“Twenty-five pounds! Shit, that’s gotta be some kinda record!” He ran his hands over his wet hair and pulled a grin up one side of his face.
“You may be right. On six-pound test line, I’d say you may have a line-test record for the state of Pennsylvania.” Russ produced a towel and a flask of whisky from a compartment under his seat. It wasn’t the first time a sport had taken a plunge.
“Pennsylvania? Hell, the whole goddamn country! The world! I never seen a record of a smallmouth bass that big! What’s the face for, Smonig?”
Russ hauled the subdued fish from the livewell and laid it between them. The girthsome copper fish gasped and his eyes goggled; he looked like a mondo goldfish.
“Don’t tell me that’s not the biggest goddamn smallmouth you ever saw, Smonig!” Sid shook his towel at the big bronze monster. It was the kind of whopper whose size was truly indicated by extended arms and the phrase “He was this big!”
“Sid, this is not a smallmouth. It’s a carp.”
“A carp?”
“That’s right. A carp, a very big carp.” Russ was trying his best to sound upbeat. Fair or not, “game fish” is a label less likely to be associated with carp than “trash fish” or, as in this case, “booby prize.”
“So why the sour puss, Smonig? You look like you just lost a filling.”
Russ started the motor and turned the boat downriver.
“I guess I was hoping it was a muskellunge, that’s all.” Russ shrugged.
Sid took a pull from the flask and shook his head.
“Don’t rush me, Smonig. Look, I been at this three days. I got one rocket-fish, fifteen smallmouth, and one carp that’s big enough to bury in a coffin. What do you want from me?”
“You’re right—I’m sorry. And just as soon as we get in, we’ll rush this thing—I mean this carp—over to the grocer, weigh it, sign an affidavit, take a photo, then release it.”
“Smonig, is this a trophy fish or what? It’s a record, am I right?” They stared at each other a moment, the boat had navigated the rapids and was buzzing around the bend below the Eddy, the sun just dipping behind Little Hound Mountain.
“Taxidermist?” Russ ventured.
“Ab-so-lutely,” Sid agreed.
Amber sunlight drew long shadows from the trees, and the purple sky cleared of all clouds. Buds along the stream bank, while barely noticeable that morning, were now bursting like popcorn. Two kingfishers brattled and swooped toward their New York bank, and the trout sipped tiny gray mayflies at Pink Creek. A blue heron stalked the shallows for tadpoles. Considering the way the day had started—at night, in the steam and glare on the driveway—things seemed to have improved dramatically. And even as Russ had tried throughout the day to touch on the frightening implications of all that had happened, he seemed unable to focus on it, as though it were a fading dream he soon wouldn’t remember at all.
Where was the body? Would anybody find it? Would Russ go to jail for manslaughter? Hit-and-run driving? Either he was incapable or his mind was unwilling to bear down on these issues. After all, he was fishing, and as much as it was his profession, he did enjoy it. Especially on a sunny day in which the bass hit all day long. And Russ was, after all, a pushover for the triumphant neophyte, having been one himself. Awash in denial and distraction, Russ bounced the boat around a bend and toward his landing.
“Hey, Smonig, who is that Trout Lady anyhow? She live around here?”
Russ smiled at the moniker.
“The Trout Lady’s name is Jenny Baker. She lives north of the Eddy with her brother Matt in a trailer. Why, you thinking of…”
“Yeah, I thought I might. She seems about my speed.”
“That she is, Sid, that she is.” Russ’s smile vanished when he spied Big and Little Bob standing at the landing.
Little Bob was pacing, and he didn’t have his camcorder with him. Russ sensed trouble.
Sid registered Russ’s mood swing and looked to shore.
“Hey, whadda these guys want now? Jeez. Hey, Russ. Russ!” Sid waved a hand, and Russ lapsed into his tired look. “Hey, relax, everything’s O.K. Trust me, things’ll be fine.”
“You filmed what? A video store? C’mere…no, right here, and tell me that again.” Sid was waving Little Bob over to where he stood, but the latter kept pacing and staring at the ground.
