Blow Fly

28

JACK'S BOAT LANDING IS a clutter of trailers, bateaux, bass and flat-bottom boats, and runabouts tied to pilings along a crisscross of rickety docks strung with old tires that serve as fenders.

Pulled up on the muddy shore are several pirogues-or Cajun canoes-and a rotting bow rider that won't be pulling water-skiers anymore. The parking lot is dirt, and on the fuel dock are two pumps-one for regular gas, the other for diesel. Jack works from five a.m. until nine p.m. in his one-room office with its mounted fish hanging at random angles on the wall with peeling paint. The calendar above his old metal desk features glossy photos of glitter-painted bass boats-the very expensive kind that can go up to sixty miles an hour.

Were it not for the window air-conditioning unit and the Po.rt-a-John behind the building, Jack would lack all modern conveniences. Not that he would care, particularly. He was born into a hard life and raised to make any sacrifice that might keep him right where he is, in a world of water and the creatures in it, and trees draped in Spanish moss.

For those who frequent his boat landing, tying up for gas and making a trip into town for provisions is normal behavior. People who stay for weeks or longer in their fishing camps on the bayous and rivers are expected to leave vehicles and boat trailers parked at the landing. He never thinks twice about the white Jeep Cherokee tucked between trucks and other SUVs in a far corner of the lot near the water's edge. He minds his own business, even if he does have instincts about people that are as strong as his sense of smell. Swamp Woman sent strong signals to him from day one-and that's been some two years now. Her demeanor is no-nonsense about asking personal questions.

Bev Kiffin opens the hatch and pulls out her beach bag. She stands aft and drops in the plow anchor, then tosses two nylon lines up on the fuel dock as Jack waves, walking swiftly her way.

"Why if it isn't Swamp Woman!" he calls out. "Can I top you off?"

The landing is lit and bugs are thick, roiling clouds in the yellow glow of lamps. Jack tosses her the bowline.

"I'll be leaving her here for a few hours." Bev turns the rope and makes a half hitch over the horns of the cleat. She pulls back the tarp and sets empty gas cans on the dock. "Fill 'em up. What's your price these days?"

"One eighty-five."

"Shit." Bev hops up on the dock, moving nimbly for a woman her size. "That's highway robbery."

Jack laughs. "It ain't me who decides the price of oil."

He's tall and bald, as dark and strong as a cypress. Bev's never seen him once when he wasn't wearing his sweat-stained orange Harley-Davidson cap and chewing on a plug of tobacco.

"You comin' and goin'?" He spits and wipes his mouth on the back of a sunspotted, gnarled hand and helps her with the stern lines.

"Just to the store."

Bev dips into her beach bag for a single key attached to a small fishing bobber-in case she ever accidentally drops the key into the water. Her attention wanders around the crowded parking lot, fixing on the Cherokee.

"I guess I'd better crank her up to make sure the battery ain't dead."

"Well if it is," Jack says, lining up the four gas cans near the pump, "you know I'll jump 'er."

Bev watches him squat, sticking the gas nozzle into each can, the pump clicking away her cash. The back of his neck reminds her of alligator hide, and his elbows are big calluses. She's been coming to him at least ten times a year, more often of late, and he doesn't have a damn clue about her, which is a good thing for him. She heads to the SUV, suddenly worried about whether it needs gas, too. She can't remember if she filled it up last time.

Unlocking the driver's door, she slides in and turns the key in the ignition. The engine cranks after three tries, and she's relieved to see she has more than half a tank of gas. When she runs low, she'll fill up at a gas station. Turning the headlights on, she backs up and parks near the dock. While she is pulling cash out of her wallet and squinting to make out the bills, Jack wipes his hands on a rag and waits for her to roll down the window.

"That'll be forty-four dollars and forty cents," he tells her. "I'll get those cans back in your boat for ya and keep an eye on it. I noticed you got your friend with ya." He means the shotgun. "You plan on leaving it in the boat? I wouldn't. Watch out shooting at gators with that thing. All it does is make 'em rageful."

Bev can't believe she almost drove off and left her shotgun. She's not thinking clearly tonight, and her knee hurts.

"Last thing you do before you leave," she adds as he steps down into the boat, "is fill the fish box with ice."

"How much?" He fetches the shotgun, climbs back up on the dock and carefully places it on the backseat of the Cherokee.

"A hundred pounds will do."

"Must be doing a lot of shopping to need all that ice." He stuffs the rag in a back pocket of his old, soiled work pants.

"Stuff spoils quick out here."

"That'll be another twenty. I'm givin' you three bucks off."

She hands him two tens and doesn't thank him for the discount.

"I'm gone by nine." He looks past her, inside the beat-up Cherokee. "So if you ain't back by then…"

"Won't be," Bev tells him, shifting the SUV into reverse.

She never is and doesn't need the reminder.

He stares past her at the front passenger's door, at the rolled-up window and the missing crank and push-in lock.

"You know, girl, I could fix that if you're ever of a mind to leave the keys."

Bev glances at the door. "Don't matter," she says. "Nobody rides in this thing but me."