The Sky Fisherman

by Craig Lesley

  "Priscilla would just love that, wouldn't she?" Gab helped himself to one of Homer's jelly roll slices. "Old women weren't the worst of it." He lowered his voice. "Hate to bad-mouth a customer, but the real pain in the ass was Dunk Taylor. Something peculiar about that man."

  Taylor owned two secondhand stores in town. Dunk's Junque featured pretty good collectibles. Mom and Franklin browsed there sometimes. Dunk's wife had managed Sheila's Swap Shoppe until she died and her sister Arietta took over. Tourists were always getting confused about the names.

  "All right. I'll bite," Jake said. "What's so peculiar about the old coot? Sure, he mutters and makes strange noises, but that didn't start until after Sheila died."

  "I can live with those noises," Gab said. "But every time we stopped the bus, he scooted off to some drugstore like he had to win the lottery. Then he'd disappear into a bathroom. Everybody would be back on the bus ten or fifteen minutes before he showed.

  "Dunk would come out of the bathroom with his face glistening—that's the best word for it—and he smelled of medication. Others noticed it, too. Before long, he was sitting away by his lonesome."

  "It can get hot down toward Reno," Sniffy said. "Maybe it was suntan oil."

  Gab shook his head. "This trip wasn't hot. I make sure we have air conditioning. My advertisers travel in total comfort. Besides, suntan oil smells like coconuts." Gab got up and poured another cup of coffee. "Later on, when the bus overheated, Dunk took off his sport coat. His arms were entirely covered with the greasy stuff."

  "Well, what was it anyway?" Buzzy asked.

  "That's what I wondered, so I followed him while he searched along a drugstore aisle, muttering to himself and making those little grunts like 'pig, pig, pig, budda, budda, budda,' real quiet though. Then he goes 'Aha!' so loud everyone in the store looks. And he reaches for something on the shelf. Unguentine. That's it, I think. That's the exact smell, all right. But he doesn't buy just one tube. He takes all six or seven, whatever they got. He pays the pharmacist, who gives him kind of a fishy look, and then he goes down the street to the gas station and pops into the restroom.

  "I followed him, not noisy, but not sneaky either, and he's sitting in the stall. He drops his pants, takes off his clothes and shoes, and rubs the stuff all over his body, even his feet. Then he reassembles himself and says just plain as a preacher, 'Now you can't burn me!' Practically shouts it, then adds, 'Hallelujah!'" Gab popped the last of the jelly roll into his mouth and took another.

  "My wife had an aunt like that," Sniffy said. "Only with her it was Mentholatum. Sinuses flowed like the Jordan River. Don't think she put it on her feet though."

  "Mentholatum's for coughs and colds," Buzzy said. "Plugged chests. Unguentine's for serious stuff. You guys don't know it, but up where I am, all kinds of activities go on, behind the clouds mostly." His eyes glimmered. "X-men from Mars. Whole squadrons with deadly heat rays. Only Dunk and I know."

  "You should smell like Unguentine, too, then," Sniffy said.

  "I'm on their side. At night, they land on my airfield. I'm surprised you haven't reported them, Sniffy." Buzzy sniffed his arms. "Anyway, I do smell a little like Unguentine. But you have to stand close. The way that glue's sabotaged your sniffer, you can't tell shit from Shinola."

  Everybody laughed at that one. Even Sniffy cracked a smile.

  "A-bomb tests," Jake said when things quieted. "Dunk protected himself from desert radiation. Too bad you didn't know, Gab. Now if you fire off a kid, radiation might give it two heads."

  "Priscilla says we're too old for that anymore," Gab said. "All I know is I'm not paid to baby-sit nut cases. And that man is peculiar even if he is a preferred customer." He spread his hands. "I just don't know what to think."

  "I think you better take Priscilla out a little more," Jake said. "Hanging around bathrooms watching men rub down with Unguentine sounds kind of sicko. Probably against the law, too."

  Sniffy laughed so hard he blew coffee out his nose and had to retreat to the bathroom. Over the next few minutes we heard him chuckling, choking, and blowing.

  "Gluehead," Gab said to no one in particular.

  "Well," Jake said, "I sure regret missing that Reno trip. Sounds like a humdinger."

