The Sky Fisherman Read online

  ***

  Central's Water Pageant was the biggest annual event in our part of the state. For weeks their newspaper featured items highlighting the colorful water floats, the queen and her court, the grand marshal—one of the first seven astronauts. Franklin had invited my mother and she was excited, already planning what to wear. This year's theme was Venice West, so she was thinking Italian.

  Jake hated the ballyhoo. "Chamber of Commerce gangsters up there," he muttered. "Buy them for what they're worth; sell them for what they think they're worth. I'd make my first million."

  On those rare occasions when the back-room boys caught Jake at the store, they razzed him about the pageant because it never failed to get his goat.

  Gab perched on an ammunition box, munching one of Homer's fresh bear claws. "Sold five thousand dollars' worth of pageant advertising yesterday, Jake. Scout's honor." He flashed the Boy Scout salute. "How many radio spots do you want?"

  "Bullshit. You never sold that in a week, much less a day. And you never were a scout."

  "Sounds like Jake needs an outlook overhaul." Sniffy St. John, the glue man at the plywood mill, shifted forward in his chair, eager to watch a verbal sparring match.

  "Nobody buys fishing equipment when they're headed to a damn water pageant," my uncle said.

  "Jake, Jake, Jake." Gab rolled his eyes and spread his hands. "I'm disappointed in your small-town thinking. This isn't just a sporting goods store. It's recreation headquarters. See, we emphasize your ice chests, sun visors, thermos bottles. And what about that stack of picnic tables outside? Each time I drive by they look more forlorn. You better discount those or you'll be using them for firewood after Labor Day."

  Jake had bought two dozen knocked-down cedar tables, but we couldn't sell them. Gab had laughed when he first saw the stack because the legs and seats for the tables had to be attached. "People hate the phrase 'Some assembly required,'" he said.

  Sniffy hooted. "You took a lickin' on those tables all right, Jake." He was enjoying himself.

  "Not necessarily," Gab said. "Have the boy pound together a couple of those tables and benches, set up a nice display of merchandise. People will line up for blocks." Gab stood pointing out the window at the icehouse. "Right about there. And don't forget ice. Gets mighty warm at the festival until nightfall." He took his pad and pen out. "Couple hundred?"

  Jake shook his head. "Things are all screwed up this week. I'll go back to my regular schedule when this pageant nonsense settles down."

  Sniffy selected a chocolate-covered cake doughnut. "Nice and warm still. Talk about screwed up, the damn Water Pageant fucks the mill over like you can't believe. Everybody wants to switch shifts and schedules. Some dumb bastards tried swapping three or four days' vacation for Festival of Floats night off. Me, I always take the wife. She wouldn't miss it for the world. By planning ahead, cooking up enough glue, I won't even get docked. I'm indispensable around there."

  Jake sipped his coffee. "Must be nice to be so tight with the boss."

  Sniffy winked at Gab. "Not as good as the fishing racket."

  Gab rinsed out his cup and hung it on the peg rack. He used his forefinger as a toothbrush, running it back and forth across his teeth. Finishing, he smiled at himself in the mirror. "Boys, I hate to leave but there's cats to kill and fish to fry. Some of us, a very few, actually work for a living. Jake, last chance and we'll say it right: 'Gateway's Water Pageant Headquarters—ice chests, thermos bottles, suntan oils..."'

  "No suntan oil," Jake said. "This isn't a damn drugstore."

  "I knew that." Gab stopped under Juniper's paintings. "Not a drugstore but an art gallery. I'm glad you've chosen to diversify. A real entrepreneur." Gab sauntered toward the door.

  "Hey," Jake called after him. "You never put a quarter in the creel for coffee or paid for that bear claw."

  Gab just waved and kept walking. "Did I charge you for consultant's fees? I tossed out a thousand dollars' worth of merchandising tips. Pearls before swine."

  Jake gave Sniffy and me a stern look. "I'm hiding his cup."

  Laughing, Sniffy stood and tossed a dollar in the creel. "I'll cover him. Good show today—worth the price of admission. I'd say Gab won this round."

  "Go sniff some glue," Jake said. "Close the doors tight and take deep breaths."

