Boobytrap

10

Dull, static afternoon. I sweated my way through a restless nap, debated going for a swim, decided the icy water would probably do more harm than good, and settled for a shower instead. Then I packed up my fishing gear, locked it away in the trunk of the car. Funny, but I had no second thoughts, no sense of nostalgia: I simply was not a fisherman any longer. It was as if the sport had given me up, rather than the other way around. I remembered a woman saying to me once that she hadn’t quit smoking, smoking had quit her; she’d awakened one morning and reached for her cigarettes, as was her habit, and suddenly the thought of lighting one made her physically ill. She’d never lit up again, she told me. I hadn’t quite believed her, but I believed her now, fifteen years later. It can happen that way, all right. Vices, hobbies, other pursuits. Relationships, too. One day there’s interest, desire, some degree of passionate involvement, the next it’s gone with no real sense of decline or transition, as if it had never existed in the first place.

I wondered briefly if it could happen that way with Kerry and me, one or the other of us. But it was not anything that worried me, really. You don’t love the way she and I loved and have it end all of a sudden, overnight. There’s too much at stake on both sides. The ardor cools a little, the relationship changes and goes through its crises big and small, but there is no abrupt termination. If we ever split up — and I was as sure we wouldn’t as I could ever be of anything in this life — we would both see it coming long before it reached critical mass.

Around five I went over to the Dixons’. No answer to my knock, so I took myself down to the dock. It and the deck above were deserted, but I heard sounds from the storeroom and saw that its door stood open. As I started up there, Chuck emerged carrying his father’s heavy tackle box and an armload of fishing poles and a wicker creel.

“Oh, hi,” he said when he saw me. Not much enthusiasm; there was a listlessness in the way he looked and moved.

“Hi. What’re you up to?”

“Not much. Just moving Dad’s stuff inside, so it’ll be ready when he gets here.”

“He call since your mom talked to him?”

“No. Jeez, I hope he comes up tomorrow.”

“He will if he can possibly get away.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“That tackle box looks pretty heavy. How about letting me lug it inside?”

He hesitated, then let me take it. “Dad’s got a lot more junk in there than I remember.”

“Lead sinkers, feels like.”

“Some of those, yeah, no kidding. He’s had junk like that since he was my age and he won’t get rid of it.”

“Sentimental, your old man.”

“I guess.”

We went up into the house and set Pat Dixon’s gear in a corner of the living room. “Where’s your mom?” I asked. “Still at the Ostergaards’?”

“Yeah. She called a few minutes ago, she’ll be back pretty soon. She said you went over there to see Mrs. Ostergaard before she did.”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“How come? You hardly knew Mr. Ostergaard.”

“I knew him well enough to like him and want to pay my respects to his widow.”

“I oughta go see her, too,” Chuck said. “But I can’t make myself do it, not yet, anyway.” His mouth tightened; the moistness that came into his eyes made him turn away from me. “Shit. Why’d a thing like that have to happen? Mr. Ostergaard, he was… I dunno, he was like my grandfather or something.”

“Bad things happen to good people, Chuck.”

“I know. Never to the bad ones, the assholes.”

“Them, too. Sooner or later.”

“Somebody like Mr. Ostergaard… you think he’s gonna live forever, you know? I mean, he was old but he seemed kind of…”

“Indestructible?”

“Yeah. He was always here, every summer, and you think he’s always gonna be here, that things’ll never change.”

“Nothing stays the same, Chuck.”

“Sure, but when something crazy happens…”

“You deal with it, hard as it is.”

“Life’s hard and then you die,” he said. “I saw that on a T-shirt once. I thought it was funny.”

“But you don’t think so now.”

“No. Not anymore.”

“That’s good.”

“Why’s it good?”

“You’re growing up,” I said. “Kids look at things one way, adults another. The way you feel now is the way a man feels, a man who has compassion for others.”

He was making eye contact again. He said, “I guess you know all about stuff like this. I mean, you’ve lived a long time, too, seen a lot…”

“More than my share.”

“Does it still bother you? When people die, people you want to keep on living?”

