“Straights?”
“Yes.”
“How many cities?”
“Seven. We could start with Miami, in two months.”
The fat man finished his Perrier and put the bottle back in the deck well. “I don’t need it,” he said. “I’ve been retired six years.”
They were approaching a clump of mangroves that was larger than the others, and he cut the boat toward it. There was a narrow opening in the plants, like a tunnel. Ed ducked and they went through. Now they were going down an alley of black water, with branches overhead and the sounds of insects. Wet mangrove roots, interlacing and darkly tangled, rose above them to an impenetrable cover of leaves. It was primeval, like something on a TV show about the dawn of man. It was the kind of place that had snakes.
Just as Ed was beginning to feel uncomfortable, the alleyway opened up and they were in a broad, dark lake surrounded by mangroves, lit dimly and without shadows by the darkening sky. It felt like church. The fat man had a pair of spinning rods and reels clipped under the gunwale at his left. “You want to fish?”
“Why not?”
“Open that well in front of you. There’s shrimp for bait.”
Ed pulled up the ring and looked inside. There was barely enough light to see the small shrimp darting around. He had done river fishing with worms and grasshoppers a few years before, when he was trying to find ways of just getting out of the apartment, but he had never fished in salt water or used shrimp. The other man handed him back a light spinning rod, saying, “Careful with the hook”; and Ed gritted his teeth, reached into the well and managed to snag a shrimp. It tickled the palm of his hand. He handed it up to the fat man. “Where does the hook go?”
“Through the tail. Cast near the roots, but don’t snag it.”
Ed got another shrimp and put his hook through its tail. “What are we fishing for?”
“Mangrove snapper.” The fat man’s arm moved out lazily, his rod swung in a graceful arc; there was a plop and then ripples about a foot out from shore, off to the left. A perfect cast, which was what you would expect. Ed cast his own off to the right, also perfectly. The old arm.
Almost immediately they both had fish bending the rods. When they reeled in, the snappers were no bigger than his hand, but fat.
After twenty minutes it was too dark but they had accumulated a string of more than a dozen. When the fat man was putting the rods away, he said, “Where would we play in Miami?”
“Benson’s Department Store. At a new shopping center.”
“And after that?”
“Cincinnati, Chicago, Rochester and Denver.”
“At department stores?”
“One’s a new movie theater. And there’s a fair, near Albuquerque.”
The fat man flipped on his running lights and started the motor. He swung the boat around and headed toward the cut they had entered by.
“I hope there aren’t snakes,” Ed said.
“No snakes, Fast Eddie,” the fat man said. He guided them through the dark tunnel and back out into the nearly dark bay. Then he pointed the boat toward shore and pushed the accelerator forward. The boat began to skip. Ed stood and held the rail again, feeling the spray on his bare chest now. Through the dusk he could see lights from Islamorada. They raced forward for about five minutes and then the fat man cut the motor back and they moved slowly in toward the dock, where gnats buzzed around a mercury vapor lamp. “I don’t like it,” the fat man said. “It’s cheap.”
“I can’t quarrel with you.”
“Then why come down here to see me?”
They were a few yards from the dock now, drifting toward it. “Well, Fats,” Ed said, “I didn’t have anything better to do.”
Fats’ condominium cottage had three large rooms, with expensive-looking furniture. He played classical music on his stereo while he cleaned the fish. Eddie sat on the sofa and had another beer. It was dark outside now and a warm breeze came through the big screens. After putting the filets into the broiler, Fats came into the living room, still wearing only shorts, and said, “How would we travel?”
“Rent a car or fly. Both.”
“First class?”
“Coach.”
“How much for hotel rooms?”
“Sixty a night.”
Fats shook his head. “Cheap.”
“Forty a day for meals.”
Fats scowled. “Do you like capers?”
“Capers?”
“On your fish.”
He had no idea what a caper was. “I’ll try it.”
Fats went back into the kitchen and worked for a few minutes. When he came out he had a large plate in each hand. He set them on the table. Eddie walked over and seated himself. It looked professional, with the browned filets of mangrove snapper at one side and green beans and some kind of noodles with pepper. Fats got him another beer and a Perrier for himself and sat down. “I haven’t shot a game of pool in six years,” he said.
“They’ll never know,” Eddie said, grinning.
“My health is terrible.”
“It might do you good.”
Fats lifted a forkful of fish. “Shooting straight pool in shopping centers? Staying at Ramada Inns?”
“We used to live better.”
“Don’t talk about it,” Fats said. He ate the forkful of fish and then set his fork down. “I’ll do it for a thousand a game and a hundred for the hotel.”
“No way,” Eddie said. “Not unless we hook into ABC.”
“Then hook into ABC and ask me again.”
“This guy tried, Fats. They told him they wanted to see footage first.”
“What’s the front money?”
“Five hundred each, on signing. It comes out of the travel.”
“Get me a thousand a game and we’ll talk. You can use my phone.”
“Fats….”
“Finish your supper, Fast Eddie.”
They had something called Key lime pie for dessert. Fats ate two pieces and then made small dark cups of coffee. It was like eating in the kind of restaurant Eddie liked back in the days when he had money.
“After you beat me in Chicago,” Fats said, “I thought you’d be back.”
“Bert Gordon was crowding me.”
“He’s been dead over ten years. They don’t have anything to do with pool anymore—not them, anyway.”
“I know. But I never got back into it.”
“Why don’t you do this tour by yourself? I’m an old man.”
Eddie finished his coffee. “They want us both. The man with the cable TV says we’re a legend.”
Fats got up, went to the refrigerator, got himself a third dessert and brought it back together with a pill bottle from the top of the dishwasher. “They wrote me,” he said.
“Enoch told me. You didn’t answer.”
“I don’t like TV. I read books and I work in my darkroom.”
There was a big case along one wall, packed with hardcover books. On the coffee table were copies of Audubon magazines and The New Republic, along with a heavy, dark volume. Eddie had picked it up while Fats was cooking. The Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Fats finished his third dessert and took some of the pills, chasing them with sips of coffee.
“What about those department stores and that fair? Aren’t they paying for it?”
“I think that’s where the expense money comes from.”
“Then get the cable man to pay more.”
“He hasn’t got it. It’s a new business.”
“Ridiculous,” Fats said. “If we’re a legend, we’re worth more than that.”