The Sky Fisherman (6 page)

"Don't forget to spend some here," Jake said. "Cash makes no enemies."

"Put this on the team's account." Mule tucked the glove and ball
under his arm. "Hollywood," he muttered. "To most people it's the end of the rainbow. Around here, it's more like the end of the line."

The Phoenix stood just beyond Gateway's northside city limits and featured a blinking neon bird that resembled a pheasant more than a phoenix. The restaurant served the best steaks in town, including a seventy-two-ounce porterhouse special, and what passed for Chinese food. Opaque Chinese lanterns with dangling red tassels hung from the light fixtures, and golden dragons adorned the walls. The Lucky Dragon Lounge featured twenty-five-cent beers and half-dollar well drinks during happy hour, double shots from six to eight. Dance bands played four nights a week, country and western and rock and roll getting equal billing.

Ace Ho's Stardust Resort stood adjacent to the Phoenix and offered deluxe modern rooms and a giant outdoor pool. Everyone stayed at the Stardust, from construction engineers and dam inspectors to traveling salesmen. Those with a hankering for poker and blackjack found games of chance in the motel's back suites. I heard girls were available in some of the units.

Ace Ho owned both places and was the biggest operator in town, except for Hall Tangent. Although his places were fancy, Ace himself kept a low profile. He had spent his teen years working on Hawaiian pineapple plantations, and he didn't have any fingerprints because the pineapple acid had eaten away the whorls of his skin. Rumors circulated about Ace's connections with Honolulu's racketeering and gambling, but no one actually knew where he got his start-up money.

Occasionally, Ace came into the store to buy ammunition for the .32 automatic he carried. When he helped himself to coffee in the back room, the conversation lulled. Although almost fifty, he moved with the litheness of a jaguar and had the coldest blue-green eyes I'd ever seen. Jake called them iceberg eyes, claiming they were the exact color of the new icebergs calved from the glacial fields near Sitka.

The town felt ambivalent about Ace, and once or twice some bluenoses talked about picketing his establishment, but it didn't come to anything because no one wanted to confront him directly. The city police wouldn't deal with the club since it lay beyond their jurisdiction, and the county sheriff, Grady Simmons, gave Ace a wide berth.

"You can't argue with success," Jake told Grady one morning at the Oasis, and Grady replied, "People might as well spend their wad in Gateway. Why have them cart their business off to Central?"

Jake usually recommended that the wealthy dudes he guided stay at Ace's, especially if they had a yen for the fast lane. And some nights we
went there, too. Anytime we sold seven hundred dollars' worth of sporting goods, Jake treated me to a boys' night out. We celebrated by eating steaks at the Phoenix. He always ordered the Top Hand for himself and the Wrangler for me. Both were T-bones, but the Top Hand was bigger.

A couple of times Jake asked my mother along, but she declined, saying that eating heavy food so late at night disturbed her rest and made her feel logy the next day at work.

We almost always saw Gab at a small table in the bar, seated with a different attractive woman. He'd send over a Seven and Seven for Jake and a Coke Virgin for me. When the woman excused herself for the powder room, Gab would slip over and say, "She's a client from Central. Owns a furniture store and takes out lots of advertising. Don't want you guys getting the wrong notion." He'd glance around. "This is a business meeting."

By the time we'd be ready to leave, Gab might be holding hands with the woman or dancing close.

"Wonder what kind of business?" I'd ask.

Jake scowled. "None of yours."

Some nights Jake decided to stay and check out the action, so I walked home alone. I didn't mind, because it gave me a chance to study the town at night and consider how I fit in it.

Once I wandered to the back of the motel, seeing what I could glimpse through the open doors. The gambling suites had big-game trophies displayed on the walls, and I guessed Ace had shot the animals on safari. Dozens of gamblers clustered around the tables. Some wore mill hats or farm clothes; others had white shirts and ties. Most of the dealers were women wearing short fringe dresses and white caps with an ace of clubs design. Cigarette smoke and chatter drifted out of the rooms.

The girls' quarters were quiet, the doors closed and the windows covered with dark green drapes. I stood staring at the rooms a few minutes when two tall men approached carrying flashlights. They were Indians and wore the black and crimson satin jackets of the Redwings, the reservation's semipro basketball team.