“Always has, always will.”

“So how do you deal with it?”

“By trying to keep it in perspective. There’s nothing wrong with hurting or feeling sad or angry or confused, as long as you don’t let those feelings control you. Life goes on, you have to go on, too. Focus on the good parts, on being good yourself, and you can get through anything bad that comes along.”

He took a few seconds to digest that. Then, “You know something? You’re a lot like my dad. He says stuff like that, not the same but stuff that makes me feel better because I know it has to be true.”

“Your dad’s a good man.”

“You’re pretty cool, too,” he said shyly. There was an awkward moment, as there must be between father and son when they have this kind of talk. A grin, then, and some of the natural animation was back in his voice when he said, “Hey, you want a beer? We’ve got some cold in the fridge.”

“Sure. I can use one.”

“I’ll get it.”

He hurried off into the kitchen, and I decided I’d handled the situation about as well as I could. I hadn’t said anything profound, but the sense of the words were what he’d needed to hear. The male bond, as Marian had called it. I was glad the session was over, but it hadn’t been as difficult as I’d expected and it had left me feeling better, too — and a little ashamed at the bitterness I’d felt earlier. I wondered if I’d have made a good father and thought, yeah, I probably would have. It was a comforting thought, one mixed with a certain amount of regret.

Chuck came back with a long-necked Bud, watched me take a pull on it before he said, “How about tomorrow? You want to go fishing at Chuck’s Hole again?”

I hated to disappoint him, but there was only one answer I could give. When you’re through with an activity, you’re through with it; I would not put myself through any more pretense even for him. “I can’t, Chuck. I’ve got some business to take care of in the morning.”

“Can’t it wait until after noon?”

“I’m afraid not.”

He took it in stride. “Hey, that’s okay, I understand. Maybe—”

He broke off at the rising whine of a boat’s engine, windblown through the open doors to the deck. I followed him over there, saw a dark green rowboat with an attached kicker angling in toward the Dixons’ dock. The man bent forward from the tiller was Jacob Strayhorn.

Chuck said, “Wonder why he came back?”

“Back?”

“He was here a while ago, before you came over.”

“What’d he want?”

“Nothing much. Just to talk.”

“About Nils?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

Strayhorn bumped the rowboat’s prow against the float, shut off the panting kicker. Chuck got down there in time to wind the painter around one of the cleats. The expression on Strayhorn’s face, I saw as he climbed out, was oddly intense. His features seemed harder, less bland, under a thin film of sweat.

“Saw you two carrying fishing gear,” he said. “Planning to go out before dark?”

“Nah,” Chuck said, “we were just moving my dad’s stuff inside the house.”

“Just moving it, that’s all?”

“Yeah.”

“Not because he’ll be here tomorrow?”

“Well, he still hasn’t let us know, but I sure hope he will.”

I said, “You an evening fisherman, Strayhorn?”

“I can take it or leave it. Why?”

“Just wondering why you should care whether Chuck and I were going out before dark.”

“I don’t, particularly. Thought I’d go along if you were.”

“I like fishing at dusk myself. Rivers more than lakes. You ever go after bass in the San Joaquin sloughs?”

“Where? Oh, the San Joaquin River. Once or twice.”

“Venice Island? Potato Slough?”

“That general area.”

“How about the Delta?”

“How about it?”

“Favorite spot in there?”

“One’s as good as another.”

“I’m partial to Dead Man’s Slough. You know it?”

“No.”

“Sycamore Slough? Hog Slough?”

“No.”

“Where do you go for crayfish? Channel cats?”

“Crayfish?”

“Delta’s full of ‘em. Or didn’t you know that?”

His eyes, pale and squinty, flicked over my face. It was like being strafed by bugs. There was none of the low-key smarminess about him today; he seemed both hyped and irritated. It was plain that he didn’t care for the kind of questions I was asking. That made us even: I didn’t care for his answers.

I said, “I guess you don’t do much fishing close to home.”

“That’s right,” he said flatly, “I don’t. I prefer the mountains. Trout streams.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I know what to do with one when I catch it.” He turned his attention to Chuck. “Maybe you and me’ll go out one of these mornings. What do you say?”

