeled Hellbender Eddy, Pennsylvania. There hadn’t been a sighting of one since 1888.

  Just where the river stumbles down a set of rapids, a large, slowly swirling pool forms the famed Eddy. Pink Creek sneaks in at this bay, and a trail beside it connects the river bend to the town of Hellbender Eddy. It’s a wee burg wedged between the river and the steep side of Little Hound Mountain, which is really more like a hill.

  The better part of sixty minutes from any interstate, Hellbender Eddy is more than two and a half hours from New York City. It’s situated on the winding, circuitous Route 241, across the river from New York. It has only one antique store and neither fresh bagels nor the Sunday New York Times. There are a few holiday cabins, mostly owned by Scranton businessmen. Downtown is comprised of a single restaurant—Chik’s Five Star Diner—and little else.

  It was a frosty May dawn, and the counter at Chik’s was filled with locals. The joint was old, the walls painted a zillion coats of cream semigloss, its Formica counter stalwart, long, and black. White and black tiles made a checkerboard of the floor, and deco wall sconces gave the place a dull warm glow. A giant urn brewed coffee by the gallon, residual steam making the hashery mighty humid indeed. Two potted palms in the back thought they’d died and gone to heaven.

  On weekdays, most of the locals drifted through Chik’s for a container of coffee and a sauna.

  Big Bob Stillwell and Little Bob Cropsey made their usual appearance on the way to the construction site where they worked.

  “G’morning, fellahs.” Chik smiled, his pencil-thin mustache curling devilishly. “Usual?”

  Little Bob was poking around Big Bob’s jump-suited girth with an old VHS camcorder he bought at a tag sale. “Yes, Chik, we will have the usual. Tell us what the usual is, Chik.”

  Chik looked into the lens, hesitating and smoothing his hair.

  Big Bob lifted a meaty arm and looked down at Little Bob like something in his armpit stank.

  “Must ya fool with that darn thing so early in the mornin’?” Big Bob let his arm drop and turned to Chik. “Not the usual. Just coffee and buttered rolls. Gotta cut out the fat.” Big Bob punched himself in the gut.

  “Chik, look into the camera. I want the usual. I don’t got no weight problem.” Chik smoothed his mustache and flashed a dirty smile at the camera. Then Little Bob saw Big Bob’s unshaven face fill the view screen.

  “I ain’t got a ‘weight problem.’ I’m not talkin’ about fat, I’m talkin’ about cholesterol. Eggs and bacon is cholesterol, Bob. Cholesterol is bad for ya too. Don’t ya even read the papers? Chik: coffee and rolls.” Big Bob was a faithful reader of Newstime magazine and considered himself quite the scholar of current events. As a heavy equipment operator on major construction projects, there were plentiful lulls in the pile-driving that could be spent memorizing the news.

  “Hey, Doc.” Little Bob squirreled over to Lloyd Conti, who was farther down the counter. “Tell me about cholesterol, Doc. Into the camera.” Video Bob was also an equipment operator, but unlike Big Bob, his job kept him busy switching between backhoes and front loaders.

  Lloyd swiveled on his stool, mopping his lips and Vandyke with a paper napkin. A pack of plastic-tipped cheroots peeked from a top pocket.

  “Bob, I am not a doctor. I keep telling ya that. Just ’cause I do electrolysis doesn’t mean I’m a doctor. And do ya think that if I were a doctor I’d be doin’ small engine repair on the side? Don’t ya think I’d be removing gallbladders or somethin’?” Lloyd turned back to his breakfast.

  “Hey, Bob. Come ’ere, I’ll tell ya about cholesterol!” Jenny Baker was down at the last stool, a cracked leather jacket draped over her shoulders and her blond hair pinned to the top of her head with a cocktail stirrer. A bit of a looker past her prime, Jenny drove a ten-wheel tanker for Red Eft Trout Farms. Everyone knew the routine: Chik liked to toy with her, get a little fresh, make her take a swing at him. It had become a game of sorts. He kept tally with a pencil on the side of the coffee urn.