  Sniffy stopped under the paintings. "Art." He shook his head. "Next thing, it'll be goddamn wine tasting. Little hunks of cheese with colored toothpicks. Lah-de-dah."

  After Sniffy and Gab had gone, Jake muttered in their direction, "Suckers." He put his arm on my shoulder, looking me square in the face. "Nephew, it's hard to swim with the salmon when you're bogged down with bottom feeders."

  ***

  Shortly after I opened the store one morning, Ace strolled in. It seemed odd to find him out so early. "Jake around?" he asked.

  "Not yet." I didn't know whether to expect him at all.

  "He been feeling poorly?"

  I shrugged. "Kind of punk." I couldn't imagine where Ace could have heard anything. "Can I help you?"

  He didn't answer but drummed his fingers on the counter. Each knuckle was big as a walnut. His iceberg eyes gave me the chills.

  "If you need something, maybe I can help?"

  His eyes shifted to the paintings. "Jake getting into the art business or what?"

  "Those are Juniper's paintings. He thought the dudes might go for them."

  "Which dudes?" His eyes swept the store like he could conjure up some fishermen. "A bunch of the boys have canceled their reservations out to my place. If they don't show, they can't eat, drink, play cards. It's running into serious money. Tell your uncle I hope he gets to feeling better fast."

  Ace started out but stopped at the sunglasses and tried on a pair. Even then, I could feel those eyes.

  He replaced the glasses. "Maybe it's too much Indian cooking. That fry bread can really twist your gut."

  I didn't say anything.

  "Tell Jake he better stick to rainbows. I hear he's chasing those brown trout now. Browns are tricky. They stick to deep water. Sometimes you can't see the bottom. Might fall into something."

  My throat was dry, but I knew he expected me to answer. "I'll tell him you stopped by."

  When Ace returned two days later, Jake came out of the back. I didn't know what was on his mind after I had told him about Ace's first call. Two mornings in a row Jake had arrived at work before I opened and assembled bicycles. Grease streaked his face, and he held a ten-inch crescent wrench.

  "Did my nephew show you these paintings, Ace? She's pretty good. You might want to buy a couple for your place."

  Both men smiled at each other, but you could cut the tension.

  Jake went along, pointing out the features of each painting, suggesting which ones Ace might like.

  Some kids came in to buy worms and hooks, so that distracted me a little, and as they left Jake was showing Ace the painting of the Indians fishing from scaffolds. "They're catching salmon, don't you think, Ace. I don't see any browns, do you?" Jake pointed with the wrench.

  Ace half turned, raising his arms, but Jake struck fast, and Ace sprawled across a display of stacked cool cans and picnic baskets. They all tumbled, Ace with them. He was out cold, but the coolers broke his fall.

  Jake winced in pain and jammed the bleeding knuckles of his right fist into his mouth. Only then did I realize he hadn't used the wrench, but held it as backup.

  "Jesus, Jake!"

  "That hurts," he said, looking at his scraped knuckles and flicking his hand a few times. "Hope it doesn't screw up my fly fishing." He put the wrench down and motioned for me to help drag Ace.

  "Do you think he's got brain damage or anything?"

  Jake grinned. "He's a tough old bird. Anyway, that was just a love tap."

  We dragged Ace outside by the arms and somehow lifted him into the pickup. He moaned a little and Jake turned Ace's head sideways. "You ride in the back," he told me. "If he throws up, make sure he doesn't str
angle on his vomit."

  I climbed in and hunkered beside Ace, wishing hard to keep him from throwing up. Jake slipped back into the store and returned wearing a windbreaker. For a moment I thought maybe he planned to ride in back himself, but then I saw the gun butt under the breaker.

  At the Phoenix, Jake got a couple of the RedWings to help unload Ace and carry him into a unit. They stayed pretty calm, although one of the women came out and started getting excited.

  "Don't you think a doctor should look at him?" she asked.

  "Ace doesn't believe in hospital bills," Jake said. "Anyway, he's coming around. When he can swallow, give him four aspirin."

  "His mouth is bleeding," she said. "What happened?"

  "He slipped on some ice, fell into some cool cans," Jake said. "Pretty clumsy."

  On the way back, Jake pointed out he felt some better and mentioned it was neighborly for Ace to check on him. At the store, he put the .38 back in the holster below the cash register. "You remember about this," he said and I nodded. "If anyone acts funny, stay behind the counter."

