Tropical Depression (6 page)

"Bet's seventy-five cents," said Irv.

Murray glanced at his hole cards. They blurred a little but he could tell they didn't match. "I'm out."

"Guy gambles in bras," Doc muttered. "Cards, he wants a sure thing."

"Don't gamble in bras no more," said Bert. "Retired, like I said. Fifty cents ta me. I call."

"Retirement's not so easy," put in Irv, and for an instant Murray wasn't sure if someone had spoken or if his own new fears were murmuring to him. "Don't kid yourself it's easy," the natty fellow said.

"One false move I get depressed," said Murray.

"Plenty a guys," said Bert, "I seen 'em like fall into whaddyacallit, I guess ya'd have to say despair. Yeah, despair. Lose the edge. Get old overnight. But hey, this is gettin' fuckin' morbid."

Barney LaRue said, "There's one more raise, I b'lieve?" He waited to see the reaction, then said, "Well, I'll just call."

Irv dealt.

Bert paired up his queen. He stroked his dozing dog for luck, rubbed his pockets with the aces on them. "Queens say half a buck. Hey Bahney, the casino bill—"

"Dead in the water," said the senator.

Doc said, "The controversy."

"You got it," drawled LaRue. "My colleagues up in Tallahassee, they like controversy about as much as dead tourists piled up on Cuban rafts. I'll take a high diamond, Mr. Irv."

Irv turned over a four of clubs. He said, "So I guess that leaves us bingo with the Indians."

"They'll open up casinos soon, " the politician said. "But Indians, that's federal. State can't do a thing about it."

"An' why should it'" put in Bert the Shirt. "Poor fuckin' Indians. First time they find a way ta make some money, the state starts cryin' the blues about it. Where's the justice? Half a dollar onna queens."

"Fold," the politician said. "Tain't about justice, Bert. It's about revenues. Thank God there's just the Seminoles and Miccosukkees."

"Who got a right—" Bert started.

"Forget right," said LaRue. "How d'you make up what's lost on untaxed gaming? You wanna see a state income tax go in?"

Doc and Irv blanched deathly white beneath their winter tans.

"While the Indians per capita get richer than Kuwaitis," the proctologist groused. "Call your half and raise a quarter."

"And in your face wit' another half," said Bert. "The Indians deserve to make a livin'."

Irv said, "Plus you have, you know, the element that comes in when there's casinos."

"Shut up about the element," said Bert the Shirt, "we're playin' poker heah. It's fifty cents. If I was you, Doc, I'd go out."

The doctor threw in half a buck.

Murray drained his second daiquiri, tongued the last drop of froth from the lip of his plastic glass. He wasn't thinking about poker anymore. He was sitting in the spaceship of a gazebo, staring at the green felt table that seemed now to lean and lurch a little, and he was wondering about this retirement thing, the abruptness of it. Despair? Old overnight? Hey, he was still a doer, a restless spirit, a hyper guy with ants in his pants. For him, there were still accomplishments ahead, projects, deals; just don't ask him what they were.

The next morning Murray did not have a hangover, exactly, but things felt stale and grainy inside his head. The brain juices that had been flowing freely the past two days seemed to have sludged up, he imagined smeared rainbows on the backs of his eyes as in a puddle of oil. If he'd had aspirin he would have taken some. But he didn't, so he popped an extra Prozac.

After that the day passed pleasantly enough, though he was out of sync with it, felt like he was on a moving walkway while the rest of the world was not. At ten-thirty it seemed it should have been noon; at three o'clock he was faced with a dense wad of time before sunset. As ever, he needed an activity. He thought about fishing, imagined the ancient thrill of seeing a fish pulled from the water.

He remembered the elegant uncoiling of Tommy Tarpon as he cast for bait. He got in the scratched-up Lexus where his gear was stowed, and headed for Big Bubba's to buy a net.