One shone the flashlight in my face. "What's up, kid?"

I shrugged. "Not much. I had dinner, now I'm just walking around."

"You a guest? Your folks checked in?"

I shook my head. "I'm here with my uncle Jake. He owns the sporting goods store."

"Sure, we know Jake," he said, lowering the light from my face. "See him all the time. Jake wouldn't want you hanging around here." He
shifted the flashlight beam to the front of my pants. "Take your stiffie home. Come back when you're twenty-one."

The other one laughed and held up his hand. "Say hello to Rosie Palm."

I could feel the heat rise in my neck, and I wanted to say something but couldn't think what, so I just walked away. Seeing my uncle's empty pickup with the blinking neon phoenix reflecting off the windshield made me feel alone and sad. My mother and I were newcomers to Gateway, I realized, connected to the town only by our ties to my uncle.

That night I walked a long way until I had wrung out the anger and emptiness. I found myself inside the train depot, hanging around listening to the clack-clack of the telegrapher's key, smelling the cigar butts and chewing tobacco in the brass spittoons. At 11:40 the night freight rolled by, and I went outside to watch the boxcars for open doors, imagining the hoboes inside. The moon was nearly full, and I saw a flatcar carrying three John Deere tractors chained to its deck. A hobo perched on one tractor seat, pretending he was driving, and in the indistinct light his face resembled Riley's. The hobo's long matted hair blew back in the wind and he was grinning as if he owned the world. As the freight passed, he waved at me, fingers waggling from the torn holes in his gloves.

***

Four days a week, Jake guided on the Lost. Parts of the other three, he worked in the store. He was building a reputation, and his guide calendar was almost full the entire summer. When he found out how fast I grew savvy about the business, he started relying on me more and more. After a couple of weeks, I could even close out the till and make the night bank deposit.

On those occasions, I got home just before midnight, and sometimes found my mother still up reading. "Jake shouldn't take advantage of you," she'd say. "Just because you're related doesn't mean he should work you like a slave."

The fact was, I liked working at the store. The back-room boys put me at the heart of the town. I also enjoyed visiting with the tourists who stopped and listening to the dam workers retell their adventures. Most of all, I liked the excitement of meeting the dudes.

The dudes, as my uncle called them, fell into two types. Doctors, architects, or businesspeople from the city comprised the first. These
had lots of money, and their fishing clothes were so new they still had package creases in the shirtsleeves. Usually, one of the dudes knew my uncle from a trip the year before and had returned with his clients or friends. Most likely it was a tax write-off, according to my uncle. The second group were working people who had saved their money for the three-day trip. Sometimes a couple wives gave their husbands trips for Christmas gifts. My uncle understood these men might have preferred salmon fishing in Alaska or a couple weeks in Canada, but they couldn't afford it, so they settled for three deluxe days on the Lost.

"Treat 'em right, treat 'em the same" was his motto, and I never saw him deviate from it.

The groups came in around ten and spent an hour or so getting outfitted. The first group wore sunglasses and bright caps from places like Sun Valley and Aspen. They smelled of aftershave and breath mints. The others wore battered caps from the mills and plants where they worked: Cenex, John Deere, Freightliner. Their eyes creased with worry lines but they were out to have a good time. Jake called everyone fella because he was bad at names. Among the wealthy dudes, usually one was poorly equipped, having tried to match a borrowed fly rod with a spinning reel, so Jake would get him taken care of while the others ribbed him. Nearly everybody needed new monofilament, and we also checked the guides and tips on their rods. A worn tip could cut the monofilament so they'd lose a nice fish.

Sooner or later most dudes would head for the baseball equipment, pull a thirty-four-inch Louisville Slugger from the bat boxes, and take a few practice cuts, placing the hundred-dollar fly rods in jeopardy. Although they never actually hit one, the danger made me wince.

Moving from behind the counter and stepping in their direction, Jake would say, "Fellas, I hope your insurance covers those pricey rods. I hate to tell you, mine doesn't." Taking a quick look at the small price tags hanging from the metal eyes, he'd shake his head. "A hundred dollars. That's pure graphite but it sure seems expensive."

