“They ought to give you a medal,” said Mattera.
“Or put up a statue of you in front of City Hall,” said Finney.
“I’m serious—”
“So are we, Mr. Fitch.”
They fell silent again. Mattera thought about all the criminals who had been immune three months ago and who were now dead, and how much nicer a place it was without them. Finney tried to figure out how many kings there were. Not many, he decided, and the ones that were left didn’t really do anything.
“I suppose you’ll want to take me to jail now,” said Mr. Fitch.
Mattera cleared his throat. “I’d better explain something to you, Mr. Fitch,” he said. “A police officer is a very busy man. He can’t waste his time with a lot of kooky stories that he might hear. Finney and I, uh, have crooks to catch. Things like that.”
“What Mattera means, Mr. Fitch, is a nice old guy like you ought to run home to bed. We enjoy talking to you, and I really admire the way you speak, but Mattera and I, we’re busy, see. We’ve got an inordinate lot of crooks to catch . . .” There! “. . . and you ought to go on home, so to speak.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Fitch. “Oh. Oh, bless you!”
They watched him scurry away, and they smoked more cigarettes, and remained silent for a very long time. After a while Mattera said, “A job like this, you got to do something crazy once in a while.”
“Sure.”
“I never did anything this crazy before. You?”
“No.”
“That nutty little guy. How long do you figure he’ll get away with it?”
“Who knows?”
“Fifteen so far. Fifteen—”
“Uh-huh. And close to seventy others that they did themselves.”
A light went on across the street. A door opened, and a man walked toward his car. The man had ears like an elephant. “Ears Carradine,” Mattera said. “Better get him before he gets into the car.”
“You tell him.”
“Hell, you’re closer.”
Carradine stopped to light a cigarette. He shook out the match and flung it aside.
“I had him nailed to the wall on an aggravated-assault thing a few years back,” Finney said. “I had three witnesses that pinned him good—and not a breath of doubt.”
“Witnesses.”
“Two of them changed their minds and one disappeared. Never turned up.”
“You better tell him,” Mattera said.
“Funny the way that little guy had that car gimmicked. Read about it in the paper, you know, but I never saw anything like it before. Cute, though.”
“He’s getting in the car,” Mattera said.
“You would wonder if a thing like that would work, wouldn’t you?”
“You would at that. You should have told him, but it’s that kind of a crazy night, isn’t it?”
“He might see it himself.”
“He might.”
He didn’t. They heard the ignition, and then the single shot, and Ears Carradine slumped over the wheel.
Mattera started up the squad car and pulled away from the curb. “How about that,” he said. “It worked like a charm.”
“Sixteen,” said Finney.
Sometimes They Bite
Mowbray had been fishing the lake for better than two hours before he encountered the heavy-set man. The lake was supposed to be full of largemouth bass and that was what he was after. He was using spinning gear, working a variety of plugs and spoons and jigs and plastic worms in all of the spots where a lunker largemouth was likely to be biding his time. He was a good fisherman, adept at dropping his lure right where he wanted it, just alongside a weedbed or at the edge of subsurface structure. And the lures he was using were ideal for late fall bass. He had everything going for him, he thought, but a fish on the end of his line.
He would fish a particular spot for a while, then move off to his right a little ways, as much for something to do as because he expected the bass to be more cooperative in another location. He was gradually working his way around the western rim of the lake when he stepped from behind some brush into a clearing and saw the other man no more than a dozen yards away.
The man was tall, several inches taller than Mowbray, very broad in the shoulders and trim in the hips and at the waist. He wore a fairly new pair of blue jeans and a poplin windbreaker over a navy flannel shirt. His boots looked identical to Mowbray’s, and Mowbray guessed they’d been purchased from the same mail-order outfit in Maine. His gear was a baitcasting outfit, and Mowbray followed his line out with his eyes and saw a red bobber sitting on the water’s surface some thirty yards out.
The man’s chestnut hair was just barely touched with gray. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and the shadowy beard of someone who had arisen early in the morning. The skin on his hands and face suggested he spent much of his time out of doors. He was certainly around Mowbray’s age, which was forty-four, but he was in much better shape than Mowbray was, in better shape, truth to tell, than Mowbray had ever been. Mowbray at once admired and envied him.
The man had nodded at Mowbray’s approach, and Mowbray nodded in return, not speaking first because he was the invader. Then the man said, “Afternoon. Having any luck?”
“Not a nibble.”
“Been fishing long?”
“A couple of hours,” Mowbray said. “Must have worked my way halfway around the lake, as much to keep moving as anything else. If there’s a largemouth in the whole lake you couldn’t prove it by me.”
The man chuckled. “Oh, there’s bass here, all right. It’s a fine lake for bass, and a whole lot of other fish as well.”
“Maybe I’m using the wrong lures.”
The big man shook his head. “Doubtful. They’ll bite anything when their dander is up. I think a largemouth would hit a shoelace if he was in the mood, and when he’s sulky he wouldn’t take your bait if you threw it in the water with no hook or line attached to it. That’s just the way they are. Sometimes they bite and sometimes they don’t.”