  "You jokers can't carry on a decent, halfway intelligent conversation," Gab muttered, then turned to Billyum. "So what's new on the rez? I wish I could get some of the lodge people to go on my trips, improve our cultural relationships."

  "Yeah, Reno should do that all right," Billyum said. "Especially the floor shows."

  Gab didn't respond to the remark. "I want to go out there—drum up some advertising. What's new?"

  Billyum stirred his coffee. "Found a burned-out vehicle—way back in the woods." He studied the boys one by one.

  "That's hardly news," Gab said. He probably didn't want anyone trying to top his Unguentine story. "Lots of burned-out wrecks on the rez." Clearing his throat, he added. "Off the rez, too, of course. Somebody gets mad at his brother-in-law, stuffs a rag in the gas tank, and lights a match." He paused. "Whoosh! Instant pyrotechnics."

  "This was a little different." Billyum finished the bear claw. "Two dead guys in it. Big elk in back. All of them black as charburgers."

  Gab released a low whistle. "That is something. Any idea who they were?"

  "Burned too bad to tell. But my guess is they'll wind up those guys from town Grady wanted to find."

  "You think the dumb sons of bitches were poaching on the rez?" Jake asked.

  Billyum nodded. "Indian meat cost them plenty this time. Damn sure."

  "But they could be Indians," Jake pointed out. "Burned up, it's hard to tell."

  "Maybe." Billyum stood and rinsed his cup. "But we're not missing anybody. You are."

  "All burned up, huh?" Sniffy asked.

  "You think that elk was smoking in the woods?" Jake glanced toward the place where the cigarette-smoking moosehead trophy had hung. Maybe he'd forgotten we took it down to hang Juniper's paintings.

  Billyum shrugged. "They spotlighted that elk, most likely. Got drunk, fell asleep. Who knows? Dropped a cigarette in the pine needles. Maybe a spark from their exhaust pipe started it. They were right in the middle of a sixty-acre burn at the edge of Weyerhaeuser lease land."

  Buzzy cocked an eyebrow. "Didn't I tell you about that vehicle almost a month ago? I saw a plume of smoke, and when I swooped down to drop retardant on the burn, thought I saw something funny under a canopy of pines. Couldn't get too good a look because of the smoke, but I went back after the rains started and things cooled. Sure looked like a car."

  "Pickup," Billyum said. "But you were right. You win the diamond-studded stomach pump."

  "How come you waited so long to send somebody out?" Buzzy asked.

  "I was shorthanded. Everyone wants vacation time to go hunting. Anyway, like Gab says, lots of wrecked vehicles on the rez. When Squeaky got back after hunting, I sent him. He tried following an old logging road and got stuck up to the axles. Had to send another rig out with a winch and a hundred feet of half-inch steel cable. Used that outfit to winch around the mud holes, but some big trees had fallen across the road, so they had to walk the last few miles." Billyum shook his head. "They stumbled around in the mud and burn a few hours before they managed to find the pickup. Finally, Squeaky tripped on one dead guy lying about twenty feet from the wreck. Thought it was another chunk of charred wood, until his boot hit that soft flesh and everything started oozing."

  Gab set down his jelly roll. "Jesus, Billyum. I'm trying to eat here."

  Billyum studied everyone. Buzzy seemed somber and Sniffy had turned pale. Billyum cleared his throat. "I'm telling you fellas, it'll take a lot more than Unguentine to fix those two."

  "I'm losing my appetite," Gab said.

  "Some of us got weak stomachs," Billyum said. "Squeaky barfed all over himself. He could still barely talk by the time he got back. It'll be awhile before old Squeaky can eat a burned biscuit." He put down his coffee cup. "So t
hat's the news on the rez."

  "You tell Grady?" Buzzy asked.

  "I'm fixing to do that soon," Billyum said. "After I talk with the coroner. They could be Indians, I guess. Either way, it's our jurisdiction."

  "Bad rubbish." Sniffy spoke so suddenly everyone gave a little jump. "Good riddance, if it was them. Two troublemakers."

  "No point in speaking ill of the dead," Jake said.

  Sniffy made a face like his coffee needed sugar. "You didn't work around those wiseasses. I had to swallow a lot of shit."

  "The hell you say." Gab put the last of his roll in his mouth. "I thought that glow was suntan."

  Sniffy didn't reply, but his look stayed sour.

