The small brown man was a mixture Cameron had never seen—Cajun, Creole, Mexican, and something else. Hindu. Or Mediterranean.
Cameron looked at the tag on his shirt. "Mr. Thales."
"Yep," the man said, touching his name with an index finger missing the last joint, "that's the way it's spelt, but it's pronounced THAY-leez. Like that. THAY-leez."
Cameron pulled him aside when Randall turned to watch the sawfish gliding by.
"I'll have to run my boy home first. What time should I meet you?"
"Ten-thirty," Thales said. "By that door right ch'onder." He pointed and shuffled off, trailing his broom. Then, barely audible, "And don't be late. We don't like nobody bein' late."
* * *
Cameron's wife had left him six months before. Too much drinking and too much fishing. If he had only picked one or the other, Carlee could have lived with it. But she was jealous of the neighboring women who had lost their husbands to sports like sailing or golf—the rolling fairways, the carpet-neat greens, the right to say "yacht club."
She was the only reason Cameron lived in Hammond, so he moved back to New Orleans near his cousin Steve, a fisherman and taxidermist with a weekly television show.
Since earliest boyhood, Cameron had fished with Steve all over the toe of Louisiana: Lake Ponchartrain, Golden Meadow, Delacroix, Pointe-aux-Chenes, and dozens of little slackwater, no-name bayous. But he had never caught a 30-pound redfish. His biggest was 18, and in the circles Steve ran in that barely counted as a "bull" red.
Pulling his Bondo-gray Camaro onto the parking lot, Cameron realized they had not discussed money. As soon as he opens the door, Cameron thought, he'll have his hand out.
Walking to the entrance, Cameron separated out a twenty, a ten, and some ones and stashed them in his shirt pocket. "That's all I've got," he'd tell the little man when he asked for fifty or a hundred.
But he didn't ask for a fee, didn't even speak until the two had climbed to the second-floor eye, a thick, five-foot diameter circle of glass that watched over the marine life weaving around the barnacle-encrusted legs of the fake oil derrick below.
Cameron and Thales stood over the lens. Reef sharks, manta rays, and tarpon peacefully criss-crossed at various depths in the after-hours, blue-green glow of the tank.
Pointing, Cameron said, "How much will that gar go?"
"Oh, three, fo' hundred pounds. But that ain't why we got him. That's the oldest garfish on record. Been in a tank somewheres North or South for a hundred and fifty years, since right after the Silver War."
All of the fish swam lazily about until Thales unlocked the door to the storage room, then another that gave onto an iron-grate catwalk painted caution yellow. Hearing the sound of his brogans on the footbridge spanning two crosspieces of the oil platform, the larger fish rushed to the surface, agitating the water.
Thales ladled cut and whole mullet from an orange bucket, slinging the chum out over the water. Trained to the routine, the fish went about their business with a patient ferocity.
Cameron was anxious to fish. "I imagine those reds'll need at least 25-pound test, huh?"
"My little rub-a-dub tub, as I call it, is twenty foot deep and holds half a million gallons of high-salinity H2O." The shriveled man's bloodshot eyes looked at Cameron for the first time. "That's scientific talk for regular old seawater." Thales turned wearily and walked to the supply room like he had done it a thousand times too many.
In a corner by the life preservers stood two fishing rods Cameron had not seen on their first pass through. Thales grabbed the smaller rod as if he had never handled fishing tackle. "This one oughta be about right for tonight," he said, holding it out to Cameron.
Cameron pushed the spool-release button and let the weight spin off a few feet of line, then engaged the reel and wrapped the monofilament around his palm a couple of turns. As he pulled hard to check the drag, he watched Thales bend over the orange bucket and use his hand to chase a finger mullet around in the bloody water.
"Come on now, little friend," he chuckled, "you know it ain't no use trying to get away from old T'ales." A corner of Cameron's mind wondered why he had mispronounced his own name. When Thales jerked the hook through the mullet's back, Cameron thought, If it were up to me, I would have punched the barb through his bottom lip, then threaded it up through a nostril.
As if reading Cameron's mind, Thales said, "Gotta take some spunk out of the little rascal. He too lively, a tarpon liable to get to him 'fore a red. Now, stay here while I go downstairs and give you directions."