“It was an accident! I didn’t know the camera was on, then my wife put the SUPER*PROCAM tape in The Elvis Conspiracy box and returned it to the video store and now I’m afraid to try an’ get it back ’cause they might recognize me if they watched the tape. And the police! The police might be there right now, waiting, staking out the video store. I’m so sorry! It’s like so impossible, I dunno how it coulda happened…it’s just impossible!”
“Yo, Big Guy, grab the Little Guy and bring him over here.”
Big Bob knitted a brow and stood his ground.
“Hey look, Big Guy, I ain’t gonna hurt him. He’s hysterical, and one thing we gotta do is keep our heads. Am I right?”
Big Bob conceded the point with a shrug. He clamped Little Bob’s shoulders between two hands, lifted him, and placed him in front of Sid.
“What’s his name?” Sid snapped his fingers at Big Bob.
“Bob Cropsey, but most people call him Little Bob.”
“Sure. O.K. Yo, Bobby, look at me. Look at me, Bobby, everything’s O.K. Now just tell me: where is this video store?”
“Down the road.” Little Bob’s lip was atremble, and he sniffed back tears.
“Do you know how to get there?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“Good.” Sid clapped his hands. “Our problems are solved.”
“How do you figure, Sid?” Russ’s voice was eerily monotone, his face blanched. “None of us can go in there. Like he said, we’re all on the tape. If they’ve seen it, we’ll be recognized. I dunno about you guys, but I think we should tell the police exactly—”
“Tell them exactly what, Smonig? That you killed somebody while driving around in the bag?”
Russ’s face went from white to red.
“Yes.”
“O.K., so who did you kill, tell me that?”
Big Bob spoke up.
“You said it was some guy named—”
“Wrong.” Sid pointed a finger in Big Bob’s face. “The who in this case is a what, and where is that what? You don’t know, I don’t know.”
“How could you not know?” Russ blurted.
“Look, you guys wanna go to the cops, tell ’em Russ killed a guy, and that you two are accessories, and then not have a fish to show ’em?” Sid threw his arms out. “You guys’ll look pretty friggin’ stupid, to be honest.”
“But you took the…” Russ began.
“What did I do? Did you see me do anything? O.K., O.K., say we all go to court. You say you killed somebody and then ’cause I’m some kinda saint, I came in and ditched the stiff for you. You know what my defense attorney is gonna say to you? ‘Mr. Smonig, did you actually see the defendant dispose of the body? Did you see the defendant single-handedly lift a guy who’s gotta be two hundred an’ eighty pounds, throw him in the car, and drive him to points unknown?’ Then he’ll ask your two friends. And the answer will be no. N-O. Now see, you’re gonna look pretty foolish. Not that any of this is goin’ to court anyhow ’cause this here is circumstantial, and for another thing, there ain’t no body. Spanky? Alfalfa? Porky? Is any of this gettin’ through? Do you know what I’m talkin’ about? And do you get what it means? Two words. Are you listening? Two words: Don’t Panic.” Sid smiled, clapped his hands, and headed for the dam breast and his cabin.
“Hey, where are ya going? What are we gonna do?” Big Bob beseeched, waving his arms.
“What’re we gonna do? We’re gonna call a taxidermist, and then we’re all gonna go get that tape.”
“We can’t. Today’s Sunday. They’re closed at four on Sundays. Nobody’ll be there,” Little Bob moaned.
“Hey
, if there was someone there then there’d be somebody to recognize us. Am I right? Hey, it’s perfect. We break in and grab the tape. I’ll pick you guys up in five minutes.”
Sid disappeared behind the willow.
After viewing the tape twice, Price had the video freeze-frame on the dim, flickery image of Johnny Fest’s face, eyes open, mouth open, looking just a little surprised and quite dead. Sure, the tape quality was poor in the low light under the truck, and the camera sat at a weird angle.
But Price knew that face. O.K., so he had focused more on lost disability opportunities than on the trauma of being shot. It had been pretty hairy though, and if he’d had any time to consider his predicament before the gun went off, it would have been downright disturbing. But Price was a former gridiron champ and had an instinctively cool reaction to injury. And the whole thing had happened damned fast.
However, it hadn’t happened so fast that the face of the guy behind the trigger didn’t stick. Hell, there was no question that the guy flickering on the screen was the guy who shot him. The red and white striped shirt clearly visible under the back of the truck made it a positive I.D. And with what all these people on the tape were saying, well, it got Price to thinking. He phoned the barracks.
