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.
Suddenly a great turmoil erupted around the truck, and the man named Angel gave out a scream that didn't sound anything like a little dog. The scream made Joe Winder raise his head off the fender and open what was left of his eyelids.
Through misty slits he saw the husky no-neck goon running toward the bridge. Running away as fast as he could.
Where was Angel?
Something lifted Joe Winder off the truck and laid him on the gravel. He struggled to focus on the face. Face? Naw, had to be a mask. A silvery beard of biblical proportions. Mismatched eyes: one as green as mountain pines, the other brown and dead. Above that, a halo of pink flowers. Weird. The mask leaned closer and whispered in Joe Winder's ear.
The words tumbled around like dice in his brainpan. Made no damn sense. The stranger bent down and said it again.
"I'll get the other one later."
Joe Winder tried to speak but all that came out was a gulping noise. He heard a car coming down the old road and turned his head to see. Soon he became mesmerized by the twin beams of yellow light, growing larger and larger; lasers shooting out of the mangroves. Or was it a spaceship?
When Winder turned back, he was alone. The man who had saved his life was gone.
The car went by in a rush of noise. Joe Winder watched the taillights vanish over the crest of the bridge. It was an hour before he could get to his feet, another twenty minutes before he could make them move in any sensible way.
As he staggered along the pavement, he counted the cars to keep his mind off the pain. Seven sped past without stopping to help. Winder was thinking, Maybe I feel worse than I look. Maybe the blood doesn't show up so well in the dark. Two or three drivers actually touched the brakes. One honked and hurled a Heineken bottle at him.
The eighth car went by doing seventy at least, heading eastbound to the island. Joe Winder saw the brake lights wink and heard the tires squeal. Slowly the car backed up. The door on the passenger side swung open.
A voice said: "My God, are you all right?"
"Not really," said Joe Winder. Half-blind, he was trying to fit himself into the car when he encountered something large and fuzzy on the upholstery.