While he was waiting, Cameron watched the larger fish moving near the surface. The reef sharks had white tips on their dorsal fins and moved with a slow, sinister undulation. He remembered something about a shark having to constantly move water through its gills, even while sleeping, or it would drown. He wondered if these sharks were sleeping, or if the tale was even true.
"Okay," Thales said. "Lower it down to the bottom." Cameron hit the release and let the line spin off the reel while keeping slight contact with his thumb. "Now, stop it there," Thales called. "Heah they come. "'Bout ten feet away and a foot off the bottom. Lift up a bit." Cameron raised the rod tip. "Right there. Now hold steady."
Cameron felt a dull thump, and the line moved slowly away. He was used to fishing in shallow marshes, so the strike was more subtle than he expected. "Now!" Thales cried. "Drive it home!" Cameron lowered the rod while turning the handle a few rounds, then grabbed the rod just above the reel and set the hook hard.
It felt like he hooked a slow-moving boulder. Then the boulder stopped, as if asking a question, surged once, twice, and headed for home, stripping line off the reel like it was a top. Cameron laughed. The redfish made a long looping arc to the far side of the tank, then ran straight for Cameron. He reeled as fast as he could to take up the slack. When it was directly below him, Cameron saw the distorted shape of the fish heading for one of the derrick's pylons. He walked in the opposite direction down the footbridge, pulling the rod to the breaking point. Under his feet, the catwalk gave a slight shudder, and he knew the redfish had rammed the leg to cut loose on a barnacle.
A queasy feeling rushed through his stomach, like the time a nine-pound bass threw his Devil's Horse. Then the redfish turned away and the line started hissing as it sliced the surface of the water. Cameron saw it rising so he backed off the drag and gave the fish its head, knowing he could leverage him better when he reached the top.
In a couple of minutes the fish was wallowing on the surface toward Cameron, waggling his head as if to say "no, this can't be possible." Cameron pulled the rod tip up to keep the fish's head above the surface and winched him in. Ten feet away, the fish turned on its side and Cameron surfed it the rest of the way to the platform. There, Cameron's heart surged once, hard. When it struck him that he had no idea how to lift the fish the four feet onto the bridge, Thales suddenly appeared with a homemade gaff, a large hook strapped to the end of a broom handle, and expertly lipped the giant fish and hoisted him onto the grating.
"Would you look at that hump on his back," Cameron said. "Looks like a Brahma bull." The burnished bronze fish worked its mouth and lifted his tail once in slow motion.
They admired the trophy for a while. Pointing at the black sun on its tail, Thales said, "Eclipse must be the size of a silver dollar. That eye keeps the fish after it from knowing which way he's headed, you see."
Thales pulled a large white garbage bag from his back pocket like a magician producing an endless stream of handkerchiefs from his fist. He held the bag while Cameron fed the redfish into the opening headfirst. He wanted it to be in perfect shape for Steve, so he squeegeed all the air bubbles out of the bag, making it conform tightly to the fish. Then he rolled the fish over several times to wrap the remaining flag of material around its body.
Cameron stood. "Mr. Thales," he said, "I'm mighty glad I met you." Smiling big, he patted his shirt pocket. "I guess that just leaves us with your fee. How much do I owe you?"
Thales looked at him with sleepy eyes. "Whatever you think it's worth."
Cameron thought, Well, if he's going to be that stupid. He plucked a ten carefully from the shirt and handed it to Thales, who stuffed the bill in his back pocket without checking it. Then he turned away, almost sad, and waved a dry, leathery hand. "See you next time."
"Okay," Cameron said.
Walking to his car with the fish tucked under his arm like a huge loaf of French bread, Cameron wondered why Thales had said that, because he had no intention of returning.
* * *
Early the next morning Cameron kicked open the screen door to his cousin's taxidermy shop and walked in, cradling the white-bagged fish against his chest. There was always a small crowd in the shop, hangers-on and droppers-by drinking black coffee or straight whiskey and telling about the ones that didn't get away. Cameron knew them all. Saying nothing, Tim, a hunter with a scarred cheek from falling on a broadhead arrow, stepped aside to let him pass.
Seated behind a heavy-planked worktable, Steve, in a blood-spattered white-canvas apron, was airbrushing the large caudal eye on a 40-inch redfish. Steve glanced over the top of his reading glasses. His practiced eyes scanned the white bag and guessed 44 inches. Affecting boredom, he said, "Looks like you done caught the world record boudin link."
