The Sky Fisherman (16 page)

"All the rich dudes stopping by, we'll sell these faster than you can paint," he said.

Next they hung a painting of Fancy Dancers at a celebration. The lead dancer carried a swan feather fan and seemed to be moving.

Each painting was terrific. I could appreciate that and was eager to have my mother come see them. For the most part, she didn't like the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of the store, but this gave it another dimension beyond "slaughtering poor dumb animals," as she put it.

In the third painting, three old men fished from treacherous scaffolds on the lower Lost. This was traditional Indian fishing with long-handled hoop nets they lowered into the white water. One man was lifting a salmon out; another clubbed a fish on the bank.

"What do you think of that, nephew? It's so real you can smell the fish."

I nodded. "Wish I could catch some that big."

The next painting hit me. A man sat in a pickup, perhaps headed for town. In the doorway of a log cabin, a woman wearing a blue print dress waved good-bye. A boy cradling a rifle stood beside an empty rail corral. Nobody had to tell me the boy was Kalim.

"I painted that one from an old family picture," she said. "And memory." She unwrapped the last painting. "This one really gets me."

Kalim and the RedWings were at a tournament, and by their dark uniforms you could tell they were the visitors. While the coach diagrammed a play on chalkboard, the team huddled. But Kalim wasn't studying the play with the others. His head was raised, and his eyes held a faraway gaze that saw beyond the scoreboard and crowd. With a shudder, I realized this was the same look my father wore in the fishing photo. On Kalim, the expression made me uncomfortable, and I hoped the painting would sell soon.

Jake seemed a little surprised by it, too. "That's different from the others," he pointed out. "No landscape and it's off the rez."

She nodded. "I like Kalim's eyes. Startling, aren't they? I worked hard to get those just right."

"It's something all right," I said. "Where were they playing?"

"Browning. The All-Indian Tournament. They came in second, but he scored more points than anyone else." Her eyes glistened. "Unstoppable."

"It's a hell of a likeness," Jake said. "Reminds me of when he played for Gateway."

"That's right. I thought if we hung it here, someone might remember. Come forward about his death."

"Maybe you should hang it at the lodge," Jake said.

She handed him the painting. "I've got some others at the lodge, but this seems right here. Anyway, they don't sell guns at the lodge."

Jake half turned and started to say something but stopped, then climbed the ladder and hung the painting.

I don't think Juniper intended to insult Jake with her remark and I was glad he let it slide. She had a point though. Whoever had shot Kalim probably had come into the store to buy a rifle or ammunition. Just thinking about it made my stomach churn.

When I returned from carrying the trophies to the storeroom, the two of them were still admiring her work.

I could tell how proud Juniper was. Even though she wore paint-spattered coveralls and a white painter's hat, she glowed. "Beautiful," Jake said under his breath, and I realized he was looking at her.

"Do we need to put price tags on them?" I asked.

Jake scowled. "This is art, not a garage sale."

Juniper handed me some brochures from her purse that explained her life and work, listed her shows. "Keep these at the front counter," she explained. "If anyone's interested, give him one to read."

"Each painting's two hundred dollars," Jake said. "That's a bargain. In a big city, you couldn't touch her work for that."

"At Jake's art gallery of the West, overhead is low." She lowered her voice. "I'll take less. A girl's got to eat. In a couple days, I'm going up to Central. One of the art galleries there plans a show of new artists."

At the mention of Central, Jake made a face. "Central doesn't deserve these," he said. "A bunch of retired blue-haired schoolteachers fussing around with watercolors."

"Think of all the tourists who come for the Water Pageant. They like visiting the galleries."

"Waste of time," Jake said.

While Jumper excused herself to use the restroom, I asked Jake, "You're taking her to art galleries and the Water Pageant?"

He held a finger to his lips, shushing me. "Some of her friends over there play the art game. I'm just helping out. You wouldn't catch me at Central's Water Pageant, for Christ's sake."

When Homer finished working his bakery shift, he came over, coffee cup in hand. He still had on his baker's clothes and smelled of baked bread and yeast. Flour powdered his dark eyebrows. "Jake said he did some decorating."

Homer took his time, studying each painting carefully. "Wow! Those horses look like they're running across the prairie!" He touched two fingers to his baker's cap as a kind of salute. "Never thought Jake was such a classy guy."

"One of these would look real good hanging in your bakery, Homer. Maybe that one of the old Indian man and the sheep. When Indians come into your shop, I bet they'd like seeing that painting."

"It's a beaut all right," he said, squinting at the painting. "No price tag on it. That means too rich for my blood."

***

Some days, before work, I'd hike the half mile to the hobo jungle under the railroad tracks. This featured cardboard and tin lean-tos and a cooking fire. Riley had warned me that sometimes hoboes grabbed young boys to bugger them, so I never got too close. When I grew older and knew what Riley meant, I carried a stockman's knife with two strong blades, just in case. But the hoboes were buried deep in bedrolls and never stirred. I heard their snoring as I hiked back toward the store.

Still, one time a young hobo, just a few years older than I was, got close without my knowing. His tennis shoes and jeans were soaked with early dew and his lips were blue from the cold. Frizzy blond hair sprouted from beneath his Minnesota hat. He carried a broken-down fishing rod and a bait can. "Any fishing round here, 'bo?"

The simplicity of his question disarmed me. "Willow Creek is okay further down," I said, "but you've got to use grasshoppers. Cast them in the swirls close to the bank and stay out of sight."

He shook the bait can a little. "Worms is all I got. The grasshoppers are too fast. Tried that yesterday afternoon."

"Not this early. Slap them with your hat. Fish don't mind if the 'hoppers get banged around a little."

"I hate it when they spit," he said. "Right when you stick the hook in them. But I'm wanting breakfast." He paused. "Listen, 'bo. You carrying smokes?"

"No," I said, "but I got a candy bar." I handed him a PayDay.

"Thanks," he said. "These got smaller, didn't they? They used to be big as your fist."

"My stepdad might be riding the rails. Name's Riley Walker. You ever hear of him?"

He shook his head. "Hardly anybody uses his real name. There was a Riley up around Spokane. Short and heavy."

"That's not him," I said, "but thanks."

"If I see him, who should I say is looking?"

"That's okay," I said. "I'm not looking very hard."

***

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.