Joe Winder knew. It was a snook, a damn big one. Any other night he would have been thrilled to hook such a fish, but not now. From the corner of his eye he could see the goons rock-hopping down the jetty so they could better view the battle. Near a piling the fish broke to the surface, shaking its gills furiously before diving in a frothy silver gash. The goons pointed excitedly at the commotion, and Winder couldn’t blame them; it was a grand fish.
Joe Winder knew what to do, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Palm the spool. Break the damn thing off, before the two guys got any closer. Instead Joe Winder was playing the fish like a pro, horsing it away from the rocks and pilings, letting it spend itself in short hard bursts. What am I, crazy? Winder thought. From up here I could never land this fish alone. The goons would want to help, sure they would, and then they’d see who I was and that would be it. One dead snook and one dead flack.
Again the fish thrust its underslung snout from the water and splashed. Even in the tea-colored water the black lateral stripe was visible along its side. Twelve pounds easy, thought Winder. A fine one.
One of the goons clapped his hands and Joe Winder looked up. “Nize goying,” the man said. “Dat’s some fugging fish.” It was the short wiry one.
“Thanks,” said Winder. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe these weren’t the bad guys, after all. Or maybe they hadn’t come to hurt him; maybe they just wanted to talk. Maybe they had Koocher and were scheming for a ransom.
After five minutes of back-and-forth, the snook was tiring. Twenty yards from the jetty it glided to the surface and flopped its tail once, twice. Not yet, Winder thought; don’t give up yet, you marvelous bastard.
He heard their heavy footsteps on the rocks. Now they were behind him. He heard their breathing. One of them was chewing gum. Joe Winder smelled hot spearmint and beer.
“What’re you waiting for?” asked the big one.
“He’s not ready,” Winder said, afraid to turn and give them a look at his face. “He’s still got some gas.”
“No, look at the fugging thin,” said the little one. “He juice about dead, mang.”
The snook was dogging it on top, barely putting a bend in Joe Winder’s fishing rod.
“That’s some good eating,” the big no-neck goon remarked.
Winder swallowed dryly and said, “Too bad they’re out of season.”
He heard both of the men laugh. “Hey, you don’t want him, we’ll take it off your hands. Fry his ass up in a minute. Right, Angel?”
The little one, Angel, said, “Yeah, I go down and grab hole the fugging thin.” He took off his baseball cap and scrabbled noisily down the rocks.
Joe Winder got a mental picture of these two submorons in yellowed undershirts—swilling beer, watching “Wheel” on the tube—cooking up the snook on a cheap gas stove in some rathole Hialeah duplex. The thought of it was more than he could stand. He placed his hand on the spool of the reel and pulled once, savagely.
The snook had one good powerful surge left in its heart, and the fishing line snapped like a rifle shot. Joe Winder fell back, then steadied himself. “Goddammit,” he said, trying to sound disappointed.
“That was really stupid,” said the big goon. “You don’t know shit about fighting a fish.”
“I guess not.”
The wiry one had been waiting by the water when the fish got off. Cursing in Spanish, he monkeyed back up the rocks. To guide himself, he held a small flashlight in one hand. The beam caught Joe Winder flush in the face; there was nothing he could do.
Instantly the big goon grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hey! You work at the park.”
“What park?”
The wiry one said, “Doan tell me he’s the guy.”
“Yup,” said the big one, tightening his grip.
The men edged closer. Joe Winder could sense they were angry about not recognizing him sooner.
“Mr. Fisherman,” said the big one acidly.