What really fried her fish was that she and Chik had, like, an appointment to “shoot some scenes,” and damned if she didn’t feel just an eensy bit jilted, stood up, taken for granted. Not jealous, no way.
Both hands found their way into her satiny chocolate hair and gave it some strategic tossing. Well, the night was young, she was ready for “tape,” but she was short a dancing partner. If she could just hitch down the road to The Pond she might find someone there she knew, or didn’t, as the case may be.
And just as she was thinking how the night seemed ripe for finally bagging Russ Smonig, she heard what sounded like a flimsy steam engine coming around the bend.
It all fit together. Lloyd, the man who knew motors inside and out, was the objective observer Russ needed to mediate his internal conflict. Methodical, logical, exacting, and mechanical-minded Lloyd, the straw at which Russ groped, was becoming a veritable Hercules of wisdom. As if hit by a bolt from Zeus, the Dodge had started, just like Lloyd said it would. O.K., so the engine was running on five out of six cylinders—well, maybe four—but it started. See, Lloyd was right!
Rounding the bend just shy of the Five Star, Russ punched the accelerator to see if he could burn the oil from the two fouled plugs and get all six rods rocking.
As the diner’s sphere of light drew near, he could see someone waving her arms, walking to the road, jumping up and down.
Russ’s foot came off the accelerator. It was Penelope.
Russ’s foot went on the brake.
Sid answered the knock at the door expecting the taxidermist’s return. Even though he’d foisted the fish on him, he knew the taxidermist wasn’t entirely happy with the arrangement. So it took Sid a moment to realize who it was standing on his portico.
“Warden Lachfurst.”
“By God, Bifulco, you’re a free man! The name’s Hillary Lachfurst. You can just call me Mr. Lachfurst.”
The loud little man with the round specs pushed past Sid into the cabin, stopping at the center of the living room to take in his surroundings with the manner of Hannibal surveying the Alps. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Bifulco, who stood gripping a tumbler of Canadian, eyebrows seesawing between confusion and astonishment.
“Uh, good to see you. Have to admit, I’m also a little surprised to see you.” Sid took a halting step forward.
“What’s that you’re drinking?” Mr. Lachfurst waved one hand at Sid’s tumbler and used the other to punctuate the remark with a slap to his hip boot.
“Canadian. You want some?”
“Don’t happen to have any single malt?” Lachfurst tucked his thumbs into his fishing vest.
Sid drifted to the bar cart. He hadn’t gotten around to stocking it for visitors.
“Nope. You, uh, want ice, Mr. Lachfurst?” Sid picked up a glass.
“You bet, and a little branch water if you please.” Hannibal took to admiring the Alps again as Sid made for the kitchen and snapped an ice tray. When he returned, Mr. Lachfurst had one of Sid’s fly rods in hand. He took the drink from Sid.
“Skoal.” Lachfurst sipped, waggled the fly rod pensively, then turned on Sid. “I was at the Annual Correctional Administration Seminar in Scranton. Managed to spend part of the afternoon fishing Cherry Creek for brookies with a pal of mine who’s a warden up at Erie. It was one of them days—pretty as all get-out—but the fish were down like nobody’s business. It’s happened before, of course. But there’s a pattern at work here, Bifulco. Know what it is?”
“A pattern, Mr. Lachfurst?”
“Yep”—Lachfurst sipped, nodding all the while—“a pattern. What time of the month is it, Bifulco?”
The phrase “time of the month” had only one meaning for Sid, and it had to do with female bodily functions that interfered with male bodily functions.
“I’ll tell you what time of the month it is, Bifulco. Two words: Full Moon. And do you know what that means?”
Werewolves?
“I’ll tell you what that means. The fish feed at night, sleep during the day. So, why am I here, Bifulco?” Lachfurst slugged back a mouthful and fairly broke the glass putting it down.
“You wanna go fishing? Tonight?” Sid slugged back his drink and dropped the glass on the bar trolley. “Now?”
Mr. Lachfurst stepped up and gripped Sid’s shoulder in a painful pinch. Light flashed off his specs. Sid didn’t remember ever really seeing Warden Lachfurst’s eyes.
“What did I always say, Sidney, out there on the athletic field?”