“Stoney?…Hey, it’s Price…. No, I’m O.K., fine, yeah, really…. Oh, it just glanced off a rib…. Yeah, a hollow point. Look, Stoney, is there a make on the guy that…yeah…Johnny Fest, huh…yeah…Anybody grab him?…Yeah, from the composite?…What?…Uh-huh. Newark?…Whoa, the guard’s eyes…You’re shitting me, no kidding?…You’re damned right I feel lucky…. What?…A reward? Who?…oh, the Brotherhood of Guards, huh?…No—really? You’re joking. Is that legal?…But doesn’t that really mean ‘Dead or Alive?’…Yeah, well, that’s what I thought…. Yeah, I guess they all would be out hoping to find that BMW…Uh-huh, look, Stoney, I gotta go…. Yeah, Monday…Right. I will, yeah…. O.K…. Yes, bye.”
Price slammed the phone down and turned to the TV screen. He tugged absently at his diamond stud earring, contemplating his options.
“I might just cash in on this thing after all.”
Price winked at the TV and finished his flat beer. He burped, blinked off the VCR, got his windbreaker, and left the house.
The sky had gone scarlet mackerel, and the day was drawing to an appropriately lusty close.
Chik was showing Penelope the storyboard for his next “tour de force” when Omer came into the Five Star and nobly doffed his hat to the lady.
Slapping the binder closed, Chik stashed the dirty opus Rubber Bikini Bingo under the counter, smoothed his mustache, and approached his customer. Penelope seemed to have a tune in her head. She swayed to the music, sucking cola from a straw.
“Tea with lemon coming right up,” Chik chimed.
“My, what a keen memory you have.” Omer tore his gaze from Penelope. She was a dead ringer for a naughty little number he’d whisked away from the Naval Observatory one night in the midst of one of Washington’s worst snowstorms.
Chik clinked the tea in front of Omer.
“Haven’t seen Mr. Big and Sweaty,” Chik apologized.
“Well”—Omer tossed a cursory glance at Penelope, who clearly wasn’t paying any attention—“there’s somebody else I’m looking for. Have you seen Sid around? Lately?”
Chik massaged a hand towel and thought.
“Yeah, he stopped in last night. First time I met him. Came in looking for Russ. I told him he might find him down at the Duck Pond.”
“That tavern down the road? I see. Have you seen either Russ or Sid today?” Omer sipped his tea, pinky extended.
“Nope. But I do know this much: Russ and Sid was fishing, and this guy Sid came up with some kinda huge carp. Our local taxidermist was in, sayin’ he was gonna drop over later tonight to pick it up on his way back from an auction in Honesdale. Can you imagine? Mounting a carp?” Chik rolled the dishrag between two hands. He was hoping for another of Omer’s twenties.
“Any idea”—Omer paused to sip tea—“where I might find them now?”
“Nope. But I’ll keep an eye out. Hey, if there’s a number I can call or something…”
The front door opened and a cop stepped in. Not that he was in uniform or anything. He was a tall, formerly lean man in blue Dickies and a baby blue windbreaker over a bowling shirt. The blond hair was more or less cut into a flattop.
Both Chik and Omer had been around long enough to know a cop if he was wearing a raccoon coat, Indian headdress, and elf shoes. Or even a diamond stud earring.
Price took in his surroundings, hands on hips, before finally stepping up to the counter next to Omer. Price started to fold his arms, but realized that would hurt his bullet wound. Instead, he let his arms hang, though a bit restlessly.
“What can I get you—mister?” Chik was a little tense.
Price knitted his brow. How did people always know he was a cop?
“Yes, I’m looking for a friend of mine.” Price smiled unconvincingly. “I was just passing through, thought I’d look him up.” He smiled harder, and it didn’t help. “My friend’s name is Sid.” He glanced at Penelope as she vapidly vacuumed the last of the cola in a protracted slurp. “Do you know where I might find him?”
Chik tried not to glance at Omer, who was examining his nails.
“Can’t say I have seen your friend. That is, I don’t know him, haven’t heard of him, really.” Chik was twisting his rag.
Omer piped up.