“Well…” The boy glanced at me and then said to Strayhorn, “Tomorrow’s about the only day. Unless my dad doesn’t drive up until Wednesday.”

“Tomorrow’s good for me. What time?”

“Earlier the better. Five-thirty?”

“Five-thirty it is.”

“I know a good spot. Don’t I, Bill?”

“One of the best,” I said.

“Chuck’s Hole. I named it after myself because I’m the one who found it.”

“Good for you,” Strayhorn said. “Meet you here?”

“Sure. We’ll take our skiff.”

Strayhorn nodded, and without acknowledging me again he swung back into the rowboat. I watched him shove away from the dock, fire up the kicker, and go skimming off toward his rented cottage.

Chuck said, a little defensively, “It’s no fun fishing alone. And Mom won’t get up early enough. But I’d rather go with you.”

“Thanks.”

“You can still come along. I wish you would.”

“I don’t know, maybe.” Distracted response; I was thinking about Strayhorn.

My misgivings about the man were stronger now than ever. For somebody who claimed to be a Stockton native, he didn’t know a damned thing about either the San Joaquin River or the Sacramento Delta, both of which were practically in Stockton’s backyard.

It was nearly six-thirty when I walked into Judson’s cafe. Two of the tables were occupied with beer drinkers carrying on the wake for Nils Ostergaard, but only one of the stools at the bar had a pair of hams perched on it — Fred Dyce’s. I wondered why he was hunched there alone until I sat down next to him and got a good look at his face. It had a dark, broody cast, like the sky before a thunderstorm. And the slackness of his mouth, the glaze on his eyes, the empty beer bottle and empty shot glass in front of him told the rest of the story. Wherever he’d been all afternoon, it was a place that had plenty of liquor. He was about as deep in the bag as you can get and still remain upright.

“Hello, Dyce.”

His head turned slowly and he squinted at me as if I were a bug that had landed too close to him. “Go ‘way,” he said.

“Now, that’s no way to be.”

“Go ‘way.”

“What’re you celebrating?”

“Celebrating. Shit.”

“Little early in the evening for such a big heat.” The squinty eyes showed aggression. “None a your goddamn business what I do.”

“Probably not. Unless you want to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s eating at you.”

“Nothing eating at me.” Automatic response; the next words out of his mouth made it a lie. “You had my prollems you’d get shit-faced too.”

“What problems?”

“None a your goddamn business. Buy me a drink or go ‘way.”

Rita had been hovering nearby. When she heard that last she moved closer; the look she gave me said that she wanted him out of there and she’d be grateful for any help. Mack must be off someplace; if he were around, Dyce would already be gone.

She said, “I think you’ve had enough, Mr. Dyce.”

“Hell I have,” he said.

“Mrs. Judson’s right,” I said. “How about some coffee?”

“Jack Daniel’s, double shot. Beer chaser.”

“Coffee,” I said to Rita. “Same for me.”

She mouthed the word “Thanks” and moved off. Dyce muttered something I didn’t catch. He peered at me again; blearily, and said, “You married man?”

“Yep.”

“Marriage sucks. Don’t ever get married.”

“Why is that?”

“Work your ass off for ‘em, give ‘em everything they want, and what happens? They screw you, that’s what happens. Screwin’ you get ain’t worth screwin’ you got.”

“Your wife’s divorcing you, is that it?”

“Sixteen years,” Dyce said. “Sixteen years, come home one night, she says it ain’t workin’ no more, Freddy, I want out.” His voice rose. “Sixteen fuckin’ years!”

“Easy, Fred. This is a public place.”

“Fuck her and fuck you, too,” he said, but not as loud. “Go ‘way, lemme drink in peace.”

Rita came back with two cups of coffee, set one in front of each of us. Dyce stared into the steam rising from his. “What’s this?”

“Coffee. Better drink it.”

“Don’t want any goddamn coffee. Jack Daniel’s, double shot. Beer chaser.”

“You’ve had enough alcohol.”

