turned his back.
“I’ll catch him a mess of perch, that’s his favorite,” Smith said. “Nothing better than a pile of those little perch dipped in cornmeal with a little salt and pepper and a egg to make it stick and then fried. He does love his perch.”
The lake had been dug as a raw red hole in the earth and only junk saplings lined its banks. Though it was still spring, at midday the sun made its heat known. The aluminum seats grew hot.
Officer Smith’s red-and-white float bobbed. He flipped the butt of his cigarette into the lake and raised his line—a perch flopped at its end, shattering with silver droplets the lake’s green mirror. The officer raised the pole too quickly. He grabbed for the line, but it sailed out of reach and the hooked fish smacked the priest’s cheek. On the second try Smith brought the fish into the boat. He worked the hook from the perch’s mouth, then skewered it on a stringer, dropped it into the minnow bucket’s cage, and lowered the cage into the lake.
The old priest held his silence, even through the indignity of being slapped by a fish—he was a silent black pillar of longing. Finally Smith relented. “Calls for a little celebration, wouldn’t you say?” he said. The priest held his tongue. From under the middle bench Smith pulled out his cooler and extracted two beaded long-necks and slipped them into cup holders. “Keep ’em low,” he said. “I’ve known a nosy game warden too big for his britches who’d like nothing more than to come across me drinking in the park.” He reached under the bench again and pulled out his flask. “A little whiskey for a chaser?”
“It would be impolite to refuse.” The priest poured the whiskey into the flask’s screw top, then tossed it down.
They drank their beers in silence. Neither floater budged. The priest finished his beer first. The officer took his time, but in the end he was as interested as the priest in getting a buzz on and they had a second round.
The sun was nearing the treetops when they heard the first of many cars. The gravel road that served the lake continued past it to dead-end at a run-down house, lost now amid the greening trees of spring. Every few minutes a car whizzed around the lake, vanished into the trees, then came to an audible halt at the door of the shack. A few minutes later the car reappeared, whizzing back to the highway. The cars arrived exactly on the quarter hour—Smith timed their coming and going. “They say the guy who owns that auto parts lot across from the bank is into it big time,” Smith said. “You never see a customer in there. And the parts—”
“Not what we’d—”
“Strange.”
“You’d think he was building formula racecars. But nobody here—”
“Weird.”
“What is his name?”
“Foreign parts.”
“Sends his kids to the public school. Parochial school not good enough for them.”
“Or maybe he’s afraid his kids might talk about what they see at home. Benny Joe—that’s it. Big guy—they call him Little. I’m guessing the auto parts are a cover.”
A squeal of tires in the distance. A black van streaked by. “You don’t want to turn ’em in,” Smith said. “We’re the only people back here on Mondays. They’d know who did it right away.” He took out the flask and took a swig, keeping his eyes on the old priest, who no longer troubled to hide his interest. “And it’s not just from below,” Smith said. “Now the big guys from Washington are coming in with helicopters and fancy X-ray machines. Like I couldn’t tell them the location of every patch of pot in the county,not that they’ll ask. It’s no problem finding it. The problem is getting a jury to convict a guy who’s their first cousin, or their cousin’s cousin, or their aunt, or their bastard son. Do you know what I get paid? These guys make my monthly salary in a single sale. The temptation, Father. Take Little. He comes to me offering—”
“Offering
“I’ll catch him a mess of perch, that’s his favorite,” Smith said. “Nothing better than a pile of those little perch dipped in cornmeal with a little salt and pepper and a egg to make it stick and then fried. He does love his perch.”
The lake had been dug as a raw red hole in the earth and only junk saplings lined its banks. Though it was still spring, at midday the sun made its heat known. The aluminum seats grew hot.
Officer Smith’s red-and-white float bobbed. He flipped the butt of his cigarette into the lake and raised his line—a perch flopped at its end, shattering with silver droplets the lake’s green mirror. The officer raised the pole too quickly. He grabbed for the line, but it sailed out of reach and the hooked fish smacked the priest’s cheek. On the second try Smith brought the fish into the boat. He worked the hook from the perch’s mouth, then skewered it on a stringer, dropped it into the minnow bucket’s cage, and lowered the cage into the lake.
The old priest held his silence, even through the indignity of being slapped by a fish—he was a silent black pillar of longing. Finally Smith relented. “Calls for a little celebration, wouldn’t you say?” he said. The priest held his tongue. From under the middle bench Smith pulled out his cooler and extracted two beaded long-necks and slipped them into cup holders. “Keep ’em low,” he said. “I’ve known a nosy game warden too big for his britches who’d like nothing more than to come across me drinking in the park.” He reached under the bench again and pulled out his flask. “A little whiskey for a chaser?”
“It would be impolite to refuse.” The priest poured the whiskey into the flask’s screw top, then tossed it down.
They drank their beers in silence. Neither floater budged. The priest finished his beer first. The officer took his time, but in the end he was as interested as the priest in getting a buzz on and they had a second round.
The sun was nearing the treetops when they heard the first of many cars. The gravel road that served the lake continued past it to dead-end at a run-down house, lost now amid the greening trees of spring. Every few minutes a car whizzed around the lake, vanished into the trees, then came to an audible halt at the door of the shack. A few minutes later the car reappeared, whizzing back to the highway. The cars arrived exactly on the quarter hour—Smith timed their coming and going. “They say the guy who owns that auto parts lot across from the bank is into it big time,” Smith said. “You never see a customer in there. And the parts—”
“Not what we’d—”
“Strange.”
“You’d think he was building formula racecars. But nobody here—”
“Weird.”
“What is his name?”
“Foreign parts.”
“Sends his kids to the public school. Parochial school not good enough for them.”
“Or maybe he’s afraid his kids might talk about what they see at home. Benny Joe—that’s it. Big guy—they call him Little. I’m guessing the auto parts are a cover.”
A squeal of tires in the distance. A black van streaked by. “You don’t want to turn ’em in,” Smith said. “We’re the only people back here on Mondays. They’d know who did it right away.” He took out the flask and took a swig, keeping his eyes on the old priest, who no longer troubled to hide his interest. “And it’s not just from below,” Smith said. “Now the big guys from Washington are coming in with helicopters and fancy X-ray machines. Like I couldn’t tell them the location of every patch of pot in the county,not that they’ll ask. It’s no problem finding it. The problem is getting a jury to convict a guy who’s their first cousin, or their cousin’s cousin, or their aunt, or their bastard son. Do you know what I get paid? These guys make my monthly salary in a single sale. The temptation, Father. Take Little. He comes to me offering—”
“Offering
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