  “O.K., Jenny, tell us about cholesterol. Why is it bad for skinny people?” Little Bob stalked over to Jenny, zooming in and out on the beguiling smile she’d worked up for him.

  “Lemme show ya. See this piece of toast? Ya focused your little camera on it?”

  “Got it, Jenny. Now what?”

  “Well, see how when I dip it in the egg yella? That there, stuck to the end of my toast? Come in real close now.”

  “Got it, Jenny. Now what?”

  “That’s cholesterol.”

  “But why is it bad for skinny people? It don’t make us fat.”

  “No it doesn’t, Little Bob. But it ain’t too good for their video cameras.”

  Bob’s image of Jenny was suddenly smeared yolk yellow.

  “Hey! Hey! Ya put egg yella on my lens!” Little Bob poked his camera around looking for a napkin. Gentle early morning chuckles rippled through the patrons. Little Bob felt a clamp on the back of his neck. It was Big Bob’s meaty grasp.

  “Must ya fool with that darn thing this early in the mornin’? C’mon, we got our stuff, now let’s let these folks breakfast in peace.” Big Bob led his stooped protégé out the door just as Russ Smonig slipped past them with a sleepy nod.

  “How ya doin’, Russ?” Chik was freshening coffees along the counter. “Heard you got into the shad real good last week. How many does that make it now?”

  “Yeah, they’re comin’ up. Small bunches, all bucks.” Russ was sandy-haired, with a prominent jaw, squinty eyes, and an edgy manner that betrayed the hardships of rural life. But strictly speaking, Russ wasn’t a local. He hailed from Hartford, where he’d been an insurance executive. Pennsylvania became his roost about ten years before, after some domestic trouble, some said. These days he tried to make a go at being an outdoor writer while getting by tying flies and guiding. He lived in a two-tone sagging trailer on a quality slice of riverfront south of Hellbender Eddy. The land was his outright, his total net asset. He’d once had a five-year plan in which he became widely published, hosted a fishing show, and replaced his shack with a palatial log cabin. Now he didn’t make plans beyond the next three weeks.

  “But how many does that make it? What’s your total?” Chik persisted. Huge numbers of shad entered the Delaware
River each spring to spawn like salmon, and those who angled for them seriously kept score.

  Russ looked a little uncomfortable, but divulged his tally.

  “Seventy-five. Chik, just gimme a half-dozen sticky buns, two cups regular, and fill this thermos, O.K.?” Russ plunked his thermos on the Formica and pushed back on his stained fedora, trying not to look at the patrons along the counter as they rustled with awe.

  “Seventy-five already, huh? Sure took a quick lead. Got a client this mornin’, do you, Russ?” Chik queried from a cloud of steam at the urn.

  “Yeah, I got a sport this morning.” Russ’s gaze wandered over the ceiling before he snatched a glance down the counter. The whole lot was giving him the envious, expectant eye.

  “Well?” Russ looked back at them, and they shifted, looking from one to the other. Jenny spoke up.

  “C’mon, Russ. We want the shad report. Lot of us’ve been to all the usual spots—fish all day an’ just pick up a handful. Where are ya takin’ ’em? An’ don’t give us that doo-doo about ‘trade secrets.’ We ain’t your sports. Not one of us can afford your guiding services. But we are your neighbors, and, well, the neighborly thing to do is tell us where you’re takin’ ’em, that’s all. It’s not like there’s a shad shortage or anything, is there, Russ?”

  The group grunted, nodding agreement.

  Russ worked up a fatigued smile, the only kind he seemed capable of anymore. Living was hard and the rewards increasingly scarce. Either he was up at four a.m. and on the river with a sport jigging for walleye, burning the midnight oil tying up four hundred dry flies to fill an order, or he was huddled next to his kerosene heater laboring on yet another article that would be rejected by Sports Astream or Bass Blaster.

  His transition from amateur to professional angler was complete: he caught a lot of fish and could land enough for three square meals at will. But it was all he could do to stay financially afloat, much less give away freebies to his neighbors.