  Billyum stood. "I better go check with the coroner. Then I'll let Grady know. Just as a courtesy. Don't worry. I'll keep you boys posted."

  "Don't hurry back," Jake said. "You're lousy for business. Next time, try bringing a little cheerful news."

  One by one, the boys drifted out into the rain; Gab stayed and tried another slice of jelly roll. "Appetite's coming back. I'm not paying for this slice, though."

  Jake didn't say anything. He washed the boys' cups and replaced them on the rack. He took a couple of the other cups, including Seaweed's, and washed them, too. As he watched Gab lick jelly from his fingers, Jake paused. "How can you eat after a story like that?"

  "I'm a radio man. A newshound. That's news."

  "You don't even know who it is yet," Jake said. "Don't go stirring up rumors."

  "Doesn't matter. It's still news, unless it was Indians on a toot. Then it's just news on the rez."

  "Those fellas were hard cases," Jake said. "Maybe they finally hit a brick wall." He hung up the dish towel and replaced the liquid detergent. "Anyway, you're not the news director. You're head of advertising and promotions. That's why you're always hanging around dipping your hand in my pocket."

  "I wear many hats. Versatility is the key to my success."

  "You also married the station owner's daughter," Jake pointed out. "That didn't hurt."

  Pretending to be stricken, Gab brought his hand to his heart. "It does hurt deeply, Jake, the way you belittle my talents. I'm a regular Renaissance man burdened by a small town's lack of sensitivity." He took a long breath. "As for Priscilla, she got a bargain."

  Jake rinsed his own cup. "I wonder if Meeks and Chilcoat might have set that mill fire."

  Gab stroked his chin, intrigued by the idea. "Now that would be something. Live by the sword..."

  "Die by the sword," Jake finished.

  Gab's mouth flew open in mock amazement. "Why, Jake. You're a Renaissance man, too."

  "You, me, and Franklin," Jake said. "Tight as ticks."

  24

  ONE SMALL ADVANTAGE to moving from school to school was that none of my teachers realized what projects I had completed before, so at new schools I kept updating old projects, thereby minimizing homework. In Gateway this allowed more time for basketball practice and hanging around the sporting goods store. I had a pretty good report on Argentina that I'd updated twice for social science projects and one on the 1919 Centralia Massacre. In Washington State, Wobblies and veterans had clashed violently over labor rights during an Armistice Day parade, and several men were killed. Riley had put me onto that topic. According to him, the railroad needed more strong union sentiments. My mother never suspected I reused a lot of these projects until I mentioned I planned to enter a volcano in the Gateway science fair. Then she protested that I'd worked on a volcano two years before in Grass Valley.

  The Gateway High School Science Fair was heralded with a lot of hoopla by the teacher and the local paper. Belief in American scientific know-how had suffered a setback with the early success of Russia's Sputnik program and other space launches. From the flyers the school sent out, one would think a successful fair at Gateway would enable our country to surpass the Russians. And when my science class had turned in ideas for the fair, the projects included a model satellite, Titan missile, torpedo, and similar hardware. I submitted a volcano.

  I knew pretty much how these events worked because I'd seen smaller versions of the science fair at other schools. The best projects were made by the farm kids with access to their parents' machine shops and car pentry skills. Although adult hands-on help was taboo, it was pretty clear none of the sophisticated models were actually conceived and crafted by Junior. My little papier-mache volcano with red food dye, baking soda, and vinegar lava seemed puny by comparison, but at least it met my mother's insistence that I enter the fair while keeping my time investment to a minimum. To her credit, I imagine she felt a blue-ribbon satellite or missile project would launch my career with the space program or at least open the doors at the Air Force Academy. But I was playing another angle, although I realized it was a long shot.

  After the Science Fair, the next big project was the Future Farmers of America Livestock Show, where the ag boys demonstrated their cattle, sheep, and horses. Roughly a third of the Gateway boys belonged to FFA, and each Thursday they swaggered around in their blue whipcord jackets with gold lettering. While I had no use for a horse or cow, I wanted a dog and suggested to Mom that I could enter one in the small animal competition.

  "A dog?" my mother said, glancing up from her ironing when I raised the idea. "Are you crazy? They live ten or fifteen years. In a couple years when you're off at college, I'll be stuck with a dog. Scratching up the drum table. Shedding hairs all over the love seat." She was working up a head of steam.