Grinning and looking a little foolish, the dudes would lower their bats. Knowing he had their full attention, Jake would say, "You're welcome to carry that bat outside, try a few swings." Sometimes they'd take up his offer; others, they'd replace the bats into the box and look around a little more, hands jammed in pockets.

I worried that someone might actually break a rod when Jake was on the river, but he winked and said, "The insurance covers it, but I don't want my premiums jacked."

***

Jake actually outfitted the dudes, and I helped in small ways, but they always wanted to hear advice straight from him. I could explain to the fly fishermen that the trout were taking spent-wing stones, Adams, and Rhoda specials, tell the lure plunkers to use silver Mepps spinners and frog flatfish, but they wouldn't buy a thing until Jake confirmed my picks. Then they'd take a dozen.

I loaded the big Igloo ice chests with blocks from the ice house outside, six-packs of pop, Hamm's beer, and lots of sandwiches. Jake also took the best food from Gateway lockers—steaks, chops, and a baron of sirloin roast beef to cook in the cast-iron Dutch oven. They could have caught enough fish to fill everyone, but they usually ate fish only once on a trip. We iced another big cooler for the catch, because the dudes wanted to return home with impressive trout.

By eleven-thirty, they left the parking lot in Jake's Dodge crew-cab pickup towing one of the drift boats. I had half an hour until the noon rush started, and I'd thumb through one of the old
Outdoor Life
or
Sports Afield
magazines Jake piled on shelves in the bathroom.

Some days I'd stare at the large black and white photograph of Jake, my father, and mother that hung on the wall behind the cash register. A two-day limit of trout—sixty fish—were spread across a fallen barn door in front of them. Thick-sided rainbows native to that region, the fish had fattened all summer with Salmon flies and crayfish.

The brothers wore battered straw cowboy hats, lures dangling from the brims, and my mother wore a woman's felt hat—too stylish for the river. She stood squarely before the camera and seemed genuinely happy. Jake's hat tipped forward at a jaunty angle.

My father held his right hand beside his cheek, shielding the sun. His face was shadowed, but his eyes were distinct and seemed fixed on something far away the others could not see.

The first time I took the picture down for a better look, I shuddered. My father had penciled the word "Lunkers" and then in my mother's neater hand: "We had such a marvelous time. A perfect day!" The small date marked in the corner showed it was taken the autumn before my father drowned.

At times when the store was quiet, I studied the picture, trying to determine the meaning of my father's expression. Much later, I came to realize it resembled the faces of high school students featured on the annual's In Memory page, those who die before they graduate. Victims of car accidents or mysterious diseases the small-town doctors cannot fathom, they seem to be gazing into the future they will not share with those around them.

W
HEN JAKE
was guiding on the Lost, I answered the phone at the store several dozen times a day, but one call made me jump. It was Riley, calling just before lunch.

"Culver? Is that you? How's my boy?" He paused. "Listen. Make sure no one's eavesdropping."

I quickly surveyed the parking lot and store. "No one's here right now."

"Good. I tried calling a couple days ago, but Jake answered. I don't think I should call the house anymore because the phone might be tapped." He didn't sound frightened or upset, just careful, like a parent explaining something to a child.

"Are you all right, Riley? Taking care of yourself?"

He started chuckling. "She never thought I had it in me. Damn railroad ground me down, but not out. I got their attention, didn't I. What did your mother say?"

"She was surprised," I said after a moment's hesitation. "I think it's fair to say she didn't see it coming." She had said a lot of things, critical and harsh, but I didn't want to go into that right now.

"I sent you a postcard. But I'm not at that location anymore. Got to keep moving for a while yet."

"You be careful, Riley."

"A couple minutes," I heard him say to someone on the other end. "Some bastard needs to use the phone," he said. "Probably calling his girlfriend so his wife can't hear. Listen, tell your mom I love her. And tell her ... I'm just a little short of cash. Otherwise, I'd send some along to help you out."

"It's all right," I said. "We're both working."

"I knew Jake would take care of you. He's a stand-up guy. One more quick question. Does she talk about me?"