“Isn’t that the guy who lives down by…? No, that’s Fred Primely.” Omer put a hand on Price’s forearm, noting the name “Price” embroidered on the cop’s bowling shirt. “What a weird character Fred is. Let me tell you. Why, he has a three-legged dog, a two-legged cat, and a one-legged bird.” Omer knew how to scare snoops off: drivel.
“But you don’t know Sid Bifulco?” Price went back to arms akimbo. He didn’t like people touching him and didn’t want to invite more of Omer’s friendly pats.
“Well, let me see,” Omer began, “there’s this lady over in Milford. Her name is Syd—that’s short for Sydney, like in Australia. Did you know that was a girl’s name? Well I didn’t, not ’til…”
Price slid over to Penelope, who had her back and elbows against the counter. She looked up at Price from under a dark chocolatey forelock. He could see she wasn’t wearing a bra, and he forced that thought from his mind.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I was just asking those gentlemen whether they knew where I might find a friend of mine that lives around here. His name is Sid.” There was that awful smile of his again, like he was peddling stale bread.
Penelope sloshed a languid glance in Chik’s direction, but the latter didn’t move a muscle. Despite the girl’s distracted Veronica Lake demeanor, she wasn’t as vapid as some assumed. She shook her head and shrugged.
Jenny worked most weekends, because a day’s pay was as hard to turn down as a round on the house. So she had spent Sunday afternoon making delivery of eight hundred ten- and fourteen-inch brown trout to some hoity-toity private club down off I-84 called simply “The Meadows.” Anyhow, they tipped well and they didn’t insist she put the trout in buckets. They didn’t even count them, which meant that Jenny could just back the truck down the boat ramp and blow the entire contents of each tank. Which was nice, because then she didn’t have to haul water around looking for a place to surreptitiously dump it. People get real upright when they see a tank truck, even if it’s just carrying fishy water, dumping willy-nilly. And most places she delivered to didn’t want the “dirty” trout-farm water in their lake.
It was about eight p.m., dark and misty. Jenny was sitting in her truck at the shopping center across from Little Tony’s, eating pizza, listening to the country station, staring blankly across the way at all the closed shops, and thinking idly about that weird airline pilot guy, Sid, standing in a tree in his bathrobe. Then, as if she’d worked some bizarre spell, her gaze zoomed onto a white Ford LTD coming across the lot. That guy
Sid had one of those parked in his driveway.
The LTD slowed, weaved a bit, then killed its lights. It rode very low. And as it passed beneath a streetlamp, Jenny registered two faces behind the glass, one in the front passenger seat, one in the back. Arching away from her, the car headed down past the last dark shop on the row, the Show Time Videomat, and disappeared behind.
Mid-chew, Jenny struggled to swallow a chunky bit of crust. The two faces were not just familiar, they were Russ and Big Bob. In Sid’s car.
The brilliant day had given way to a humid night. Down by the river it would be chilly. But the tarmac of the strip mall’s parking lot retained heat and gave off water vapor that made light from the lampposts look like beacons from a submersible.
Sid had used a Dumpster behind the Videomat to hike himself up onto the roof. His comrades stood below, looking up at his silhouette.
“Now look, Sid, we are just after the tape, right? I mean, we’re not making off with any money, and there aren’t going to be any alarms going off, police, that sort of thing?” Russ was literally wringing his hands, searching the surroundings for the FBI.
Sid ignored him.
“You see, the best way to break in just about anywhere is through someplace on the roof. A hatch, a skylight, a vent hood, something like that is usually much easier to open than any door, and usually not rigged to an alarm.” Sid threw his hands up as if to show how easy it was.
“Back up a second there. What do you mean ‘not usually rigged’ with an alarm? Sid, how will you know?” Russ protested.
“Big Bobby, what’s with your friend here? I don’t think he has confidence in me. No confidence in the guy who’s led a life of crime.”
“And who—incidentally—got caught,” Russ added.
“Now, don’t you guys think that if I can get away with all that over a twenty-year period that I can get away with breaking in to a Podunk video store in ten minutes? You’re damn right I can.” Turning from his audience, he took a few steps onto the center of the roof and scanned his surroundings. Except for a drain riser coming up from the bathroom, it looked to be completely featureless, gravel-covered tar.
Sleep with the Fishes Page 9