  "I could take the dog with me to college," I offered.

  "Culver, you know better. A dog would distract you from your studies. A dog is definitely out. Anyway, we can't afford a dog."

  "Maybe I won't go to college. I might just stay around here and work at Jake's. Learn the business."

  She put down the water bottle she used to squirt clothes. She had a steam iron, but the steaming holes had plugged up with minerals from the hard water in Grass Valley. "Don't even think about it. Do you want to wind up like Jed? Seventy years old. Perched on a stool selling worms and salmon eggs?"

  "Not exactly." I had always imagined myself more like Jake—running the guide service. I'd get someone else to package worms.

  "I should hope not. I should hope you'd have a little more ambition."

  "That's why I need a dog," I said. "You told me to go a hundred percent at school. I can't even enter the FFA fair without an animal."

  "When I said one hundred percent I was referring to your general studies and the Science Fair," she said. "You don't need to trot around the ring with some poor dumb animal." She paused. "Dogs. When we lived at that horrible siding in Black Diamond, the stationmaster kept two enormous dogs. I don't know what kind, but they were supposed to be a big deal. He was afraid those dogs would be run over by a train, so he kept them attached to the clothesline on long leads. I couldn't hang up clothes there because they pooped and peed under the clothesline all summer. Even after Riley went out and cleaned it up, that place still smelled so bad I wouldn't walk under the lines. We sure don't want any dogs." Red-faced, she returned to her ironing with a passion.

  I knew I wouldn't win the dog round, but I'd scored a point about her not letting me enter school projects one hundred percent. In that peculiar manner of compromise each family has, what I'd gained was the option of making another volcano instead of committing to a more ambitious project.

  Franklin had suggested a scale model of the Sunrise Biscuits plant and had been so helpful as to draw a model. With the railroad siding, tall grain storage elevators, flour mill, and business offices, I had to admit it could have made a terrific project, but I just didn't want to invest the time, even though both Mom and Franklin were a little disappointed.

  Whatever I did was okay with Mr. Maxwell, the science instructor. To tell the truth, I think Maxwell had a thing for my mother. He had given her a pretty good lookover on parents' night and she had dressed up for the occasion. She had a bit of mystery about her. In those days si
ngle parents were not common, and I suppose Grady had spread the word about Riley. She was beautiful and might be dangerous.

  Maxwell was an okay guy, too. He loved the desert and spent each summer there studying rocks and fossils. He wore flannel shirts and boots, so he looked like the guys who hung around Jake's. During summer, he had been in Jake's to buy gold pans and rock hammers and we had discussed his hunting plume agates and thunder eggs out in Oregon somewhere. I was pleasantly surprised to learn this fellow was going to be my science teacher.

  On the night of the fair, half the town hurried to the high school gymnasium. During the afternoon, a committee of judges had awarded ribbons, but no one knew who had won until that evening when the doors opened. I didn't expect a ribbon, nor did I get one, although the volcano did receive an honorable mention certificate. I suspect Maxwell put it there himself, since he was sweet on my mother and I was a model student, paying attention most of the time, not goofing around with the chem lab, avoiding scraping mud on the chair rungs in front of me like the ag boys did.

  Blue ribbons went to the Titan missile and satellite. A scale model of the Gateway Irrigation Project received a red ribbon, as did a study of pesticides and the insects they killed. I was a little embarrassed because these were costly, knockout projects that put mine to shame. However, for two hours I stood gamely behind my volcano and answered questions if anyone stopped to ask. Except for family, only a few did. The most memorable was a slightly tipsy ex-sailor who had seen volcanoes up close in Hawaii.

  Across from me was a project entered by Alvina Toopah, sister of Thatcher Toopah, starting guard for the Gladiators. Her model was devoted to thermal energy and showed the reservation hot springs they used to heat the lodge and the swimming pool. She had won a red ribbon, too, and as far as I could tell, was the only Indian with an entry.

  I was decked out in my blazer and felt a little uncomfortable because most of the other boys were wearing sports shirts and slacks. But my mother had insisted. "Parents and professional people will be there," she had said. "And you want to look your best. First impressions are always important." I think she even felt some Central people might come down, although I had no idea why they would. Their own high school was five times the size of ours.