  “Tell you what, Jenny. Neighborly is as neighborly does. You throw some free trout into Ballard Pond for my supper, and I’ll give you a river sweet spot. Lloyd, you give a tune-up on my Evinrude, and I’ll point out where and how you just might get that Mr. Musky you’re always talking about. And, Chik, you…”

  “No charge, Mr. Smonig.” Chik winked at Russ and pushed forward the thermos, plastic cups, and white bag crammed with sticky buns. Russ plucked the pen from behind Chik’s ear, tore out a receipt from his pad, and started to draw a little map. Folks at the counter craned their necks to see. Russ kept lowering his shoulder to block their view.

  “There you go, Chik. Walleye. See you use that size Rapala in that color, and troll it right along through those holes just as early in the morning as you can.” Russ collected his stuff and turned sharply to the audience. “Good day, neighbors.” He backed out the door.

  Reverend Jim was waiting for him on the porch with one foot on the railing, his sharp red tongue poised in anticipation, and an ocher eye angled up at Russ. The Reverend’s affection for Russ was genuine, but the emotional tie did not keep him from robbing Russ blind. He had been banished from the Smonig abode for stealing coins, and he would loot the truck’s glove box at any opportunity. Russ walked past the Reverend, dipped his shoulder, and the crow hopped on, expressing joy with flicks of his tongue and fanning wings.

  The Reverend Jim was named for a popular TV evangelist. As Russ climbed into his truck, the Reverend took his place on the International Harvester’s gearshift knob. He would hop down every time Russ shifted gears, then pop right back up. Turning the pickup’s key for a while, Russ whispered curses at his reluctant ignition and eyed his black thieving friend.

  Eating a piece of toast slathered in jam, Jenny sauntered out of the diner and over to the truck.

  “Well, seeing as how you’re at least willing to barter, might ya accept information? Hey, Reverend Jim—how’s my baby?” Jenny waved at the bird, who uttered a low, curious rattle like dice in a cup.

  Russ gave the key a rest. He dished up his fatigued smile for Jenny.

  “O.K., Russ, just to show that I for one know how to be neighborly, I’ll give ya the information free and see if your conscience doesn’t do the rest. Ya have a new next-door neighbor.” She chomped her toast, licking grape jam from her lips.

  “At the Ballard place, I’ll bet. I heard some cars over there. So?”

  “Well, Russ honey, my brother Matt was over there turning on the water and gas and such. And do ya know what he saw?”

  She arched an eyebrow. Russ’s eyebrows remained the same.

  “I’ll tell ya what he saw. Your new next-door neighbor is not only from the city, but he is also loaded with fishing tackle. He’s got rods sticking out all over the place. And in his pocket he keeps a wad of bills this thick. Tipped Matt ten bucks, just like that.” Jenny shoved the rest of the toast in her mouth.

  “Might not need any guiding if he has all that tackle.” Russ’s lips puckered in thought.

  “Russ, don’t be a dope,” she said around the toast, swallowing hard. “It don’t matter how many rods he got. He’s not from around here! He doesn’t know the hot spots like you do, now does he?”

  Russ’s eyebrows arched. Reverend Jim began clucking impatiently.

  “Let’s put it this way, Smonig: if you do get this new neighbor as a sport, I want a little map like you gave Chik, but with an X marking the secret shad spot.” Jenny licked jam from her thumb.

  Russ looked up at her sharply.

  “It’s a deal.” He cranked the key and seemed to catch the ignition off guard. The truck started.

  Like most crows, Reverend Jim was clever to the verge of being psychic. He never failed to show up when Russ was headed for Phennel Rowe’s place, and as it happened Russ planned to drop off some fish fillets there on his way back from the Five Star.