  Then Jake took off, and I was on my own for two days. I half expected Ace to come back at any time packing a pistol and bringing trouble. Over and over, I imagined what I would do, but the fact was I didn't have the slightest idea.

  Jake's warning made me spooky and I even had one false alarm. After I'd wheeled in the bikes one night and was preparing to close, a tall, flat-faced man who reeked of beer came in and wandered about the store. He had parked his car across the lot and was acting jittery, so I stayed behind the counter.

  "Hey, kid. You want to come over and unlock this case? I like that pearl-handled pistol."

  "Just a minute," I said. "I'm finishing up some license reports. That handle's pure abalone. Costs a lot."

  While I was trying to decide what to do, someone in the car honked a couple times, then again. The man grinned as he headed out. "Another time, kid. Right now, I've got to eat some chicken."

  ***

  When trouble did show, Franklin brought it. He slunk in, looking like hell. The left side of his face resembled a swollen plum about to burst. Both eyes were blackened and his nose scraped raw. I was certain he'd been in a wreck, until I realized the Bel Air was scratchless. Still, I asked about a wreck, but Franklin shook his head.

  "Fall down some steps?"

  He pointed to the display case full of pistols. "Let me see that three fifty-seven Magnum."

  After I handed him the Blackhawk, he tried spinning the cylinder and dry firing. I winced because the spinning scored the pistol, making it appear used, and dry firing might break the pin.

  "How much?"

  I told him, explaining we throw in a box of ammunition with each new gun purchase. I was eager to make the sale—usually people purchased pistols only from Jake—but I was even more eager to hear about Franklin's condition.

  "Got in a fight with a tramp," he said finally. "Big sucker."

  "Hope he looks worse than you do."

  Franklin gripped the gun. "He looked worse to start with. But I got in my licks. He won't try me again."

  "Good for you, Franklin." His unmarked knuckles showed he hadn't landed a blow, at least none that counted. "What was the beef?"

  "Strange." Franklin shook his head. "He accosted me just as I was leaving for work. I tossed my briefcase in the car, glanced up, and there he was. Came out of nowhere."

  "Did he say anything?" Suddenly I had a feeling about this tramp.

  "Crazy son of a bitch! I thought he planned to rob me. But he yelled out, 'Marriage is sacrosanct.'"

  I held my breath, wondering if he'd make the connection to my mother, but he just said, "Maybe he was a religious nut." Franklin pushed the gun at me. "I want hollow points in case he shows up again or brings friends."

  "You've got to wait three days before you can actually take that pistol," I said. "The police have to check your background."

  "Shit. The police in this town can't read."

  "You have to fill out a form anyway," I said. "Have you ever been convicted of a felony? Are you crazy? That sort of thing."

  "Can't we just bypass all that?" Franklin was becoming agitated. "Do I seem crazy to you?"

  "Maybe," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "You are going out with my mother."

  He didn't seem ready for kidding around.

  After Franklin filled out the papers and left, I called Mom at work. "Don't get excited, but Riley might be in town."

  I heard her catch her breath.

  "If it is Riley, he beat up Franklin."

  "He called in sick today," she said. "I thought it was just a bug."

  "A tramp knocked the shit out of him. The description could match Riley's." I paused but she didn't answer. "Franklin just came in and bought a pistol."

  "Don't sell them all," she said after a moment. "I might want to buy one myself."

  ***

  "Sell any picnic tables?"

  Jake had started using that greeting whenever he called to check on things at the store. The stacked tables looked more weather beaten every day.

  "Maybe I'll give them away," I said. "Everybody thinks I bought the store. You ever coming back?"

  "Don't be a smart-ass like your uncle. Listen, make out the night deposit, would you? I don't want a bunch of cash hanging around." He paused. "Take the pistol with you."

  "It's only four blocks to the bank."

  "Most robberies occur near home."

  When things slowed down a little before nine, I started wheeling in the bikes. I enjoyed the store—the hum of the air conditioner, the bright merchandise, the rich-leather smell of baseball gloves and spiked shoes, the pungent linseed oil and gun cleaner. I liked Juniper's paintings, too, except for Kalim's haunting eyes.

