Bonefish Blues Page 2

  Matt was coiling the hose on the dock when Will passed by. He paused and looked at the boy. He reached into his pocket and took out a twenty. It wasn’t right how Cody treated him, “Here. That’s from those guys your dad took out today. Said to meet him at the bar when you’re done.”

  “Thanks, Will. I don’t get too many tips.” He pocketed the money, put his shirt on, and headed toward the building.

  “Saw you give the boy some cash,” Ned said, approaching.

  “You know Cody is drinking on that tip money right now. He’s a good kid. Doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

  “Yeah, he is. But he’s not your responsibility. You can’t save everything. When was the last time you went out and had a good time?”

  Will just looked at him, saying nothing in acknowledgment. Ned took the cue and went back to the office.

  Chapter 3

  “Give me seven points and I’ll take Vanderbilt,” Cody said as he chugged his beer. He looked up at the flat screen behind the bar; the talking heads on the screen had all picked Georgia. Cody knew he was going out on a limb, but the only way to dig himself out of the hole he was in was with a big shovel and the odds on Vanderbilt winning would buy him a backhoe. A win here would settle all his debts ~ he ignored the thoughts of what a loss would do.

  The local bookie sat next to him, sipping a soda, “Number one, you got no credit. Number two, are you out of your mind?” Cody followed the man’s gaze to the screen.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the twenty. “Here, let’s call this a down payment. Make the bet a hundred,” he said trying to keep the look of desperation off his face.

  The man grabbed the twenty. “You ain’t got that kind of credit. I’ll call the bet twenty.”

  Cody guzzled the rest of his beer and slammed the mug down on the bar. “Just you wait. I’ll find another bookie and you’ll be missin’ my business.” He turned and looked around the bar for someone else he could bet with.

  The man saw what he was up to. “Good luck there. In this pisshole of a town, I’m the only game. I’ll take your money. Just make sure your old man backs you up.”

  Cody stared at the screen, the kickoff seconds away. What the hell, he thought. His old man would bail him out. Not that he’d need it, he reassured himself. He ordered another beer and watched the game unfold. He got up at halftime, needing a bathroom break after half a dozen beers. His hopes were in the gutter; Vanderbilt was down by fourteen. Back at the bar, and ready for the third quarter, he switched to bourbon.

  This didn’t seem to help, as the chasm deepened to twenty points. Defeated, he finally left the bar.

  ***

  Matt was texting, his head down when Cody approached the car. His math book was in his lap — Algebra two — a notepad open on the seat next to him. He was startled when Cody opened the door and got in. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hey, yourself. What are you doing on that stupid phone?” He grabbed it and slammed it on the dashboard. “You need to be working those books,” he slurred.

  Matt looked him over, knowing he was drunk and had probably lost money by his temper. “Why don’t you let me drive?”

  “I got this,” Cody mumbled as he turned the key. The engine turned over, and Matt reached for the keys.

  “Dad, I’ve got my permit, and you’ve been drinking. I’ll drive. One more DUI and you have to do jail time,” Matt made a move for the door but was too late.

  Cody ignored him and pulled the lever down. He was sloppy drunk, and jerked too hard, so that the shift went right past reverse and into drive.

  “Dad, stop!”

  But it was too late; the truck jerked forward, slamming into the parking bumper. Matt grabbed his books and phone and reached for the door handle. “You can’t drive like this. I’ll walk.” He got out and slammed the door, leaping out of the way as the truck found reverse and pulled out of the lot, tires shooting crushed coral toward him.

  Head down he walked to the curb. Books at his feet, he sat on the vacant parking bumper and stared at his phone. It was five miles to his mom’s house. He was supposed to be staying with his dad this week, but he had no wish to be around the old man any more than necessary. Besides, she would let him stay there. Hopefully she didn’t have one of her boyfriends around. Just as he started to dial her number, he saw Will pull into the lot and he set down the phone. The old pickup stopped next to him.