Sid puzzled a moment.
“You said, ‘Initiative takes the day.’” Sid had never really understood what that meant.
“Well, Bifulco, I’m ready. Let us take the initiative. Let us take the fight to the fish. I’ll go put my rod together, you put your boots on.”
Mr. Lachfurst stiff-armed the screen door on the way to his Lexus.
Penelope, in her usual fashion, sat on a stool with her back against the bar. Elbows perched on the bar’s edge, she arched her back in a way that only glorified her chest. Swiveling back and forth on her bar stool, she was making her way through a draft Yuengling, long sassafras hair draped across her face and cleavage, giving Russ sideways glances.
“So, Russ, the gang had a fine old time here last night, didn’t we? ‘Light me, Louie!’”
“What? Oh yeah, the, uh, thing…” Russ was half watching the bar’s front door, half not watching Penelope’s swiveling charms.
“Expecting someone?”
“What?”
“You seem distracted.” Penelope rolled her head back and considered the glowing ducks on the wagon wheel overhead.
“Yeah, well, I gotta talk to Lloyd.”
The Duck Pond was loosely packed, it being a Sunday night and all. It was just Russ, Penelope, and a group of four in bowling shirts eating microwave pizza.
“Can I ask you a question, Russ? Do you think Lloyd wants to hump me or what?”
A sip of beer almost came out of Russ’s nose.
“Lloyd? What kind of question is that? He and Kris have lived together for…”
“So? I don’t suppose he ever tol’ you about the time he removed some pubies from my thighs?”
Russ’s hands wrestled each other. This was a conversation he didn’t want to have, not then.
“Well, Russ, it’s not like anything happened or anything. Just the same, you can be sure he never tol’ Kris about it. Never did get a bill. So, Russ, answer the question. Do you think Lloyd wants…”
“What kind of question is that? I can’t…maybe I’ll try him on the phone again.” Russ poked his fedora brim up.
“You left two messages on his machine already.”
Russ finished his beer, and the bartender gave them both a refill. Penelope began to swivel faster on her stool.
“What’s eating you, Russ? Haven’t you been getting your Wheaties?”
“Look, Penelope, I’ve got problems, O.K.? I gotta talk to Lloyd and…” Russ trailed off.
“You need to relax. You’re all tied up in knots. Tell me what’s bugging you. Maybe I can help get the kinks out.” Penelope did a 360-degree spin on her stool.
“It’s a wonder you don’t already know…” Russ murmured.
“Maybe I already do.”
“Ha! Boy…wouldn’t that take the cake.” Russ just shook his head at the thought, turning to the sound of a bowler exiting.
“Ever look at dirty magazines?”
“Jesus, Penelope!”
“I do. I think they’re hot. What about videos?”
“Please, Penelope…” Russ put his hand over his eyes.
“I think videos are hot.”
“I’ve had quite enough of videos today,” Russ said through clenched teeth.
“What, Bass Almanac videos? Or were you makin’ one of your own?”
“Never mind.”
“Were you in a video? Huh?”
Russ blanched and looked at her through his fingers.
“Is
that what it was?”
Russ took his hand from his face and put it on his beer, taking a sizable gulp.
“See, maybe I know all about it, like you said. A tape, just you and a friend or two up to a little no-good at night, am I right?”
Russ avoided her eyes.
“Out there in the woods, out there in the dirt and gravel.”
He fixed a twitching eye at her.
“Did Jenny tell you? Damn, Sid said he didn’t…”
“Jenny, huh? Maybe. Maybe a little bird told me.”
Forehead to the bar, Russ moaned: “Is there anybody who doesn’t know about my problems? Anybody?”
When Debbie walked in the door, she was relieved to find that Price still wasn’t home. She figured he must have gone over to Ted’s Tap Room for a beer. Her intent had been to rush back home, but Chik had something in the playroom to show her, and next thing she knew she was wearing a ten-gallon hat, chaps, and her birthday suit. Then she was lassoing Chik, who galloped about the playroom in Holstein-spotted leotards. And all in front of that two-way mirror.
Well, it was a quickie, sort of a dry run, so to speak, of a larger movie idea. And it had taken longer than Debbie had realized. Chik handed her the tape of the evening’s romp. As she headed to the door, he asked her whether she’d brought a blank tape.