It was a little early for fishing when he arrived at White Street Pier; the regulars had yet to arrive. Still, Murray was careful not to occupy the spot belonging to the Indian. He stopped maybe twenty-five feet shy of it and leaned his pole against the railing.

Then he unwrapped his net. It was white and crisp as a virgin's underpants, its obvious newness embarrassed him. He was eager to get it in the water, get some slime and seaweed on it.

He put the retrieving cord in his teeth, the way the Indian had done. He spread the mesh across his fists like pizza dough. He tried to curl up like a discus thrower but looked more like a tormented bonsai tree. He took a breath then attempted to uncoil smoothly; the motion was more like a man ridding himself of poisoned food. The net didn't spin, didn't flatten. It hit the water like a sack of trash about three feet from the pier and scared away the fish for many yards around.

Nonchalantly, with the cord still in his mouth, Murray glanced over his shoulder. No one but a couple of herons and a pelican had seen the abortive toss; it hadn't really happened.

On the second throw he did a little better; by the sixth or seventh try the mesh was spreading; by the tenth the net was landing softly. On around the twelfth toss it all came together: The fabric sprang like a flight of doves from the Bra King's hands; it opened and twirled against the flaming yellow backdrop of the sun; it hovered like a whirlybird, preparing to settle quiet as a cloud on the green surface of the sea.

Murray watched serenely as the perfect small event unfolded. He felt neither modesty nor pride, had the peculiar Asiatic sensation that the throw had nothing whatever to do with him. It was just a lovely thing.

So lovely that a sense of wonder pried open his jaws. The retrieving cord flew out of his mouth and landed with a small splash in the ocean. He was no longer attached to the net that had spun so prettily and was now slowly but inexorably beginning to sink down toward the muck.

Murray said, "Oh shit."

The crisis instantly made him a Westerner, a Manhattanite again. Synapses fired. Serenity exploded. He grabbed his fishing pole, leaned far out over the railing. The rod tip fell an excruciating inch or two short of the subsiding fabric. Faster than the mind could talk things over with the body, he had a different idea. Below the railing was a knee-high concrete wall; between the wall and the rail was about a foot and a half of empty space. If Murray squeezed himself into that groove, he could reach farther out, maybe he could grab the sinking net.

With the false agility of the desperate, the Bra King dove into the slot. His groin compressed against the hot concrete of the wall, his shoulder blades were pinned by the metal tubing of the rail. Head suspended above the green Atlantic, he flailed his rod at the disappearing net and managed to snag a strand of mesh. Pulse throbbing, he used the fishing pole like a knitting needle, poked and turned it till the fabric was attached securely. He grunted, he sweated, he savored the mindless effort.

Finally he was ready to pull in the rescued net. That's when he realized he was stuck.

He arched his back to rise; the railing pressed against his spine like a giant foot and kicked him down again. He hunkered low and tried to squirm along the wall; the concrete cinched his thigh and raked against his squashed testicles. He lifted his head; the back of it clanged softly against the metal rail. The arm that held the fishing pole soon went into a numbing cramp.

Gulls laughed. Cormorants crapped down from the tops of lampposts. The Bra King writhed and sweated. He tried to shrink himself, tried like a half-crushed bug to slink away on whatever appendage still had life. But he was going nowhere, and at length he heard a clanking squeak, as of a rusted bicycle. He turned his neck with the pained slowness of a tortoise, glanced up with popping eyes like those of a caught fish, and saw the Indian.

In no special hurry, Tommy Tarpon climbed off his bike. A practical man, he first took the rod from Murray and gathered in the sodden net. Then he grabbed the Bra King by the belt and an ankle, and set himself to yank. "Tuck your head," he advised.

He didn't say it quite soon enough. He reared back and hauled. Murray came free with a scraping sound, then clunked his skull on the metal rail. There was a ringing, the Bra King couldn't tell which side of his brainpan it was on. But he stood and faced his rescuer, looked him in the eye. "Thanks," he said. "You're very kind."

