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.
Russ chuckled gently and fumbled with his keys in the shadow of his truck.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
“Russ, ya O.K. to drive? Ya know, statistics show that most accidents at night are alcohol-related.”
“Look, Bob, are you any soberer than me?” Russ eyed his giant friend.
“I think so. I didn’t have any of that Canadian. Too many free radicals in blended whiskys,” Bob warned.
“Uh-huh. Well, if you drive me, how are you gonna drive your Bronco?” Russ held up a key and opened the driver’s door.
“Little Bob—he never drinks anything much—he an’ me is together since Val took his sedan.” Bob held the car door open without effort as Russ climbed in and tried to pull the door closed.
“O.K., look, I appreciate the concern.” Russ tugged at the door and almost pulled himself from the truck to the parking lot. Bob still held it open. “O.K., look, I’ll drive, O.K., an’ you ride with me an’ make sure I drive O.K. all the way home. See, this truck, well, y’know it’s got kinda funny steering and stuff.”
Little Bob pulled up in Big Bob’s Bronco, camcorder on the seat beside him.
Big Bob nodded. “O.K., Russ. But ya so much as swerve and we stop. I ain’t lettin’ ya kill me.”
On the way down 241, Russ kept a steady hand, and Big Bob only felt obliged to comment on maintaining the speed limit.
“Y’know, Russ, in almost eighty percent of all accidents after dark, excessive speed is listed as a secondary cause of accident.”
Russ nodded in the milky glow of the dashboard. “I did not know that, Bob. Say, Bob, who do you think this guy Bifulco is? A TV personality? What?” A glance in the rearview confirmed Little Bob was right behind.
“Dunno, but I don’t never forget faces. I coulda used a good look at him. The ducks don’t put out much light. It’s not exactly well lit at the bar.”
“Do you think if you got a better look it might come back to you?”
“Might. Might.”
“Well, let’s say we go take a look.”
“Tonight?”
As the International veered up Ballard Road from 241, Russ gave the tan BMW parked on the shoulder only passing notice.
“Shhh. We’re gonna sneak up on Ol’ Sid, see if you recognize him. Don’t want the headlights to flash his cabin as I come down my drive.” Russ killed the headlights.
“Russ…”
“Bob, I know every inch of this drive.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Little Bob had gone to his parking lights.
“You’re goin’ a little fast there, partner,” Big Bob warned.
Russ tugged the wheel left, neatly turning the International down the s
hadowy slope of his driveway.
Impact. Quaking metal racked the front of the truck; a crack split across the windshield. Standing on the brake, Russ locked the wheels and the International skewed, grinding to a stop on the side of the drive. The Bronco’s orange parking lights swerved around them to the left.
Steam jetted from the truck’s groaning radiator.
Russ was still gripping the wheel, and Bob had his outstretched hands on the dashboard.
Tinkling shards of glass falling from a headlamp flooded the sudden silence.
Russ and Bob looked at each other.
“I’d say ya hit somethin’,” Bob said.
Russ could see his International’s hood was creased dead center, like cake icing smooshed by an ogre’s finger.
In front of them, Little Bob put the Bronco in drive, pulled on the headlights, and began a three-point turn in front of Russ’s trailer.
“It was a deer, I think. We ran it over.” Russ reached for the door handle, but hesitated. “I felt it go down.”
“A bear, ya think?” Big Bob grabbed his door handle, paused, then wrenched it open. “Messed up your radiator, that’s for sure.”
Russ emerged slowly, just as the Bronco’s headlights came to bear on him and the obscuring cloud of Prestone fog that geysered from his grille. Plumes swirled over the truck.
Little Bob climbed out of the Bronco and joined Big Bob and Russ. The three stood staring at the wisps and tumbles of steam that rolled through the headlights’ glare.
Big Bob held a shading hand to his brow and scanned the ground around Russ’s truck. “I don’t see nothin’.”
Russ didn’t see anything either. But he was too scared to say anything.
Little Bob put his camcorder on the ground, got on all fours, and looked under the truck.
“Oh boy, oh boy…”
Russ and Big Bob got on all fours. The view under the truck was obscured by steam. At first. Then the clouds parted. They could see arms. And a red and white striped shirt.
Sleep with the Fishes Page 6