“In the plastic bag on the counter—gotta run,” she said.
Huffing and puffing up the stairs from the Five Star’s basement, she lugged her unborn porn star to her Jeep Cherokee and sped home.
As soon as she was home and realized Price was out, Debbie just had to pop in the new dirty video for a quick look. The evening’s exertion weighed heavily upon her as she picked up the remote and prepared to sit in Price’s chair.
That’s when her water broke and she realized the baby was on the way. She hobbled to the neighbors, who rushed her down to Methodist Hospital, from where they tried unsuccessfully to reach Price by phone.
Lunar shine flowed over the riverbank, setting the chop and riffles alight in platinum flash. Oars gouged the onyx river, the splashes tossing opaline sparks toward the full moon. Lachfurst was rowing, and his specs shimmered in Sid’s direction.
“Well, I’m driving. Where you been takin’ them?”
“Mr. Lachfurst, I’ve only been here three days.”
“Tonight is a night for taking the bastards on the surface. I’ll tell you what: We’ll do the inside shore, right where the shallows drop off. What do you say? Good!” The fast current had just swung the boat downstream when Mr. Lachfurst spat on his palms and set upon the oars with gusto. With an even, steady stroke, Lachfurst crossed the channel with speed and few bumps. For all his squawking, Sid mused, this bird Lachfurst seemed to know how to flap those wings. In short order the boat drifted under the shadow of the trees on the far bank, and Lachfurst hopped out of the boat.
“Come on, Bifulco. Let’s go find a good spot.” Standing in the shallows, Lachfurst pulled the bow onto shore. “It’s time you got your butt outta that boat and stood like a man in this noble river.” There was a flash of spectacles, then the crunch of the Warden’s boots through the forest.
Battling vines and roots in the night, Sid caught up with Mr. Lachfurst some minutes later in a moonlit clearing where a huge tree felled by floodwaters had swept the vegetation to one side. Mr. Lachfurst plowed into the rocky river up to his knees before he stopped, tucked his rod under one arm, and pulled out a fly box.
“Now here’s a dandy spot. Come on out here, Bifulco. I got a fly for yah that’ll drive ’em nuts!”
Still panting from his tussle with the dark thicket, Sid waded out to Mr. Lachfurst. What had he done to deserve a visit from Lachfurst? He hadn’t even bagged the girl in the red hikers, hadn’t actually evoked the curse.
“Here. Know what fly that is?” The specs flashed moonlight in Sid’s eyes.
“Yeah, sure, it’s a really big black Wulff.” Sid looked around to see if anybody else was crazy enough to be out there—perhaps even goons from the local anglers’ syndicate.
“A black fly cuts a starker contrast against the moonlit sky, makes a darker shadow. Here, tie that on. I’ve got another one in here—there it is.”
Lachfurst handed him the other fly, and Sid eyed it skeptically. Most trout flies were delicate little things designed to tempt the dainty appetite of fussy fish. If those were profiteroles, this was a porterhouse steak with all the trimmings.
Once they’d tied on, Mr. Lachfurst began the demonstration, but not before grabbing Sid’s shoulder again.
“You ready, Bifulco? Good. Look downstream. What do you see?”
Riffles.
“I’ll tell you what I see. A fish rising, just below a rock.”
Mr. Lachfurst pulled his line out and false cast. Squinting at the flinty riffles, Sid saw no fish rising, no fins or tails, and he doubted whether Mr. Lachfurst did either, other than in his imagination. The night was too dark, the fly was too dark, and no trout in his right mind would go for a giant black fly. He gave Mr. Lachfurst credit for being a guy with good tackle, and a guy who knew how to cast and row, but he always sort of figured Lachfurst was an armchair angler, one who liked his tales tall as his drinks.
About fifteen minutes passed, during which each of Mr. Lachfurst’s casts was followed by an excuse like “bad drift,” “wrong mend,” “fly landed sideways,” or “cursed foolish bastard, doesn’t know a meal ticket when he sees one!”
And just as Sid was beginning to arch his back and shuffle his feet, line ripped the current and spray filled the air.