“That’s the truth.” He nodded in the direction of the floating red bobber. “I don’t suppose you’re after bass yourself?”
“Not rigged up like this. No, I’ve been trying to get myself a couple of crappies.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, indicating where a campfire was laid. “I’ve got the skillet and the oil, I’ve got the meal to roll ’em in and I’ve got the fire all laid just waiting for the match. Now all I need is the fish.”
“No luck?”
“No more than you’re having.”
“Which isn’t a whole lot,” Mowbray said. “You from around here?”
“No. Been through here a good many times, however. I’ve fished this lake now and again and had good luck more often than not.”
“Well,” Mowbray said. The man’s company was invigorating, but there was a strict code of etiquette governing meetings of this nature. “I think I’ll head on around the next bend. It’s probably pointless but I’d like to get a plug in the water.”
“You never can tell if it’s pointless, can you? Any minute the wind can change or the temperature can drop a few degrees and the fish can change their behavior completely. That’s what keeps us coming out here year after year, I’d say. The wonderful unpredictability of the whole affair. Say, don’t go and take a hike on my account.”
“Are you sure?”
The big man nodded, hitched at his trousers. “You can wet a line here as good as further down the bank. Your casting for bass won’t make a lot of difference as to whether or not a crappie or a sunnie takes a shine to the shiner on my hook. And, to tell you the truth, I’d be just as glad for the company.”
“So would I,” Mowbray said, gratefully. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn’t have said boo if I did.”
Mowbray set his aluminum tackle box on the ground, knelt beside it, and rigged his line. He tied on a spoon plug, then got to his feet and dug out a pack of cigarettes from the breast
pocket of his corduroy shirt. He said, “Smoke?”
“Gave ’em up a while back. But thanks all the same.”
Mowbray smoked his cigarette about halfway down, then dropped the butt and ground it underfoot. He stepped to the water’s edge, took a minute or so to read the surface of the lake, then cast his plug a good distance out. For the next fifteen minutes or so the two men fished in companionable silence. Mowbray had no strikes but expected none and was resigned to it. He was enjoying himself just the same.
“Nibble,” the big man announced. A minute or two went by and he began reeling in. “And a nibble’s the extent of it,” he said. “I’d better check and see if he left me anything.”
The minnow had been bitten neatly in two. The big man had hooked him through the lips and now his tail was missing. His fingers very deft, the man slipped the shiner off the hook and substituted a live one from his bait pail. Seconds later the new minnow was in the water and the red bobber floated on the surface.
“I wonder what did that,” Mowbray said.
“Hard to say. Crawdad, most likely. Something ornery.”
“I was thinking that a nibble was a good sign, might mean the fish were going to start playing along with us. But if it’s just a crawdad I don’t suppose it means very much.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“I was wondering,” Mowbray said. “You’d think if there’s bass in this lake you’d be after them instead of crappies.”
“I suppose most people figure that way.”
“None of my business, of course.”
“Oh, that’s all right. Hardly a sensitive subject. Happens I like the taste of little panfish better than the larger fish. I’m not a sport fisherman at heart, I’m afraid. I get a kick out of catching ’em, but my main interest is how they’re going to taste when I’ve fried ’em up in the pan. A meat fisherman is what they call my kind, and the sporting fraternity mostly says the phrase with a certain amount of contempt.” He exposed large white teeth in a sudden grin. “If they fished as often as I do, they’d probably lose some of their taste for the sporting aspect of it. I fish more days than I don’t, you see. I retired ten years ago, had a retail business and sold it not too long after my wife died. We were never able to have any children so there was just myself and I wound up with enough capital to keep me without working if I didn’t mind living simply. And I not only don’t mind it, I prefer it.”
“You’re young to be retired.”
“I’m fifty-five. I was forty-five when I retired, which may be on the young side, but I was ready for it.”
“You look at least ten years younger than you are.”
“If that’s a fact, I guess retirement agrees with me. Anyway, all I really do is travel around and fish for my supper. And I’d rather catch small fish. I did the other kind of fishing and tired of it in no time at all. The way I see it, I never want to catch more fish than I intend to eat. If I kill something, it goes in that copper skillet over there. Or else I shouldn’t have killed it in the first place.”
Mowbray was silent for a moment, unsure what to say. Finally he said, “Well, I guess I just haven’t evolved to that stage yet. I have to admit I still get a kick out of fishing, whether I eat what I catch or not. I usually eat them but that’s not the most important part of it to me. But then I don’t go out every other day like yourself. A couple times a year is as much as I can manage.”
“Look at us talking,” the man said, “and here you’re not catching bass while I’m busy not catching crappie. We might as well announce that we’re fishing for whales for all the difference it makes.”
A little while later Mowbray retrieved his line and changed lures again, then lit another cigarette. The sun was almost gone. It had vanished behind the tree line and was probably close to the horizon by now. The air was definitely growing cooler. Another hour or so would be the extent of his fishing for the day. Then it would be time to head back to the motel and some cocktails and a steak and baked potato at the restaurant down the road. And then an evening of bourbon and water in front of the motel room’s television set, lying on the bed with his feet up and the glass at his elbow and a cigarette burning in the ashtray.
