Sleep with the Fishes Page 5

  The next step was to call the police, anonymously identifying the killer and mentioning that he was probably driving a BMW with skis on the roof. It was a long shot.

  After that, Omer was bound for Hellbender Eddy.

  Saturday morning dawned over the Ballard Cabin porch, where Sid was splayed across a PVC chaise lounge like Robinson Crusoe tossed on the beach.

  Soaked to the skin and damned near a broken man, he’d returned from his battle with the river and collapsed onto the plastic recliner. Sid’s mind dived headfirst into exhausted sleep. Somewhere around two a.m. and in a fit of shivers, he had drawn the dusty spiral-weave rug from the porch floor over his sorry carcass.

  Sid wasn’t dreaming. He never had, not so he could remember. But as he stirred from soggy sleep in the predawn light, he felt positive the nuzzling in his ear was the tail end of some wicked slumber fantasy. There was a certain wuffling to the nuzzle, which he found disconcerting, and for some reason it made his nostril ache.

  Rolling his head to the side, Sid found black squirrel pupils considering him with syncopated whisker spasms. Before the rodent could initiate a nasal probe, Sid slid his hand from beneath the rug and rotated it into a cup. The young squirrel found this of interest, climbed aboard Sid’s hand, and began systematically inspecting each finger.

  Sid’s only warning was the flash of orange incisors.

  Sharp pain and seconds later, Sid found himself sucking on a pinky, looking at a bunch of chattering leaves in the rafters. “Cute lil’ mother,” he mumbled around his pinky. “Painful, but cute.”

  In a matter of hours, Sid was refortified with new weapons, revised battle plans, sandwiches, coffee, some nylon rope, auxiliary oars, a new anchor, and a life preserver. He launched his boat again and rowed toward the bay below the rapids. His target: walleye at the near bank, on the outside of the bend, just like in the Rod & Creel illustrations.

  The previous day’s rain had brought the river up a few inches and left it cloudy. Starting from the tail of the rapids, Sid manned the anchor, drifting downriver and testing the depths. A knowing smile grew when the anchor suddenly found bottom much deeper. Just as he’d suspected—a nice drop-off where toothy walleye might prowl. The sun muscled by the loafing clouds and shone on the angler Bifulco. Anchor aweigh.

  Walleye can be caught with jigs, doodads comprised of a hook with an oblong piece of painted lead at the head and a froufrou of feathers or hair at the tail. When bounced just off the bottom of a lake or river, the technique is aptly named jigging.

  And so Angler Bifulco jigged. The current was constant, swirling but not fast, and he tossed his lures behind the boat and set the rods against the gunnels. The motion of the boat afforded a natural jigging action.

  Puffs of cloud, like smoke from a cigar, filled the sky, and a breeze made the trees creak like the underside of a freight trestle. Before long, a brace of canoes drifted by, nice people waving and calling to him.

  “Catch anything?” they all said.

  “Sure,” Sid replied over a mouthful of salami and rye. His rods pumped mildly in the rolling current, jigs dancing deep below.

  Russ stood with a bucket on the rocky shoal near his landing and watched the intrepid Bifulco with a pair of binoculars.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. He’s sitting on my walleye hole,” Russ said aloud, lowering the binoculars. Too bad Sid hadn’t been there earlier, trolling with Rapalas, Russ mused. Or later in the season, maybe using some lampers. If so, Sid might actually have had a chance. Probably turn up a shad though. Russ tucked the binoculars away and glanced upriver. It was nigh on ten a.m., and the weekend flotilla was on schedule.

  There were a dozen or more canoe and rafting outfitters on the Upper Delaware, all of which launched several hundred craft encumbered with recreational boaters each spring and summer day. Now for some, a paddle down the scenic beauty of the Delaware has the emotional impact of a Frederic Church landscape. But for others, a paddle down the scenic Delaware is a notch up from beer slides at a frat wingding.

  Russ could hear the hooting echo of the recreational boaters already. In honor of their arrival, he began turning over rocks along the shore looking for hellgrammites, black bi-pincered Dobson fly larvae as big as an index finger and doubtless the model for numerous alien sci-fi monsters. Great bait, but their ferocious pincers still made Russ a tad squeamish. He found courage in the fact that they were worth a quarter apiece.

  When a flotsam of caterwauling oafs began to swirl around him, Sid merely sneered, noting, “There oughta be, like, some kind of a law against this shit.”

  But by eleven a.m., with the river a wall-to-wall yeasty commotion and discarded Bud Light cans, Sid was eager to commit an uncharacteristically messy homicide.

  Canoes brimmed with sunburned, beefy Brooklynites. Inner tube swarms were plugged with guffawing jackanapes. Inflato-kayaks were draped with neon-bikinied jabbering flab. Floating coolers flocked about huge circular yellow rafts awash in bingeing servicemen on leave. Radios, boom boxes, banjos, and trumpets. Power squirters, Water Weenies, and Wonder Mud. Paddle splashing, capsizing, fisticuffs, and urinating.

  After having his lines fouled, his bow slammed, and his neck popped by Water Weenie cross fire, Sid decided to weigh anchor and give it up. Just as he was leaning over the front of the boat, a buffoon suckling from a beer helmet zipped his runaway kayak down the fast current and fishtailed into the S.S. Bifulco.

  Man overboard. The gang thought it was a scream.

  A half hour later at Ballard Cabin, old boots, musty tarp, and oily rope flew out of the cedar closet as Sid searched in vain for a rifle. He had almost reached the point of lashing butter knives to broom handles before he simmered down and realized he might just jeopardize his parole if he speared a few recreational boaters.

  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 c
ruiser, 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.