The other men stood side by side, conversing quietly in Spanish. As Joe Winder watched them more closely, it seemed that the men were doing more serious talking than fishing. They were using Cuban yo-yo rigs, twirling the lines overhead and launching the baits with a loud plop into the water. Once in a while they'd pull in the lines and cast out again, usually without even checking the hooks.
One of the men was a husky no-neck in long canvas pants. The other was short and wiry, and as dark as coffee. Both wore baseball caps and light jackets, which was odd, considering the heat. Every few minutes a pair of headlights would appear down Card Sound Road, and Joe Winder would check to see if the car stopped at the foot of the bridge. After a while, he noticed that the two other fishermen were doing the same. This was not a good sign.
As midnight approached, the other men stopped pretending to fish and concentrated on the road. Joe Winder realized that he was stranded on the jetty with two goons who probably were waiting to ambush him. Worse, they stood squarely between Winder and the relative safety of the island. The most obvious means of escape would be jumping into Card Sound; while exceptionally dramatic, such a dive would prove both stupid and futile. The bay was shallow and provided no cover; if the goons had guns, they could simply shoot him like a turtle.
Joe Winder's only hope was that they wouldn't recognize him in the dark with his hair hacked off. It was a gray overcast night, and he was doing a creditable impersonation of a preoccupied angler. Most likely the goons would be expecting him at twelve sharp, some dumb shmuck hollering Koocher's name under the bridge.
The strategy of staying invisible might have worked if only a powerful fish had not seized Joe Winder's lure. The strike jolted his arms, and reflexively he yanked back hard to set the hook. The fish streaked toward the rock, then back out again toward open water. The buzz of Winder's reel cut like a saw through the stillness of the bay. The two goons stopped talking and looked up to see what was happening.
Joe Winder knew. It was a snook, a damn big one. Any other night he would have been thrilled to hook such a fish, but not now. From the corner of his eye he could see the goons rock-hopping down the jetty so they could better view the battle. Near a piling the fish broke to the surface, shaking its gills furiously before diving in a frothy silver gash. The goons pointed excitedly at the commotion, and Winder couldn't blame them; it was a grand fish.
Joe Winder knew what to do, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Palm the spool. Break the damn thing off, before the two guys got any closer. Instead Joe Winder was playing the fish like a pro, horsing it away from the rocks and pilings, letting it spend itself in short hard bursts. What am I, crazy? Winder thought. From up here I could never land this fish alone. The goons would want to help, sure they would, and then they'd see who I was and that would be it. One dead snook and one dead flack.
Again the fish thrust its underslung snout from the water and splashed. Even in the tea-colored water the black lateral stripe was visible along its side. Twelve pounds easy, thought Winder. A fine one.
One of the goons clapped his hands and Joe Winder looked up. "Nize goying," the man said. "Dat's some fugging fish." It was the short wiry one.
"Thanks," said Winder. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe these weren't the bad guys, after all. Or maybe they hadn't come to hurt him; maybe they just wanted to talk. Maybe they had Koocher and were scheming for a ransom.
After five minutes of back-and-forth, the snook was tiring. Twenty yards from the jetty it glided to the surface and flopped its tail once, twice. Not yet, Winder thought; don't give up yet, you marvelous bastard.
He heard their heavy footsteps on the rocks. Now they were behind him. He heard their breathing. One of them was chewing gum. Joe Winder smelled hot spearmint and beer.
"What're you waiting for?" asked the big one.
"He's not ready," Winder said, afraid to turn and give them a look at his face. "He's still got some gas."
"No, look at the fugging thin," said the little one. "He juice about dead, mang."
The snook was dogging it on top, barely putting a bend in Joe Winder's fishing rod.
"That's some good eating," the big no-neck goon remarked.
Winder swallowed dryly and said, "Too bad they're out of season."
He heard both of the men laugh. "Hey, you don't want him, we'll take it off your hands. Fry his ass up in a minute. Right, Angel?"
The little one, Angel, said, "Yeah, I go down and grab hole the fugging thin." He took off his baseball cap and scrabbled noisily down the rocks.
Joe Winder got a mental picture of these two submorons in yellowed undershirts swilling beer, watching "Wheel" on the tube cooking up the snook on a cheap gas stove in some rathole Hialeah duplex. The thought of it was more than he could stand. He placed his hand on the spool of the reel and pulled once, savagely.
The snook had one good powerful surge left in its heart, and the fishing line snapped like a rifle shot. Joe Winder fell back, then steadied himself. "Goddammit," he said, trying to sound disappointed.
"That was really stupid," said the big goon. "You don't know shit about fighting a fish."
"I guess not."
The wiry one had been waiting by the water when the fish got off. Cursing in Spanish, he monkeyed back up the rocks. To guide himself, he held a small flashlight in one hand. The beam caught Joe Winder flush in the face; there was nothing he could do.
Instantly the big goon grabbed him by the shoulder. "Hey! You work at the park."
"What park?"
The wiry one said, "Doan tell me he's the guy."
"Yup," said the big one, tightening his grip.
The men edged closer. Joe Winder could sense they were angry about not recognizing him sooner.
"Mr. Fisherman," said the big one acidly.
"That's me," said Winder. "You must be the one who wanted to talk about Dr. Koocher."
The goon named Angel turned off the flashlight and buried it in his jacket. "Two hours with these damn mosquitoes and you standing right here, the whole fugging tine!" He punched Joe Winder ferociously in the kidney.
As Winder fell, he thought: So they're not here to chat.
His head bounced against limestone and he began to lose consciousness. Then he felt himself being lifted by the armpits, which hurt like hell. They were carrying him somewhere in a hurry.
The husky one, Spearmint Breath, was talking in Joe Winder's ear. "What'd he say on the phone?"
"Who?"
"The rat doctor."
"Nothing." Winder was panting.
"Aw, bullshit."
"I swear. He left a message, that's all." Winder tried to walk but felt his legs pedaling air, being swept along. "Just a message was all," he said again. "He wanted to see me but he didn't say why."
In his other ear, Joe Winder heard the wiry one call him a stinken fugging liar.
"No, I swear."
They had him up against the side of a truck. Bronco. White. Rusty as hell. Ford Bronco, Winder thought. In case I live through this.
In case anybody might be interested.
The big goon spun Joe Winder around and pinned his arms while the one named Angel slugged him on the point of the jaw. Then he hit him once in each eye. Winder felt his face start to bloat and soften, like a melon going bad. With any luck, total numbness would soon follow.
Angel was working up a sweat. Every time he threw a punch, he let out a sharp yip, like a poodle. It would have been hilarious except for the pain that went with it.
Finally, Spearmint Breath said, "I don't think he knows jack shit." Then he said something in Spanish.
Angel said, "Chur he does, the cokesucker." This time he hit Joe Winder in the gut.
Perfect. Can't breathe. Can't see. Can't talk.
The big goon let go, and Winder fell limp across the hood of the truck.
The man named Angel said, "Hey, what the fug." There was something new in his voice; he sounded very confused. Even in a fog, Joe Winder could tell that the little creep wasn't talking to him or to Spearmint Breath, either.