  “Hey, you okay?” Will asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Just need a ride. I was just about to call my mom.”

  “No problem. I’ll take you over there. You eat anything yet? I was just about to get something.” He figured Matt had been here the whole time waiting for Cody, “Want to go?”

  Matt’s stomach had been grumbling for hours, but his dad had never asked whether he was hungry. The fact that Will did brought up a lump in his throat, and he quickly swallowed it down. “Yeah, that’d be great.” He went toward the rusted door and got in.

  Will pulled out onto US1 and headed north. “Where’s your dad?”

  “Think he had too much to drink again. Took off.” Matt put his head down and stared at the seat. They drove in silence, though Matt watched Will out of the corner of his eye. He knew he had some trust issues after dealing with his parents’ divorce, and watching his dad gamble and drink. Will was someone who he could count on, although he’d never really tested the trust. It was just nice to have someone that did stuff for you; knew when you needed help and when you needed to be left alone. He’d never seen Will drunk or abusive either.

  “Barbeque okay?” Will broke the silence as he pulled into the parking lot.

  “Oh, sure.”

  The place was quiet. Thursday nights in November were slow. The summer crowds had left and the snow birds would not start arriving until after Thanksgiving. They ordered ribs, filled their soda cups, sat down and ate. They didn’t talk much as they plowed through the food, watching the end of the game as Georgia rolled Vanderbilt 42-7. “Do you even drink?” Matt asked, watching Will sip his iced tea.

  “Sometimes, but nothing good comes of that. Learned that lesson a long time ago. I’ll have a beer once in a while, but …” He stopped.

  “Yeah, I know. My dad drinks too much.” Matt’s eyes teared. He got up, took both trays and dumped them in the trash, turning away so that Will would not see his face.

  “Staying with your mom?” Will asked as they pulled back out on the road.

  “Supposed to be with my dad this week, but he’s drunk and mad. My mom said when he got like that I should stay with her. She’s trying to get the custody thing changed, but she says my grandpa has too much clout here.”

  “No worries. I’ll run you over there.” Matt watched the road as Will turned off US1 toward the Gulf side. The houses were dark, vegetation taking over many of the yards. Twice he hesitated and had to ask Matt for directions. After several turns they pulled into a small driveway. The house stood on wooden stilts, clapboard siding in need of maintenance, probably built in the 1950s, like many of the houses in this area. A light was on in a back room.

  Will paused, then turned to Matt. “Hey, you good? I’ll wait till you get in.”

  Matt opened the door and got out, “Thanks for the ride and dinner,” he said as he closed the door and went for the stairs, wishing he could talk to him more about his dad.

  “Hey, hang in there,” Will called after him.

  Matt walked the unlit path to the stairs. A security light came on as he hit the first tread illuminating the steps and front porch. Before he reached the top, the door opened and his mother appeared in a bathrobe. Matt went to her for a long hug.

  ***

  Will saw the tears roll down her attractive face, illuminated by the security light, and watched as Matt went in. The woman remained, squinting past the light at him. She put up a hand with a finger extended, asking him to wait, and then went inside, the door closing behind her. Will sat in the truck, wondering what she wanted, not wanting to g
et involved. Matt talked about her occasionally, but he’d never met her.

  Then the door opened and she reappeared. He watched as she walked down the stairs and followed the path of the headlights to the truck. The bathrobe was gone; in its place she wore tight jeans and a low cut white t-shirt. The tears were gone as well, and her auburn hair was brushed.

  He rolled down the window as she approached. “Hi, I’m Will.”

  “I know,” she said. “Matt talks about you all the time. Thought it was time to meet you.” She leaned in toward him with a smile, close enough for him to smell the freshly applied perfume. “I want to thank you for looking after him. His dad’s not very responsible.”

  Will looked at her his silence prompting a response.

  “Okay, he’s an irresponsible ass. Anyway, my name’s Nicole,” she smiled again stepping back slightly, turning her hips so he could see her body.