"Ha!" Cameron said. "Boudin, my ass. Try a 30-pound red." He set the fish on the worktable with a heavy thump.
"Where'd you catch him?"
"In the water."
Nobody laughed at the old answer.
Cameron tried to outwait them, then said, "South of Lake Ponchartrain."
One of the regulars, Larry, a lanky, bearded man with a hawk nose, said, "That narrows it down to half the earth."
Finally, thinking the crew would be amazed by his exotic adventure, he said proudly, pausing at the key spot, "In the Gulf of Mexico . . . tank at the Aquarium of the Americas."
Steve threw his hands up and backed away like he'd heard a rattlesnake. "Are you crazy? Get that thing outta here. I could lose my license for doing that fish."
Larry eyed the fish with scorn. "Might as well be a hardhead cat for all the good it'll do you now." He spit into the clear-plastic cup he was holding. "Can't eat a redfish that size. Taste like shad."
Tim winked at Steve. "Say, I know where there's some penned-up deer you could shoot."
Dwayne, a river rat of the plaid-wearing, pot-bellied variety, threw in his two. "Hell, why go all the way to Africa for a safari when we got the Audubon Zoo right down the street? Last week me and the kids saw a lion and a . . ."
By that point, Cameron had picked up his treasure, stepped through the screen door, and slammed it on Dwayne's ridicule.
* * *
Cameron opened the door of the icebox, bent over, and squinted at the middle shelf dedicated to Busch beer. His fingers wiggled past the first three rows and grabbed a cold one. Turning the 12-ounce can in his hand, he inspected the label to make sure it wasn't one of the non-alcoholic brews he stocked for Randall.
He popped the top and slugged half of it back, then walked to the living room and fell back in the lumpy recliner covered with a dingy yellow bedspread. Staring at the blank television screen, he took a few more swallows. He pulled the TV tray closer and set his beer on it. A worn, red photo album lay open on the coffee table.
Cameron leaned forward and retrieved the book. He flipped slowly through the pages: dove, squirrel, largemouth bass and striped bass, long stringers of bluegill, two Canadian geese from his trip to Minnesota, deer, quail, redfish, limits of speckled trout, a beautiful brace of widgeons, woodcock, doormat-sized flounder gigged off the beaches of Grande Isle, ring-necked pheasant from his Kansas trip with Steve, an eleven-pound bass taken from Mexico's Lake Guerrero. On and on the pages went. Hundreds of pictures, thousands of stories.
Cameron closed the album and dropped it on the wobbly tray. He picked his beer up and shook it. Empty. His eyes wandered to the aquarium he and Randall had set up last summer. The 30-gallon tank held three bass—two yearlings and a three-pounder. Their gills pumped and their pectoral fins fanned as bream of assorted sizes darted around them.
It was illegal to keep game fish, but everybody did it. He had seen game wardens in bait shops and restaurants pass tanks filled with bass and white perch without batting an eye.
Cameron finished a second and carried a third beer outside to the backyard patio. He had taken the redfish from the trash bag and put it in the big white Igloo ice chest to show Randall, but he was off somewhere on his bike. The lid was still open. He looked down at his trophy. The fish was already gathering flies. Cameron shooed them away and clamped the lid down. He skidded a lounge chair across the cement into the rectangle of shade by the house. He sat and drank and thought about his fight with the big fish.
Walking into the house for number four, Cameron noticed how dark it was. There was only one working bulb in most of the ceiling fixtures. He reached in the icebox and retrieved a beer and walked back to the living room. The faint green glow of the aquarium drew him to the tank. The sediment was roiled from recent activity. The largest bass seemed agitated. As Cameron absently popped the top on his beer, the three-pounder lunged for a bluegill.
Cameron leaned over for a closer look. He laughed at the tail fluttering between the clamped lips of the bass. He shook his head and was about to take a swallow from the can. Then he thought of something. He smiled and addressed the tank. "Life's a bitch at the bottom of the food chain, huh?" He lifted his beer in salute and took a slug.
The taste was so foul he wanted it out of his mouth as fast as possible but he didn't want to blow it across the living room. His cheeks puffed out, he looked quickly back at the door, decided the aquarium was closer, and spewed the non-alcoholic brew on the face of the water.