  “I hears you got a new neighba’, Mr. Smonig,” Phennel croaked from her gray porch rocker. A hand-painted black and olive sign hung low over the porch steps: “ANTIQUES—Used Furniture.” A similar sign posted like a warning in the yard declared “LAMPERS,” which referred to the baby bloodsucking eels that Phennel dug out of the mucky bends in Pink Creek. Lampers were hot commodities, especially when she came into a bevy of blue lampers, considered the hottest summer walleye bait at any price.

  “So I hear.” The Reverend fidgeted on Russ’s forearm as they approached the sagging Victorian house.

  “And Reverend Jim is come too. Why, do ya remember the first time ya brought that bird ’roun’ here? That was a sorry sight.” Phennel shook her head, rocked a moment, then stopped and put bent, oversized spectacles on her face.

  “Yup.” Russ paused at the porch steps. “Found him with a mangled foot, brought him to you, and you fixed him up.” The crow was left with one good foot and one stump, and when he walked he limped like a peg-leg pirate.

  “Ya mean the Reverend Jim Chattanooga fixed him up. I only doctored him. It was the five dollars I sent to Reverend Jim for a TV prayer that put the Lord’s healing in that bird. What ya got there, Mr. Smonig?” She knew, or should have known. He brought fillets every week. Maybe she didn’t want it to seem like charity.

  “Shad and walleye. I had extra and thought maybe you could use some. Only seems right, what with you paying that five dollars for that prayer.” Russ ducked under the hanging sign and stepped up onto the porch. As he did so, the crow hopped onto Phennel’s shoulder and cawed in her bad ear.

  “Why, that’s very thoughtful, Mr. Smonig. No roe yet, I suppose?” She looked up at him through her glasses, her wet sloe eyes searching his. Phennel was a sensitive, spiritual woman, and she could see pain in a person’s eyes.

  “No, not yet. I’ll just put these in your icebox.” Russ made his way through the flimsy screen door, and Phennel nodded her thanks. He returned shortly, conscious both of the sport waiting at his trailer and of Phennel’s probing eyes. He tipped his hat, ready to mumble his good-bye. Miss Rowe interrupted
.

  “Ya missin’ Sandra pretty bad lately? If ya like, Russell, come by this evening for some Postum, and we’ll talk.”

  The name Sandra stung. Russ nodded at the offer of instant mock coffee, smiled weakly, and moved off to his truck without a word.

  When he climbed in, he discovered that the Reverend had jimmied the glove box and flown off with his Pabst bottle opener.

  Sid arose to the distant applause of the river and wandered into his knotty pine kitchen. In a dented saucepan he whipped up some instant coffee. Steaming mug in hand, he shuffled through the tackle-strewn living room and kicked open the door to the porch. Squirrels exploded out of the rafters and dove for a gnaw hole in the porch screen. They were gone. Sid casually examined the leafy nest they’d fled as he settled into a PVC lawn chair.

  The weather had been unsettled, overcast skies spotted with teasing peeks of blue and the stray ray of sun. It was frosty out and early in the season for any frog or insect to make much racket in the morning. Only the river, which was running a little high, kicked up a fuss. All in all it was about as quiet as it got at Ballard Cabin, which was just about perfect musical accompaniment for Sid’s first morning alone in seven years. Piquant and piney country air filled his nose, an aroma he hoped would soon vanquish the lingering whiff of prison stench.

  Everything had happened just as he’d mapped it out over the years. His lawyer, Endelpo, had hatched Sid’s various nest eggs, sent him real estate clippings, cinched the deal on the cabin, and gotten him an LTD to replace his long-gone Marquis. Acknowledging that keeping Sid in New Jersey during probation might be a death sentence, Warden Lachfurst had been instrumental in negotiating a parole that allowed Sid to relocate. Of course he had to keep in close contact with his probation officer, a man who by no coincidence was a “bronze back” enthusiast. His P.O. had accompanied him to his new digs, and after inspecting the river advised Sid that he didn’t really expect him to seek employment so much as find him the smallmouth bass. No need for Sid to visit him in Newark. He would be back often enough, rod in hand. As would, in time, Warden Lachfurst. And maybe one or two trout-mad members of the parole board.