The whole picture was so attractive that he was almost willing to skip the last hour’s fishing. But the pleasure of the first sip of the first martini would lose nothing for being deferred an hour, and the pleasure of the big man’s company was worth another hour of his time.
And then, a little while later, the big man said, “I have an unusual question to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“Have you ever killed a man?”
It was an unusual question, and Mowbray took a few extra seconds to think it over. “Well,” he said at length, “I guess I have. The odds are pretty good that I have.”
“You killed someone without knowing it?”
“That must have sounded odd. You see, I was in the artillery in Korea. Heavy weapons. We never saw what we were shooting at and never knew just what our shells were doing. I was in action for better than a year, stuffing shells down the throat of one big mother of a gun, and I’d hate to think that in all that time we never hit what we aimed at. So I must have killed men, but I don’t suppose that’s what you’re driving at.”
“I mean up close. And not in the service, that’s a different proposition entirely.”
“Never.”
“I was in the service myself. An earlier war than yours, and I was on a supply ship and never heard a shot fired in anger. But about four years ago I killed a man.” His hand dropped briefly to the sheath knife at his belt. “With this.”
Mowbray didn’t know what to say. He busied himself taking up the slack in his line and waited for the man to continue.
“I was fishing,” the big man said. “All by myself, which is my usual custom. Saltwater though, not fresh like this. I was over in North Carolina on the Outer Banks. Know the place?” Mowbray shook his head. “A chain of barrier islands a good distance out from the mainland. Very remote. Damn fine fishing and not much else. A lot of people fish off the piers or go out on boats, but I was surfcasting. You can do about as well that way as often as not, and that way I figured to build a fire right there on the beach and cook my catch and eat it on the spot. I’d gathered up the driftwood and laid the fire before I wet a line, same as I did today. That’s my usual custom. I had done the same thing the day before and I caught myself half a dozen Norfolk spot in no time at all, almost before I could properly say I’d been out fishing. But this particular day I didn’t have any luck at all in three hours, which shows that saltwater fish are as unpredictable as the freshwater kind. You done much saltwater fishing?”
“Hardly any.”
“I enjoy it about as much as freshwater, and I enjoyed that day on the Banks even without getting a nibble. The sun was warm and there was a light breeze blowing off the ocean and you couldn’t have asked for a better day. The next best thing to fishing and catching fish is fishing and not catching ’em, which is a thought we can both console ourselves with after today’s run of luck.”
“I’ll have to remember that one.”
“Well, I was having a good enough time even if it looked as though I’d wind up buying my dinner, and then I sensed a fellow coming up behind me. He must have come over the dunes because he was never in my field of vision. I knew he was there—just an instinct, I suppose—and I sent my eyes as far around as they’d go without moving my head, and he wasn’t in sight.” The big man paused, sighed. “You know,” he said, “if the offer still holds, I believe I’ll have one of those cigarettes of yours after all.”
“You’re welcome to one,” Mowbray said, “but I hate to start you off on the habit again. Are you sure you want one?”
The wide grin came again. “I quit smoking about the same time I quit work. I may have had a dozen cigarettes since then, spaced over the ten-year span. Not enough to call a habit.”
“Then I can’t feel guilty ab
out it.” Mowbray shook the pack until a cigarette popped up, then extended it to his companion. After the man helped himself Mowbray took one as well, and lit them both with his lighter.
“Nothing like an interval of a year or so between cigarettes to improve their taste,” the big man said. He inhaled a lungful of smoke, pursed his lips to expel it in a stream. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “I really want to tell you this story if you don’t mind hearing it. It’s one I don’t tell often, but I feel a need to get it out from time to time. It may not leave you thinking very highly of me but we’re strangers, never saw each other before and as likely will never see each other again. Do you mind listening?”
Mowbray was frankly fascinated and admitted as much.
“Well, there I was knowing I had someone standing behind me. And certain he was up to no good, because no one comes up behind you quiet like that and stands there out of sight with the intention of doing you a favor. I was holding onto my rod, and before I turned around I propped it in the sand butt end down, the way people will do when they’re fishing on a beach. Then I waited a minute, and then I turned around as if not expecting to find anyone there, and there he was, of course.
“He was a young fellow, probably no more than twenty-five. But he wasn’t a hippie. No beard, and his hair was no longer than yours or mine. It did look greasy, though, and he didn’t look too clean in general. Wore a light blue T-shirt and a pair of white duck pants. Funny how I remember what he wore but I can see him clear as day in my mind. Thin lips, sort of a wedge-shaped head, eyes that didn’t line up quite right with each other, as though they had minds of their own. Some active pimples and the scars of old ones. He wasn’t a prize.
“He had a gun in his hand. What you’d call a belly gun, a little .32-caliber Smith & Wesson with a two-inch barrel. Not good for a single damned thing but killing men at close range, which I’d say is all he ever wanted it for. Of course I didn’t know the maker or caliber at the time. I’m not much for guns myself.
“He must have been standing less than two yards away from me. I wouldn’t say it took too much instinct to have known he was there, not as close as he was.”