  I locked the front door, bought a Pepsi with till change, calculated the night's deposit in the back office. The cash register drawer containing twenty-five dollars stayed open. If someone broke in wanting money for a toot, Jake hoped they wouldn't smash the expensive register or break into the gun cases.

  Carrying the night bag in one hand and a padlock in the other, I stopped outside to lock the icehouse door. While leaning over to fasten the lock, I thought I felt a gun in my ribs.

  "Freeze."

  Panic grabbed me. I was sure Ace was back or had sent a RedWing.

  "Stack of picnic tables makes a pretty good hiding place, Bucko. I don't think you're ever going to sell them."

  "Jesus, Riley. You scared me to death." I felt out of breath. "You cost me a year's growth."

  "Good thing you're wearing dark pants. Something leaked a little in front. Check it out."

  Instinctively, I checked, but he was only kidding. Riley was thinner, with darker hair than I remembered. He wore sunglasses, a Detroit Tigers baseball cap, and a shit-eating grin. To tell the truth, I was glad to see him, not that I felt like giving him a big hug or anything. "You seem pretty fit, Riley."

  "Feel this." He flexed his bicep.

  I touched it. "Hard as stone."

  He punched my shoulder then, a pretty good blow, but I didn't move. "You're packing more muscle, too, but I can probably still take you. For another year or two, anyway."

  He meant it as a compliment.

  "How you been keeping, Riley?" I asked.

  "Lots of fresh air and wide open country. I've missed seeing you, Bucko. And your mom. But that's blood under the bridge now. Anyhoo, I'm getting by."

  "We've been getting by, too," I said.

  He nodded. "Saw the place. Yellow curtains. Does it have a tub or shower?"

  "Combination," I said, a little relieved he hadn't been peeking in the windows. "You come around very often?"

  "Sometimes. It gives me crampy feelings. Lots of guys walk through towns at night, look in windows, imagine the people inside. Maybe you want to stay, settle down, but then the feeling passes and you're glad to move on." He sighed. "I suppose the people inside the windows are stuck, too."

  "Sure," I
said, knowing I'd felt the same way at times, but I thought you outgrew it.

  Riley's eyes shifted and I thought he might be embarrassed at saying too much, but he was watching a passing police car. Grady was driving, and I half waved, trying to appear natural. He didn't seem to notice us.

  "On his way to coffee," Riley said. "Fat-ass."

  "You stirred things up when you pounded Franklin. What was that about?"

  "I didn't know I was going to hit him at first. Then I smelled his sickening cologne."

  The last came out mean, and I sensed a streak in Riley I hadn't noticed before, so I waited to see if it passed. After a moment, he sauntered over to the picture window and studied Juniper's work. "That's new."

  "One of Jake's old girlfriends is a painter," I said.

  "She's pretty good," Riley said. "Is Jake going to sell those?"

  "He thinks the rich dudes will buy them. Doctors, lawyers."

  Riley tipped back his baseball cap. "You know, when I torched Dwight's place, they had rooms full of paintings. You never saw such horrible stuff. Burned like hell, though. Lots of oil."

  Until Riley mentioned the paintings, I hadn't thought of Dwight's wife and daughter all that much. From a distance, I had just remembered the crummy railroad siding, not the people who lived there. Now Riley's act seemed like a personal violation.

  "You actually went inside their house?"

  "Sniffing around. Seeing how the other half lived. I can tell you right off, this stuff Jake has hanging is the real ticket."

  "Riley, what did it feel like to burn that place down? I'm just curious."

  His eyes widened and he tilted his head slightly so the blinking neon fish illuminated the left side of his face.

  "It was something," he said. "You should try it."

  ***

  Approaching the hobo camp, I had my stockman's knife handy, and Mom was armed with a bulldog's determination and a Gideon's New Testament Bible. A gray-haired man in an electric blue suit had given a copy to every student in Grass Valley, except the Mormons and the Seventh-Day Adventists, who preferred their own. I didn't know what Mom planned with the Bible and I didn't believe I'd have to use the knife. Her determination would suffice.

  Three hoboes huddled around the campfire: Minnesota, a bearded old man in a tan cap, a red-haired man with a lazy eye. The lot seemed more strange than dangerous.