He ran to the kitchen sink and gargled with tap water, then opened a real beer, swished the fizzing liquid around his mouth and swallowed.
Outside, the shade had receded toward the house, exposing the lounge chair to the sun. Cameron nudged it back in the shade with his shin, dropped his cap on the cement, then sank into the white and tan rubber straps. He took a few more swallows and looked into the blue and white label on the can. He tried to imagine himself on the sunny slope of the snow-capped mountains.
He leaned forward in the lounge chair, ratcheted the headrest down, and eased back, placing the cool bottom of the can on his forehead and holding it there. He imagined hunting bighorn sheep high on the mountain. He was tracking one with the biggest rack he had ever seen. He had never hunted bighorns, but it was the biggest rack he had ever seen. Each time he put the crosshairs on him, the ram ducked behind a boulder. He walked and aimed, walked and aimed, and the sun was getting hot and melting all the snow off the side of the can he was hunting on. He could see himself, very small, a moving speck on the side of the can. Then he trapped the ram on the edge of a ravine. It was an easy shot and he squeezed off three rounds. His shoulder jerked three times, and the ram fell and rolled over the edge. He heard Randall calling from down in the ravine. "Dad." It was like a question. "Dad, Dad."
"Dad, wake up," Randall repeated, poking his shoulder. "Look at this, Dad."
As Cameron awakened with a jolt, the beer slid off his forehead and hit the patio. Pouring foamy beer, the can rolled almost a full turn before Cameron was able to reach down and rescue it.
"Dad, look at this." It was bright and hot, and Cameron realized his shade had ebbed and he had fallen asleep in the sun. Through an alcoholic haze that was almost a sound, high-pitched and buzzing like locusts in the noon heat, Cameron tried to focus on the fluffy pigeon lying on its back in his son's hands. "I shot it in the air. I put some bread crumbs down and had a bead on him sitting on a fire hydrant and when he took off I figured what-the-heck, so I pulled the trigger and, bam, he dropped like a stone."
Cameron looked sleepily at the fat bird.
"Hell, that ain't nothing, boy. Take a look at this." He worked himself up from the lounge chair, staggered to the ice chest, and lifted the lid with a flourish. Randall stepped over and peered inside. A stale-plastic, warm-fish smell rose from the ice chest.
A white, syrupy film enveloped the once-bronze body of the redfish. A single fly was parked on the dull, exposed eye. The black eyespot on his tail was already gray.
"Wow," Randall said, "where'd you catch him?"
"Down in Eden Isles with Uncle Steve."
Randall stomped his foot. "Why didn't you take me with you?"
"I tried, but you wouldn't wake up." Cameron paused. "As usual." He knocked the lid down with a pop. "Well, maybe next time, sport." Cameron clapped his son on the back.
Randall tried again to share his own triumph. "Have you ever shot a flying bird with a pellet gun?"
His father looked at the pigeon. It was a splendid bird, cream-and-fuchsia with white chevrons on its wings. Its feet and dainty legs were flamingo pink.
Randall looked at the bird proudly, then looked up at his father looking at it in disgust.
"Boy, are you crazy?" he said. "What you shoot that thang for?"
The way his father said "thing" gave Randall a sick feeling in his heart.
"Well, you were the one told me flying pigeons look just like dove. Remember? That first week when we saw a flock circling the mall?"
"Yes, but I didn't say shoot 'em."
"Why can't you? They're way bigger than dove."
"Because you don't shoot pigeons," Cameron said.
"But why not?"
Cameron thought for a second. "Because that's just the way it is, that's all." The image of tourists feeding pigeons in Jackson Square popped into his mind. "They're scavengers," he said. "They ain't nothing but flying rats." He smiled drunkenly at the inspired thought and took a swig of the warm beer.
"But, Dad, it was such a great shot," the boy pleaded.
"A great shot on a rat and a great shot on a dove are two different things. Nobody cares about the rat. There's no sport to it."
* * *
Cameron told Randall to put the redfish back in the white bag and throw it in the blue trash bin at the Exxon station down the street. Then he shuffled into the house to sleep off his hangover.
In the bathroom he washed and rinsed his hands, then soaped them again and washed his face. Toweling off, he palmed his closed eyes and tried to rub away the drugged feeling. He gave out a satisfied sound and looked in the mirror. The sun had branded a white circle on his forehead where the can had rested.
