Shaped like a tall, crooked fence post with a fresh pumpkin impaledat the top, his Adam’s apple jutted out several alarming inches from his thin, twisted neck. He licked his fingers, smoothed out his scraggly eyebrows, patted down his long sideburns, and tucked his hair back behind his ears. Ray was always hoping he might meet a woman who simply loved a man in a uniform.
I turned away from the window and was listlessly sliding the mop around under the pool table when he swaggered in, grinning like a dog that had just discovered he could lick his own balls and couldn’t wait to tell folks about it. Heck was still perched on his bar stool, but just barely. He stared dully at the shot glass in front of him. Ray ignored me and nodded to Fat Ernst, who was watching bowling on the little black-and-white TV behind the bar.
“Howdy, Ernst. How’s business?”
“Fabulous,” Fat Ernst replied in a dead tone. He never took his eyes off the television. “What’ll you have?”
“Better just make it a shot and a beer. Gotta go check out the dam later on. Sheriff’s worried the reservoir might be rising.”
“It ain’t gonna flood.”
“Rain sure as hell came down in buckets today, though. Boy, oh, boy. Like a cow pissing on a flat rock.” Ray approached the bar and hollered at Heck. “Hey, Heck! How you doing?” He slapped Heck on the back in a friendly manner.
Heck’s head slumped forward from the blow and his chin bounced off the bar. His dentures popped out and skittered across the bar like a frightened frog.
“Whoa—hey, there.” Ray’s toothpick danced under his thin mustache when he talked. He sat down next to Heck and tilted his cowboy hat to rest at a nearly vertical angle on the back of his head. “Good to see ya out and about. Edna let you out of the house again?” Ray gave a high, wheezing laugh. “Just pulling your leg, just pulling your leg.”
He readjusted the giant holster that sagged at his right hip. It held a massive Ruger Super Redhawk .480 revolver, over a third more powerfulthan a .44 Magnum. I guess Ray wanted to prove that he was more of a man than Dirty Harry. Each shell held at least 240 grains of powder and cost nearly two bucks. The gun was usually used for killing big game, some almost as big as rhinos. I never did understand why the department would let Ray carry a cannon like that. Maybe they figured he’d never actually use it.
I shook my head and moved to the tables, trying to ignore Ray.
“It ain’t gonna flood.” Fat Ernst rolled the cigar around in his mouth once, took a deep breath, grabbed the edge of the bar, and heaved himself to his feet. His round face turned red from the exertion. “Figured you might be around sometime, after that mess this morning.”
“Shit. Don’t remind me. Slim’s been calling all day. Wants them Sawyer brothers shot on sight. I’ll get around to getting a statement here soon. It’s always some damn thing with that man.”
Fat Ernst poured two shots of Wild Turkey. “Well, I can almost understand him being upset. Earl wasn’t exactly in the best shape after going for a swim in the ditch and all.” He slid one of the shot glasses across the bar to Ray.
“Hell, you don’t know the half of it.” Ray downed the shot, straightened up, and said, “I got the real story from a buddy a mine; he’s in the Coast Guard.” Ray nodded importantly. “Earl and these two other rich old boys, buddies of his in the CCA, rented a fourteen-footer out of Noyo Harbor.”
The CCA was the California Cattleman’s Association, referred to by most of the customers of Fat Ernst’s bar as “those pricks from downstate,” because the CCA was an exclusive club, reserved for the twenty-five richest ranchers in the state.
“That’s some heavy inside dope you got there, Ray,” Fat Ernst said, sarcasm falling to the bar between them in fat, quivering drops. “Hell, I already seen that on the news.” He hooked the naked dentures over Heck’s shot glass.
“Yeah, well, like I said, you don’t know the half of it,” Ray saidquickly, smoothing out his pathetically thin mustache with his thumb and forefinger as if to reassure himself. I stopped moving the mop around for a moment and listened.
“These guys are fishing for steelhead, right at the mouth of the Klamath River. Maybe twenty, thirty yards out. You’ve been fishin’ there, right?”
Fat Ernst nodded vaguely. Ray spit his words out in an excited rush. “They’re right at the mouth out there, where the waves are surging around in every fucking direction, and the water’s so churned up you can’t see jack shit.”
“Yeah, I been there,” Fat Ernst said.
“‘Course, it’s too damn early for steelhead fishing, season don’t open for another two months at least. But these boys”—Ray lowered his thin, reedy voice in a conspiratorial tone—“now, these boys are doing some serious drinking. Shit, Coast Guard found four empty bottles of tequila, and that’s not counting the beer cans that washed away.”
Fat Ernst yawned. Personally, I didn’t give a damn one way or the other how Earl had died. Like I said, part of me was glad he was dead. I was about to hurry up and finish slathering dirty water on the floor and go home when Deputy Ray spoke up.
“So they’re out there, okay, fishing and doing some serious drinking. And then one of ’em hooks a shark.”
I let the mop drift around in small circles, almost by itself, and turned to the bar. Fat Ernst had actually turned away from the television set up in the corner and was now facing Ray, who was perched on the bar stool, leaning into the wood as if someone had propped a fence post up against the bar. There’s something about sharks that grabs folks’ attention.
“I guess it was just a blue shark, nothin’ special, maybe eight, nine feet long. Sounded like the fella had a salmon on first, and the shark must’ve gone after that fish, just swallowed it whole, salmon, hook, and everything. Pure dumb luck it got hooked. Now, if it was any other line, a shark that size would’ve—”
“It woulda snapped,” Fat Ernst broke in. When it came to catching and killing things, Fat Ernst considered himself an expert.
“Exactly. But these guys …” Deputy Ray pointed at Fat Ernst with his shot glass for emphasis. “These guys were using eighty-pound test, something like that. So they manage to haul it up to the surface, all fired up about taking those teeth. But the thing ain’t dead, and it’s thrashing around, right off the stern, and these dumb bastards don’t know what the hell to do about it.”
Fat Ernst filled the shot glass and said, “You put a bullet in its head, that’s what you do.” He gave a slow chuckle filled with phlegm, experienced beyond his years as a rough-and-tumble shark killer.
“Exactly,” Deputy Ray repeated. “So while the fella that had hooked the thing, he’s hanging on to that fishing pole, screaming about how he’s gonna put them jaws above the fireplace, Earl is digging around for that old Army Colt .45. Meanwhile, his other buddy found a two-by-four somewhere, and he’s trying to bash the shark’s head in, but he’s just pissing it off. So, I guess Earl stumbled to the back of the boat, and here’s where the accounts start to differ. One fella said that the boat lurched sideways all of a sudden, from a wave, I guess, and the other fella, the one with the fishing pole, said the shark tried to attack the boat or some damn thing. Doesn’t matter much, though.”
Unable to help himself, Deputy Ray grinned. “Well, that .45 went off and Earl put a bullet right through his own fucking foot.”
Fat Ernst wobbled and gave a wheezing laugh that sounded like gravel falling off a truck.
“That bullet went right through his foot and on through the bottom of the boat. But a course, they wouldn’t of known that at the time, ’cause somehow Earl fell into that eighty-pound test line, and the fella dropped the pole to help. Well, the line got all wrapped around Earl’s neck and I’ll be damned if that shark didn’t pull him right out of the fucking boat.” Deputy Ray downed his shot but started to giggle, holding his hand up to his mouth to stop Wild Turkey from dribbling out. After a moment, he got himself under control and continued.