Backcast (30 page)

11

Sometimes a Great Notion

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Marvin dropped into Junior's recliner with all the grace of Jean Luc Picard preparing to take command of the Enterprise. “Cast off and get this floating piece of shit underway.”

Montana gave him a three-fingered salute and untied the cleat lines. She pushed the big pontoon away from the dock and hopped aboard. Quinn started the engines. The rebuilt Evinrude Starflite 125-horsepower motors belched to life. When they both ran—which was infrequent—she had the maximum horsepower allowed for tournament competition. If she got lucky, both engines would cooperate and she'd be able to navigate from place to place with enough speed to guarantee that she'd have plenty of time to make the two o'clock weigh-ins in Plattsburgh.

She had her Pisces map taped to the bridge. As soon as they cleared the no-wake zone near the inn, she'd hit the throttles and make for the Dock Street Marina. The tournament started promptly at eight-thirty, and she wanted to be there in plenty of time for check-in. The officials had to inspect the boats at the start of each day of competition. Once they were cleared and allowed to head out, she'd make for the first spot Junior had marked on her map. It was one of Phoebe's favorite haunts. He noted that he'd seen her there, hanging around near the drop-off at the edge of a weed bed, at least half a dozen times.

Quinn hoped they'd see her today, but she wasn't counting on it. Even though most of their encounters had taken place while Quinn
was dreaming, she thought she knew enough about the opinions of the cantankerous bass to understand that Phoebe didn't much care about the wishes of others.

The lake was choppy today. It had rained overnight and there was a steady wind blowing in from the south. That would churn things up. The fish wouldn't like it. They'd be antsy—cranky and harder to catch. That meant she'd have better luck today if she stuck to the weed beds and used a jig and pig. Junior said a black and blue jig was the best lure for this situation—especially when you coupled it with something gaudy like a crawfish trailer. He said that when you fished the outer perimeter of tall weeds you needed to make sure your line had a big profile with lots of vulgar color. Quinn thought that part made a lot of sense. It wasn't that different from the way things worked in biker bars—only her people used body art instead of fake crustaceans. Still. She had a couple of bright, rubber beauties all picked out. Her favorite had chartreuse claws with bright pink tips—perfect bait to tempt an unwilling fish out of hiding.

She looked out at the cavalcade of boats on the lake. The high-priced, tricked-out rigs were all over the place today. The ones that weren't stopped or gently drifting along were roaring past her at breakneck speeds, hurrying from one favored spot to the next.

The fish wouldn't like that, either.

One of her damn engines kept cutting in and out. That made the pontoon's progress across the lake halting and jerky, like a car stuck in rush hour traffic. She could hear Marvin muttering something about what a waste of effort this was. But she didn't care. She had only one destination in mind and she knew they had plenty of time to get there.

She drummed her fingers against her pant leg. The small Lucky Strike tin in her pocket amplified the staccato sound. She'd been halfway out of her room this morning before she remembered to grab the box containing Laddie Ladd's artfully tied flies. She doubted that she'd need them, but decided to heed Junior's advice anyway.

“You take them and use them when the time is right,” he said.

Her boat continued its lurching progress across the lake. Its wake was like a dotted line in the water.

With luck, she guessed they'd make it to the sandbar by ten.

Several of the writers stood together on the lawn to watch Quinn's departure. They were mostly silent. It was hard to comment when they were unsure about whether they were witnessing the prelude to a tragedy or the first act of a comedy of errors. Whichever way the tournament was fated to come out, none of them could deny that Quinn had given it her best shot. There was something laudable in that. They were all aware of it as they stood there, watching her boat grow smaller as it moved away from the shore.

In typical fashion, Viv was the first to break the silence—and to brook disagreement.

“That has to be the greatest exercise in futility since Sisyphus got the bright idea it might be fun to push a boulder uphill.”

Cricket considered her comment. “I don't think Sisyphus thought it would be
fun
to push a boulder up hill—I think he was forced to do it as a punishment for misdeeds.”

“What misdeeds?”

“Beats me.” Cricket shrugged. “Something Greek and archetypal.”

“Maybe he coveted his neighbor's wife?” Towanda suggested.

Viv shot her a withering look. “Of course,
that
idea would occur to
you
.”

“Well?” Towanda spread her arms. “You got any better explanations?”

“Better explanations for what?” Gwen joined the group. She'd been out for her morning walk. She still had her binoculars looped around her neck and an Audubon field guide to the birds of New England tucked beneath her arm.

“Viv was comparing Quinn's quest to the myth of Sisyphus,” Cricket explained. “And we were trying to remember why he was cursed.”

Gwen nodded. “I think it had something to do with his ability to outwit death.”

“Did you say outwit?” Viv clucked her tongue. “Then I definitely picked the wrong analogy for Quinn's little enterprise.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Why are you so hard on her?”

“You're kidding me with this, right?”

“No.”

“As an actuary, I can give you a list of any one of a dozen disastrous scenarios for how this ill-fated enterprise is certain to end.”

Gwen looked unconvinced. “I don't agree.”

Viv was amazed. “You think she's going to win?”