  He couldn’t help but notice and eyes on her breasts he blurted, “I’m Will,” realizing he’d already introduced himself he tried to recover, “But, I guess you know that.”

  “I’ve heard good things from Matt about you. Maybe I’ll see you around some time ~ thank you for looking after him,” she said. Before he could say anything else, she leaned into the car and kissed his cheek, turned and walked away.

  The sway in her walk kept his attention as she went up the stairs. The door closed and he backed out of the driveway. The roads were dark and he missed the turn, his mind preoccupied. Finally back on the main street, he drove toward the glow of lights marking US1. He turned back toward the Gulf side and went half a mile before turning again. Several turns later, he pulled up to a gate with an old building permit box next to it. The farm gate swung unevenly as he opened it, pulled the truck through, and went back to close it.

  The house was dark as he pulled up past several piles of construction materials. Built on concrete piers, the cinder block walls were waiting for stucco, but otherwise the house looked finished. Driftwood beams and fascia accented the windows and doors setting the house apart from the other cookie cutter houses. He admired his work as he walked upstairs, using the flash on his phone to light the way. The unfinished, hand made door opened into the dark house. Still holding the phone for light, he went to a hurricane lamp and lit the wick with the lighter sitting next to it. The light glowed brighter as the wick sucked oil, soon illuminating the room.

  The kitchen was off to the left, with hand planed cypress cabinets installed. The counters were still plywood sheets. A small propane refrigerator sat next to a camp stove in the spaces where the permanent appliances would go. The rest of the room was open, with a bare plywood floor. Cypress beams and planks highlighted the ceiling, window and door surrounds. Part carpenter - part fisherman he had done all the woodwork himself. Carpentry was a passion, much like fly fishing but where he could find work as a fishing guide he had trouble finding work as a carpenter. His reputation for insisting on doing only custom work and doing it his way turned people away; people always liked what he did, but didn’t want to pay the artist price tag. He opened the french doors, which led out to a deck. The Gulf was visible through the hand carved boards in the railing, waves shimmering, lit by the quarter moon. The small Honda generator started with one pull, and several lights flickered and then came on as the generator evened out.

  The house was ready for paint, and had been for a while. It was livable now, with the exception of the power situation. He had water and gas, but he was at odds with the power company, who had turned off his temporary service when his permit had expired last year. They refused to hook up permanent power until he had a final occupancy permit. He was capable of doing the rest of the work, but unlike carpentry he had little interest.

  At the table, he waited for his laptop to boot up. The old operating system took time, and he thought about Nicole while he waited. It had been a long time since a woman had shown interest in him. Finally the home screen showed, and he opened his email, hoping a charter had booked for tomorrow, or at least he had an inquiry. There was nothing there, though, so he closed the cover, turned off the generator, and went to bed.

  He lay awake unable to sleep. Though he lived in the capital of mellow, he thought he had less ambition than most. Sometimes, though it was his passion, he thought there had to be more to life than catching fish on a fly. Maybe he should do meat charters, or take a real job, at least put enough money in the bank to finish the house, get a girl, start a family. Finally he drifted off to sleep alternating thoughts of the tarpon he had released and Nicole’s kiss.

  Chapter 4

  With no charter for the day, and the weather favorable, Will paddled toward Flamingo Key, a small hump in the distance. Sunlight danced on the small ripples of the Gulf, the water not quite flat calm, but dappled with small wind waves. He paddled easily through the early morning slack tide, his paddleboard sliding through the water. Sunrise was his favorite time to be on the water, before the heat and activity of the day set in. He looked behind him every few minutes, checking the fishing line trailing behind the board. Every so often, a flats boat cruised parallel to them, usually respecting the paddlers and leaving enough distance so that their wakes would not effect them.