Randall tore off a section of the white bag and wrapped his pigeon in it. His thinking was to store it in the freezer until his Uncle Steve visited, then sneak it to him as he was leaving so he could mount it for him.
He shoved aside some Mexican TV dinners, pulled out a quart of frozen fish, gently positioned the bird so it wouldn't lose its shape, and carefully replaced the frozen quart.
Outside, the day was humid, bright, and yellow-hot. Randall kicked the side of the ice chest, then opened the lid. As he reached for the fish, the full force of the stench hit him.
"Gah!" he said, dropping the lid as he backed away. Randall planted his hands on his hips and looked at the ice chest. He thought of gloves, but he had been around fish long enough to know that the best way to do the job was barehanded. He pressed his lips tight and shook his head and looked off toward the gas station.
To fortify himself against the sweltering, stinking task, he walked inside. He opened the icebox and closed his fingers around a can of non-alcoholic Busch, then paused. He looked over his shoulder at his father's bedroom down the darkened hall, then moved his hand over to a real Busch. He pulled the tab and took a small sip and swished it around in his mouth to get used to the taste. It reminded him of the juice from a jar of green olives. He took a larger swallow and closed his eyes against the pleasantly painful sting, then said, "Ahh!"
Randall moved his drinking into the living room. He sat on the arm of the green vinyl couch next to the aquarium and watched the fish. Half a beer later, the idea descended on him. He walked to the hall closet and moved a bass rod so he could reach his bream pole with the Zebco 33. It was already rigged with a black and red jig resembling a crawfish.
In the center of the living room, he punched the reel button, released it, and punched it again when two feet of line had played out. He rocked the lure back and forth to feel the rhythm, then pitched it underhand toward the aquarium. It hit the side of the tank and bounced on the hardwood floor. He smiled and took another swig of beer before trying again.
Cameron awoke with a dry mouth and burning thirst. When he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, it felt like a Russian weightlifter was pressing his palms against his temples. He broke into a sweat and remembered the sunburn.
Walking down the hall, he heard movement in the living room. He would get a drink of water, then see if Randall had dumped the redfish. The jug was almost to his lips when he changed his mind. He replaced the jug and picked up a beer. Double-checking the label before popping the top, he turned toward the living room. "Hair of the dog," he said, and raised the can to his lips. Over the top of the can, he saw Randall backpedal into view and set the hook. There was a loud splash, followed by some thrashing.
Cameron padded quickly down the hall. He turned the corner into the living room just in time to see Randall reach over the rim of the tank, expertly lip the three-pound bass, and lift him out.
"Son," he said as if it were an indictment. "Have you lost your mind?"
Randall looked over his shoulder. "Just a second," he said. "I gotta get him back in the tank." He draped the bass over his knee, then worked the hook loose.
A thought of self-recognition sputtered briefly in Cameron's mind. He saw the similarity, but the difference was a great one. Less water, no sharks.
When Randall dropped the fish into the aquarium, it bounded off the glass panels a few times, then settled on the bottom with its nose in a back corner.
"Now," Cameron said. "Tell me. What the hell would possess you to do such a thing?"
Randall knew he was supposed to feel bad, but he didn't. He felt anger. He thought for a moment and looked at his father.
"Boredom," he said. "There's nobody my age on this crummy block, and I wanna go fishing and you won't take me. I might as well be living with Mom."
Cameron looked at his son. "Boy, a three-pound bass ain't even picture-worthy." He lifted the photo album from the TV tray and tossed it on the couch, where it bounced once and opened. "Look in that picture book. You ain't gonna find a single shot of no bass under four pounds."
A lump grew in Randall's throat. It felt uncomfortable, a blend of anger and shame about to find release in crying but he didn't want to cry, so he defended himself carefully, hoping for his father's sympathy. "It's not like I was gonna keep him. I've caught the two yearlings four or five times and the big one twice."
Cameron looked at his boy, trying to get inside his mind and understand what would make him do something like this, but he could not penetrate that deep, so he just shook his head. "How stupid can you get."
"At least I'm smart enough to throw 'em back so I can catch 'em again." It was the beer talking now. "You, you wasted that big redfish for nothing."