“I didn't say that. I just said I disagreed that it would end in disaster.”

Viv stared back at Gwen, and then faced Cricket with a raised eyebrow.

Cricket took the hint.

“Holding.” Her hand shot into the air. “Twenty on averting disaster.”

“Bullshit.” Towanda reached into the pocket of her jeans. “I'll take some of that action. Here's twenty on wholesale destruction.”

“I'll double-down on that prediction.” Viv waved a handful of bills at Cricket.

Cricket collected the cash and looked at Gwen. “Talk is cheap. You want in?”

“What on earth would lead you to suppose that I'd be willing to gamble on something so ridiculously sophomoric?”

Cricket smiled. “So, that's your way of saying you don't have any cash on you?”

“Right.” Gwen nodded. “Will you accept my marker?”

“Of course.”

“I do have one question,” Gwen continued.

“What is it?”

“If Viv is the actuary, why do you always seem to be the one holding the bets?”

Cricket chuckled. “First of all, since Viv is usually at the center of any betting that's going on, it's useful to have someone else do
the holding. Beyond that, you could say I just have an aptitude for guessing which outcome is likelier. It's a skill I learned the hard way.”

Viv agreed. “She could make a killing in the insurance industry.”

“No thank you.” Cricket ordered the bills so they all faced the same way. “Thirty-five years of being an army nurse was enough for me. The only kind of killing that interests me these days involves a tumbler and a bottle of single malt Scotch.”

“Missed opportunities.” Viv shook her head.

“Take my word for it, Viv.” Cricket stuffed the bills into a zippered pocket on her jacket. “Missed opportunities come in all shapes and sizes.”

“No shit.” Towanda pointed a finger toward the pontoon. It was like a tiny fleck of sliver on the horizon but you could still make out its canvas awning and the splotchy green color of the Kelvinator. “Ask ‘Marvin Pants.'”

Cricket followed her gaze. “What's that remark supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on,” Viv chimed in. “I saw your face when
he
walked into the restaurant last night with Montana. You about pissed your pants. We all did.”

Gwen smiled. “Ironic turn of phrase.”

“What-
ever
.” Viv waved a hand. “None of us saw
that
one coming.”

Cricket shrugged. “I think what he's doing to help Quinn is pretty damn admirable.”

“Yeah? It sure begs the question about why he is doing it?”

Towanda disagreed. “I think it's pretty clear he had Barb's foot up his ass.”

Viv looked at her. “You think Barb knew Mavis was a man?”

“You don't?” Cricket asked. “It's hard to believe they drove across country together without that revelation taking place.”

“She just fell off the turnip truck.” Towanda snapped her fingers in front of Viv's face. “Hello? Anybody home in there?”

Viv swatted Towanda's hand away.

“Will you two knock it off?” Gwen had had enough. “Who cares
what Barb knew or didn't know? And who cares what prompted Mavis to reveal herself as Marvin—or Marvin to present himself as Mavis? It's not like his ‘transition' is any more or less twisted than the ones the rest of us are up here to explore.”

No one could argue with that. Or at least, if they could, they chose not to.

So instead, they stood together quietly and watched the sunlight glinting off the pontoons of Quinn's little boat until it disappeared behind Ladd Point.

“Look at this stuff.” Shawn tipped her plate toward the window so the sunlight could illuminate the glob of aspic on her plate. “It looks like a blood clot.”

“Shawn, why do you insist on letting them serve it to you? Why don't you simply tell them you don't want it?”

Shawn looked at Kate with wonder. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you hate it?”

“I don't know that I hate it.” She tipped her plate into the light again. “I'm intrigued by it.”

Kate sat back and folded her arms. “You're intrigued by it?”

“Yes.” Shawn set her plate down. “I keep thinking that maybe I'll develop a taste for it.”

“That's not very likely to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, you'd have to eat some of it to develop a taste for it.”

Shawn wrinkled up her nose. “Gross.”

“I rest my case.”

“See?” Shawn pushed her plate away. “This is the basic difference between you and me.”

Kate sighed. “I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm certain you're going to enlighten me.”

“I might if you're nice to me.”

“I'm always nice to you.”

“No you aren't.”

Kate opened her mouth to reply, but seemed to think better of it.

Shawn noticed. “What is it?”

Kate unfolded her arms. “I promise I'll be nice to you.”

They smiled at each other.

“Okay,” Shawn continued. “As I was saying. Our approaches to The Tomato Aspic Problem highlight the differences in our basic approaches to relationships.”

Kate raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

Shawn raised an index finger and began to tick off the differences.

“First, when confronted with a difficult situation, I take the time I need to fully study the scope of the problem.”

She waited for Kate to make a response, but Kate just waved her on. “Please continue. This is fascinating.”

“You sure?”

Kate leaned back against her chair. “Oh, yeah.”

“Okay. Second, I don't rush to snap judgments or structure my interactions to avoid having to deal with whatever the problem is.”

Kate chewed the inside of her cheek but remained silent.

“Third,” Shawn continued, “I always allow for the possibility that my ideas about something may change—so I don't close the door on opportunities I've already cast aside.”