TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) by Lawrence de Maria Page B
Authors: Lawrence de Maria
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face sounded a hell of a lot better than what Alice probably had planned for me. I didn’t want to give Jeff the tennis torturer another shot. I told Vole he had a charter.
He told me to meet him back at the dock at 1 PM.
CHAPTER 8 - TEN-POUND HEADS
The She Got the House was a good-sized boat. I went into the cabin to look around while Vole took her out of the marina. There was a metal table next to a bench on one wall. Opposite was a counter where a small knife with a sharp blade stuck vertically out of a block of well-worn wood. From the spools of line on a shelf next to the knife I assumed that Vole used it to rig his lures.
I went back on deck. I liked to fish. Have since childhood. I preferred fresh-water angling with spinning rods and fondly recalled trying to match wits with largemouth bass in upstate New York ponds. The fact that they have a brain the size of a pea and usually outwitted me did not decrease the fun. More recently, I have been going out bluefishing with Porgie Carmichael, a one-time inept criminal who now, thanks to my soft heart and appreciation — he took a beating rather than follow an order to kill me — now runs the Great Kills Marina for the Rahm family on Staten Island. Arman Rahm insisted that the marina is one of the family’s legitimate operations, but I still made him promise that Porgie would never be asked to conduct a burial at sea.
From the size of the stout rod in the holder in Vole’s fishing chair, I did not think we were going after bluefish. It was rigged for bigger game. The lure attached to the wire leader at the end of the line was huge, almost a foot long. I'd caught bass smaller than that monstrosity, which had three sets of treble hooks, the last of which was attached to one of the rod guides.
It took us about a half hour to get where Vole wanted to start fishing. He idled the engine and came down out of the cockpit to set up the rod. Vole was wearing a cutoff t-shirt and shorts. Up close, he was an even more impressive specimen, with deeply-tanned muscular legs and arms. On his right bicep was tattooed the distinctive Navy SEAL insignia of a golden eagle clutching an anchor, trident, and flintlock style pistol. I always wondered about that flintlock. I doubted that SEALS ever used them. Vole threw the lure into the water and let line out.
“We’ll troll a while. Get in the chair.”
“What are we after? Moby Dick?”
“Small lure, small fish,” Vole said. “Big lure, big fish. We ain’t after fuckin’ guppies.”
He went back to the wheel and the boat surged ahead, but slowly. We had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile when the rod bent in its holder and the reel’s drag began clacking as line was pulled out. I knew right away it wasn’t a guppy.
“Fish on!” Vole shouted. He again idled the engines. “Set the hook! Give it a good yank. Then start reeling and let’s see what we’ve got.”
I did as told. The fish continued to take out line.
“Tighten the drag!”
The reel was unfamiliar to me. When I hesitated, he clambered down from the cockpit and showed me how to do it by turning a knob on the side of the reel. Soon, I was gaining ground, or water, on the fish.
“Cobia,” Vole said.
“How can you tell?”
“They don’t jump. Take long runs. Like to head to bottom.”
It took me 15 minutes to tire the fish out and bring it close enough for Vole to gaff it. There was a small hinged platform that could be lowered from the stern and Vole maneuvered the fish onto it before heaving it to the deck. It thrashed about wildly. Vole picked up a wooden truncheon, what cops call a billy club, and whacked the fish on its head. Porgie Carmichael used the same type on recalcitrant bluefish. Vole knew what he was doing. My fish stopped moving.
“I told you it was a cobia,” Vole said, lifting the fish up by its gills. “Nice one, too. Might be 50 pounds.”
It may have been 50 pounds, but Vole held it out for me to admire with about as much
He told me to meet him back at the dock at 1 PM.
CHAPTER 8 - TEN-POUND HEADS
The She Got the House was a good-sized boat. I went into the cabin to look around while Vole took her out of the marina. There was a metal table next to a bench on one wall. Opposite was a counter where a small knife with a sharp blade stuck vertically out of a block of well-worn wood. From the spools of line on a shelf next to the knife I assumed that Vole used it to rig his lures.
I went back on deck. I liked to fish. Have since childhood. I preferred fresh-water angling with spinning rods and fondly recalled trying to match wits with largemouth bass in upstate New York ponds. The fact that they have a brain the size of a pea and usually outwitted me did not decrease the fun. More recently, I have been going out bluefishing with Porgie Carmichael, a one-time inept criminal who now, thanks to my soft heart and appreciation — he took a beating rather than follow an order to kill me — now runs the Great Kills Marina for the Rahm family on Staten Island. Arman Rahm insisted that the marina is one of the family’s legitimate operations, but I still made him promise that Porgie would never be asked to conduct a burial at sea.
From the size of the stout rod in the holder in Vole’s fishing chair, I did not think we were going after bluefish. It was rigged for bigger game. The lure attached to the wire leader at the end of the line was huge, almost a foot long. I'd caught bass smaller than that monstrosity, which had three sets of treble hooks, the last of which was attached to one of the rod guides.
It took us about a half hour to get where Vole wanted to start fishing. He idled the engine and came down out of the cockpit to set up the rod. Vole was wearing a cutoff t-shirt and shorts. Up close, he was an even more impressive specimen, with deeply-tanned muscular legs and arms. On his right bicep was tattooed the distinctive Navy SEAL insignia of a golden eagle clutching an anchor, trident, and flintlock style pistol. I always wondered about that flintlock. I doubted that SEALS ever used them. Vole threw the lure into the water and let line out.
“We’ll troll a while. Get in the chair.”
“What are we after? Moby Dick?”
“Small lure, small fish,” Vole said. “Big lure, big fish. We ain’t after fuckin’ guppies.”
He went back to the wheel and the boat surged ahead, but slowly. We had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile when the rod bent in its holder and the reel’s drag began clacking as line was pulled out. I knew right away it wasn’t a guppy.
“Fish on!” Vole shouted. He again idled the engines. “Set the hook! Give it a good yank. Then start reeling and let’s see what we’ve got.”
I did as told. The fish continued to take out line.
“Tighten the drag!”
The reel was unfamiliar to me. When I hesitated, he clambered down from the cockpit and showed me how to do it by turning a knob on the side of the reel. Soon, I was gaining ground, or water, on the fish.
“Cobia,” Vole said.
“How can you tell?”
“They don’t jump. Take long runs. Like to head to bottom.”
It took me 15 minutes to tire the fish out and bring it close enough for Vole to gaff it. There was a small hinged platform that could be lowered from the stern and Vole maneuvered the fish onto it before heaving it to the deck. It thrashed about wildly. Vole picked up a wooden truncheon, what cops call a billy club, and whacked the fish on its head. Porgie Carmichael used the same type on recalcitrant bluefish. Vole knew what he was doing. My fish stopped moving.
“I told you it was a cobia,” Vole said, lifting the fish up by its gills. “Nice one, too. Might be 50 pounds.”
It may have been 50 pounds, but Vole held it out for me to admire with about as much
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