In no condition to reason, Cameron spoke slowly so his son would catch the meaning of each word. "Don't fish. In the god-damned tank. Those fish are for looks, understand?"
Randall put his hands on his hips and thrust his head forward. "Well, I wouldn't have to fish in the got-damn tank if you'd take me with you once in a while."
Cameron flicked a backhand at his son's face, swift but not hard, and stung him on the cheek with the ends of his fingers.
"And don't curse me," he said. "Ever again. You got that, you little shit?"
* * *
Driving to the Aquarium that night, Cameron had tarpon on his mind. Aloud, he said, "That biggest one had silver scales the size of pancakes. I can't wait to see the look on their faces when I haul that son-of-a-bitch into the shop."
"Been expecting you," Thales said as he unlocked the door.
Cameron was anxious to get down to business. "How much?"
"'Pends on what you after tonight."
"Tarpon."
"He-hee." Thales rubbed his hands together. "Tarpons don't always bite at night. Let's see if you ketch one first, then talk."
In the supply room, a single large rod leaned in the corner. It was already rigged with a heavy yellow and red popper with a white feather streamer. On the footbridge Cameron cast out and retrieved. He was used to bass lures and its bulk felt awkward in the water.
"Ever caught a tarpon before?" Thales asked.
"No," Cameron said. "No, I haven't."
Thales giggled. "Keep castin', son, keep castin'. I got to finish sweeping up."
In five minutes of casting Cameron saw only one tarpon track the bait with half interest. He called down to Thales, "What am I doing wrong?"
Thales stopped his broom and watched Cameron chug the popper across the surface.
"Wait a minute, then try again," he called. "Don't jerk it, pull it. And don't wait so long between pulls." Then he went back to his work.
A minute later, Thales heard the explosion like a wave crashing against a rock, then a holler from Cameron. He paused in his cleaning to watch the action.
The tarpon made short, frantic runs, shaking his head to throw the hook. Several smaller tarpon excitedly trailed him, looking for other prey. Cameron's tarpon rose and broke the surface with half his length, shaking his gaping mouth. He fell back and drove down, then rushed the surface and breached with a glorious leap, flipping over at the peak just before his body slapped the ceiling.
Thales knew the battle was just beginning, and he had work to do, so he returned to his sweeping.
Stunned, the tarpon sank, angling down and away from the straining rod. The driving force of the tarpon, added to Cameron's weight, sagged the footbridge, but he held tight. Then there was a metallic bang and the panels of the bridge dropped like a trapdoor, spilling Cameron into the water.
He held onto the rod as the tarpon dragged him across the surface of the water, shoving saltwater up his nostrils. Then the tarpon sounded, pulling Cameron under, but he would not turn loose. The tarpon shot to the surface and jumped again in a series of spectacular, tail-walking leaps, then wrapped around a leg of the oil rig and broke loose.
Thales looked up from his broom in time to see the rod butt hit the bottom and kick up a spurt of gray chips. Then the length of the rod settled gently against the floor as if it were falling asleep.
Cameron swam and kicked toward the surface, struggling hard not to breathe. He felt the salt stinging a cut on his forearm. When he came clear, he treaded water and tried to cough out the seawater. He swiveled around to get his bearings. Twenty yards away, the broken catwalk formed two ladders leading out of the water. Cameron took the first strokes toward the bridge, then noticed a fast, gray shadow gliding beneath him. He froze. Looking down, he saw blood leaking from his wound. Then he glanced around.
Exposed above the surface of the water, the white tip on the dorsal fin sizzled toward him. Cameron couldn't remember what to do if a shark attacked—thrash the water? sit still? hit him on the nose? Or was it bear you did that to?
It would be a stupid way to die, he thought, to be eaten by a scavenger. Or were they predators? I'll try to punch his nose. A good hit should repel him.
But the strike was more swiftly violent than he thought it would be, like a star fullback hitting a tackling dummy. He felt his body tossed to the side like a ragdoll, then a hit in the back, followed by one from below.
Several streams of blood blossomed into a red cloud that suspended in the middle of the tank. In less than a minute, nothing was left, not even a shred of clothing. The cloud expanded in the tank, thinning to a pink fog that finally disappeared completely.
Looking on as if it were a work of art, Thales smiled, made a mental note to retrieve the rod by morning, and moved on, pushing ahead of his broom the scraps of the day.