The word had an odd effect on Tommy Tarpon. It seemed to make him impatient, elusive, as though it was an accusation. He went to his bike without a word, rolled it to his spot.

Murray leaned against the railing, a little unsure of his legs. His clothes were splotched with sweat, a soft breeze tickled the wet places. He watched the Indian go through his ritual: the telescoping rod, the six-pack, the milk crate, all taken from his cart of shells. He watched him make his one casually perfect throw of the net. He watched him gather in his bait.

He was still leaning motionless against the rail when Tommy had filled his yellow bucket and made his first cast toward the lowering sun. The Indian glanced quickly over at him, said, "Didn't you say you were fishing?"

Murray had sort of forgotten about fishing. His back ached and his arms were tired. Besides, he was embarrassed to throw his net with the Indian watching, and he knew now that his lures were futile. He just shrugged.

Tommy Tarpon turned toward him so slightly that he could not have seen him with more than the very edge of his wraparound eye. "Take some bait from the pail," he said. He said it not grudgingly, exactly, but as if some force, some necessity beyond his conscious preference was pulling the words, the offer, out of him. "I have more than I need."

The Bra King hesitated, suddenly feeling shy. A pinfish was a tiny gift, but a gift nevertheless. And gifts were not to be taken lightly. They made connections, they were connections; exchanges that led to more exchanges. At length Murray sidled slowly toward the bait pail and reached in.

Minute creatures swam between his fingers as through the tendrils of a reef. He managed to grab one, it jerked and struggled against his palm, he was shocked and humbled at the amount of life contained in such a puny package. He lifted it into the air, winced with remorse as he pressed it onto his hook. He cast the skewered fish into the ocean, let it swim around in fatal circles, waiting for a bigger fish to come and eat it and be hooked in turn.

After a moment, without looking over, Tommy said, "I'm sorry I cursed you out the other morning. Had nothing to do with you."

"Corner of the harbor no one wants. Across from the electric company. Next to what used to be a field of oil tanks. Water's full of beer cans. Dock's falling down. Good place for an Indian."

Murray focused on the small doomed tugs of his baitfish. His line lay across his index finger, he felt the excess voltage of his brain throbbing down his arm and out into the sea. "So it's true what Bert says," he thought aloud. "You really are a bitter guy."

The Indian sucked his teeth, spat in the ocean.

Then Murray yelped, lurched, set his feet and arched his back against the sudden violence of a bending, twitching rod. Line screamed off his reel, water roiled fifty yards in front of him as a hooked fish bolted in rage and terror from the pain in its lip and the inexplicable weight against its progress. "Holy shit," the Bra King said. "I got one, Tommy? Fuck I do now?"

"Let 'im run," the Indian said calmly. "Keep your rod tip high and let 'im run."

The fish sprinted, Murray could feel its zigs and zags. Beads of sweat popped out on the angler's forehead, a blue vein stood forth in his neck.

"Now start to reel," said Tommy. "Pull back gently, then quick forward, and reel in what you've gained."

Murray, breathing heavily, leaned and reeled, arched and bowed, the motion reminded him of old men
dahvenning
in synagogue. He won back half his line, then the fish took off again. The grinding process started over.

"He's getting tired," said the Indian.

"
He's
getting tired? I'm gonna
plotz
."

"Get 'im just a little closer and I'll gaff 'im."

The Bra King didn't know exactly what that meant, but it sounded like a good idea. He tugged and grunted, and Tommy produced a medieval-looking tool from a compartment of his cart. He leaned over the rail, finally caught the played-out fish by its gill plate, and horsed it up onto the pier.

"Redfish," he pronounced. "Six, seven pounds. Gotten rare around here. Good eatin'."

Murray, huffing, amazed, looked at the defeated creature hanging from the gaff. Its eye was flat and glassy, its gills heaved, showing brick-red membranes. "First fish I ever caught."