  Next to him in a kayak was Roc Bennet, a contractor friend. Roc tagged along any chance he got, trading advice on fishing for help with Will’s house. Both men knew who came out better on the deal. Roc got to fish with a guide once or twice a week, and it had been more than a month since Will had even asked for advice or any help with his house.

  It was a five-mile paddle. He planned these trips around the tide changes and wind — both enemies of the paddlers, especially Will on the stand up board. But he’d come prepared. His board was outfitted for fishing, utilizing a milk crate bungeed to the front and a cooler behind him. The rod was in a holder screwed to reinforcement in the deck.

  They stroked easily, talking quietly as they paddled. Will wanted to say something about the scene at the dock and meeting Nicole the night before, but thought better of it. Roc was a trusted friend and sounding board, but this felt too much like gossip. He hated the coconut telegraph, as the locals referred to the gossip channel prevalent through the Keys. One too many times, he had been on the wrong side of it, usually at Cody’s doing.

  He had grown up with Cody. Through high school they ran in different circles; never friends, but never enemies either. After graduation, Will had seen and heard of Cody’s exploits, but through their twenties and into their thirties they had no contact. Working as a carpenter during the week and a mate for fishing charters had allowed Will to save enough to buy his own boat and take a shot a being a charter captain. Cody had never amounted to much. Old man Braken had bought him the Grady White and shuttled clients his way whenever he could to supplement the off the books kind of work he had him do on the side. From the first glimpse of recognition that day on the docks several years ago when Will pulled up in the slightly used Action Craft there had been tension between them. Maybe the competition, Will thought. Maybe because Matt gravitated towards him rather than his father.

  Instead, he and Roc talked football, fishing, and the inevitable slow economy. Both men had been adversely affected when things went south several years earlier. The building industry was just now getting back on its feet, five years later, and fly fishing was still way down. These days, many fishermen preferred to try and offset the cost of the charter with a freezer full of fish.

  Suddenly the reel on his board spun.

  “You’ve got something!” Roc yelled.

  Will turned and looked at the rod, which was bent over, line spilling off the spinning reel. He set the paddle between his legs and carefully turned on the thirty-two-inch-wide board until he could sit on the cooler and reach behind him for the rod. Once in hand, he tightened the drag, slowing the line, and held the rod high.

  “‘Bet it’s a ‘cuda,” he said as he started to reel. Although not good table fare, the foot-long barracudas that prowled the fla
ts were fun to catch. It didn’t take him long to reel the fish to the boat. Rod held high over his head, he reached for the line and grabbed the leader a foot above the fish, then set the rod back in the holder and reached for the pliers clipped to his belt. The steel jaws clamped down on the hook and he shook the fish off, careful to avoid the teeth, which could take a finger off.

  The fish had interrupted their conversation and they paddled the half hour to Flamingo Key, the only sound the paddles dipping in and out of the water.

  “Set up over there,” Will called to Roc, pointing to a clump of mangroves a hundred feet off. “Go in about fifty feet and cast toward the deeper water.” He pointed to the darker line of water running parallel to the Key, then waited until Roc was set up, and watched for a few minutes as he started casting, double hauling, and letting more line out with each cast.

  Satisfied, he paddled toward the point of the Key closest to land. It was a hard channel to fish, but the rewards were great. It wasn’t very often a charter client was skilled enough to fish the tricky interplay between the wind, current and tide here. He had better luck with the novices where he had Roc set up, on the leeward side of the Key and out of the wind and current. He reached around for the fly rod and started casting, the board drifting in the current. He got four casts off with no fish before he had to put down the rod and paddle back up current. It took five drifts before he hooked a nice bonefish. Several more followed, all released.

  The rod was back in its holder and he was about to check on Roc when he saw the boat barreling directly toward them. He winced when it passed a shallow sandbar; they were either very lucky, or the captain knew the sandbar was only passible at high tide. It was close enough now to see the shape of the Grady-White. What was Cody doing running over that bottom? The waters of the Gulf side were riddled with banks and shoals, many unmarked.