“Ha!” Lachfurst nudged Bifulco with his elbow as he stripped in the fly line. A burst of glittering spray spat a pirouetting trout into the air. It landed with a slap and raced upstream in the heavy current.
“Holy Mother of God! Was that the one you been casting to?”
“Nope. This is the other one.” Lachfurst plowed a few steps upriver, following the fish with his rod tip.
“There was more than one?”
“Sid, there are a whole bunch of fish in this river. Soon as I land this monster, we’ll get you one. Now watch. Are you watching, Bifulco? This is how we land a fish. See, lead him into the shallow water directly upstream, get a rod’s length of line between rod tip and fish, net in one hand, rod in other, you bring him down, let him face upstream, put the net behind to one side, then turn him quickly—oops, wait a minute…here…he…comes…aaand scoop!”
Lachfurst lunged, missed, lunged again, and lofted the drenched wriggling net. He growled contentedly and turned back to his pupil, net extended. Sid looked down at a sixteen-inch rainbow trout twisting like a tube of quicksilver in the moonlight, big black Wulff in one corner of its mouth. The trout’s flat chrome pupil tilted at Lachfurst. Sid wondered if the fish could actually see them, actually know what he’d just gotten himself into, whether he blamed the fly or himself for getting him in dutch.
A second later, Lachfurst was dipping the net back in the water, and in a mercurial flash the trout was gone.
Price screeched his truck to a halt in the driveway. In his haste to get to the den, he not only failed to see the note stuck to his front door but also the Karmann Ghia that rolled to a stop across the street.
By the time Omer got to peeking through the yew hedge and into the living room window, Price had a videotape in one hand, a phone receiver in the other. Next to him on an end table Omer noticed a photo of Price and redhead Debbie on their wedding day. Price had his jacket on, and Omer could read lips well enough to see him say “I’ll come over right now. I’ve got something big to show you.”
There was no time to waste. Mr. Phillips marched himself over to the front of Price’s pickup, put his umbrella tip through the grille, and turned the crook. A sharp metallic note sounded as a small spring-loaded spike punctured the radiator.
“Penelope, what the hell are we doing here? The Five Star doesn’t open for another six hours.”
She tossed him an impish smi
le, left the car, and walked across the pool of light to the diner.
Russ killed the Dodge’s rattling engine and followed reluctantly. There were no cars in the lot. A few crazed moths lusted over the flood lamp above.
Penelope retrieved the key from over the door.
“Penelope, I don’t think we ought to—where’d you get that key? You know, I don’t think Chik would appreciate…”
Penelope pulled him into the diner by his sleeve and swung the door shut.
“What is this, Penelope? What are we doing here?”
She sashayed behind the counter and paused next to the potted palms.
“You want that tape, don’t you? Well…”
She led him downstairs. Confusion was Russ’s first reaction to Chik’s basement playroom. He didn’t get it. What were all the mirrors for, and the lights? On one wall was a Peg-Board loaded with chains, whips, silk scarves, strips of leather, and rope. Half the floor was done over in wrestling mats, a Jacuzzi gurgled against the far wall, and a sawhorse was piled high in fake leopard, zebra, tiger, and polar bear skins. Penelope flicked a series of switches—a phony fireplace crackled and a rack system played a CD of Zulu war chants. She disappeared around the corner as drums thrummed to soaring tribal choruses.
“What in God’s name is this? It’s like a, uh, rec room or something. I didn’t know Chik had this. He could put a pool table down here.” Russ unzipped his jacket and slid his hat back. “Boy, he keeps it warm in here, doesn’t he? So where’s the tape, Penelope?” Russ wandered over to a small wet bar, the top of which was littered with videotapes and boxes.
His eyes stung when he saw it, and an exclamation caught in his throat. Russ pounced on The Elvis Conspiracy. Trembling fingers snapped it open. The SUPER*PROCAM label was blank. But it just had to be the one.
“Yes! Yes!” Russ held the SUPER*PROCAM tape high and bounced on his toes, a Zulu warrior in high spirits. He whipped around when he heard Penelope reenter.
“Yes?” she purred, stirringly shrink-wrapped in a black rubber bikini.
Sleep with the Fishes Page 12