“Who’re you, tell me I had enough?”

“Just a guy trying to be your friend.”

“Friend, hell. I got no friends. Just Connie and she don’t want me no more.” Another squint. The eyes had moisture in them now. Crying jag coming on, I thought. “Called her up ‘safternoon, ask her gimme ‘nother chance, you know what it got me? Huh?”

“What’d it get you?”

“Kick inna gut, that’s what. Some guy answered, some goddamn guy. Her phone, my phone, she’s screwin’ some sonabitch in my house. What you think a that, huh?”

“What did the guy say?”

“Say? Who cares what the sonabitch said. Listen, I doan wanna talk about it no more.”

“Okay with me. Drink your coffee and we’ll get out of here.”

“Get out? Why?”

“We’ll go to your cabin.”

“Hell we will. What’re you, a fag?”

“You got any liquor in your cabin?”

“Huh?”

“Liquor. In your cabin.”

“Sure I got some. What the hell?”

“How about we go there and have a drink together?”

“Doan wanna drink with you. Tell you what I wanna do. Go home, kick Connie’s ass, ‘at’s what. Kick sonabitch’s ass, too. Kick both their asses, screwin’ him in my house.”

“Tomorrow, Fred. You can go home tomorrow.”

“Quit tellin’ me what to do!”

I’d misread him. Either that or his drunken temperament was so mercurial he was totally unpredictable. He shoved away from the bar, almost toppling his stool and himself, managed to stay upright, and stood swaying and glaring at me.

“Oughta kick your fag ass,” he said.

The half-dozen people left in there were staring at us. But nobody was moving; whatever happened was up to me. I sighed, thinking: I don’t need this now, I’ve had enough for one day. I eased off my stool so as to not to provoke him with any sudden movements.

“Okay, Fred,” I said. “Let’s go outside.”

“What?”

“Outside. You can kick my ass outside.”

“Wrong with right here, huh?”

I crowded him a little. “Outside, buddy.”

“Screw you.”

“Outside.”

He made a throat noise and swung at me.

It was more pathetic than anything else. Telegraphed punch, and no steam in it, like a movie attack in slow motion. I caught his arm, twisted it and his body, hammerlocked the arm against his backbone, and marched him grunting and swearing to the door, outside, and straight across to his cabin. There was nothing he could do about it, his feet slipping and sliding every time he tried to put up a struggle. When we got to the cabin, I shoved him up flat against the door and held him there while I tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. I got it open, shoved him through and into the bedroom and threw him facedown across the bed, still hanging on to his arm.

“You’re home, Freddy boy,” I said, “and when I let you go, you’d better stay right here. You hear me? Stay put or I’ll really hurt you.”

I released him, backed off a couple of steps. He lay there for maybe fifteen seconds, then rolled over and managed to sit up. All the aggression was gone from his face; it had become saggy with drunken bewilderment. He peered up at me, massaging his arm.

“Whassa idea?” he said. “Almost bust my goddamn arm.”

In the next second, with no warning at all, he started to bawl like a baby.

I’m on Connie’s side, I thought disgustedly. Whoever her new boyfriend is, he’s got to be an improvement.

I left the cabin and returned to the main building. Some of the people who’d witnessed the little episode were standing out front; none of them had anything to say as I approached Rita, who was filling the doorway to the cafe.

She thanked me, and I said, “Sure. Sorry I couldn’t get him out sooner, without the hassle. But he’s too far gone to listen to reason.”

“I shouldn’t’ve served him when he came in, not even one round.”

“Well, I doubt he’ll be any more trouble tonight. But if he does come back, give me a call.”

“Not necessary. Mack’ll be home from Quincy pretty soon. How about something on the house, a drink or some food?”

“I’ve lost my thirst and my appetite. But thanks anyway.”

So much for Dyce, I thought as I got into the car. He’s not the one. Poor self-pitying slob with a mad-on against the world because his wife is divorcing him for another man; a scratch fighter and a blowhard and a fool, but nothing more.

If Ostergaard was murdered by a first-timer, it was either Strayhorn or Cantrell.