The Sky Fisherman (17 page)

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 strangle 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.

At our approach, all came to their feet, apparently startled at my mother's presence. The old man whisked off his cap, holding it over his heart as if he expected someone to sing "The Star-Spangled Banner." He teetered on a gimpy leg, and I wondered how he jumped moving trains. The red-haired man stared at both of us; I couldn't pinpoint the favored eye. And Minnesota grinned and said, "Here's a young man that knows fishing. I caught some swell trout."

Now their supper was rabbit sizzling in a long-handled skillet and baking powder biscuits in a makeshift Dutch oven. Two had been drinking 7-Up, the third held a can of Dad's root beer. So much for the colorful stories of Sterno and Vienna sausage Riley told.

Overall, the camp appeared fairly tidy, considering how dry and dusty the summer was. They had swept away the cheatgrass and pine needles to avoid starting a fire. Toiletry items were visible near the bedroll. The old man had been reading an adventure novel with a lurid cover.

Apparently Minnesota's remark didn't register on my mother or she chose to ignore it. Her accusing eyes shifted from man to man; none held her gaze more than a moment. "Well, you might as well tell me where Riley is."

No reply.

"I'm certain you boys know." She tapped her right foot a few times, waiting.

Out of hobo loyalty, all shook their heads, but it wasn't convincing. The redhead seemed to be looking all over the place at once. My mother's gaze had settled on a fourth bedroll apart from the others and a couple of Riley's shirts hanging from a juniper branch. One had been our birthday present to him three years back and featured small red locomotives on a blue background.

She shook the New Testament in their faces. "Put your hands on this and deny you know Riley. Take care now. Remember how ashamed Peter was when he denied Christ three times before the cock crowed."

They shrank away from the Bible as if its pebbled green cover belonged to a serpent. I admired the way she had them buffaloed. Triumph gleamed in her eyes.

I half wanted to confess about encountering Riley myself by the icehouse. That's how convincing she was.

"I'm certain you men haven't touched a Bible since the last time you appeared in court. You prefer to wallow in darkness and lust, I imagine." She glanced at the cover of the adventure novel.

The redhead's shoulders slumped, and the old man fidgeted as he tried blocking her view of his book. Minnesota cleared his throat and
said, "Ma'am, Riley's off fishing right now. Usually he comes back way late."

"He probably lures them in with a lantern," she said. "I hope the game wardens nail him."