Copyright, 2023 by Wes Peterson
That morning, If you'd looked downstream from the Watt Avenue bridge during drive-time, you might've seen the old man standing in the river. If you looked more closely and watched for a moment, you might have appreciated the precision of his casts. But the odds are you wouldn't have. At that time of day, you were one of the hundreds of commuters glutting the bridge and watching bumpers. Most people don't take notice of a perfectly executed cast anyway.
And that's fair because the old man wouldn't have noticed you either. He was as much in his world as you, the commuter is in yours. This was his favorite hour, and he savored each cast, bathed in his thoughts and reveling in the sensations that surrounded him.
The sun, partially blocked by small, scattered clouds, was making its way over the trees behind him. The day was brightening, and he loved how the growing light changed the river's face. Below the gentle riffle, caddisflies were fluttering over the large pool, as the old angler knew they would be.
The breeze coming up the river was warming slightly, but he was aware of more than just the overall effect of rising temperature. He enjoyed the distinct scents of the very light wind, and each whiff crossed his nose at a slightly different temperature.
The coolest puffs hit his face with a certain sharpness and had a distinctly damp smell like they'd spent the night dancing over the riffles and resting along the lowest, wettest parts of the banks. They'd dominated the breezes when he'd arrived an hour ago but were now joined by a number of warmer, woodsy-smelling drafts. These, he imagined, had been dozing among the brush and trees that lined the banks and were now animated by the warming air.
The warmest touches were laced with the smell of autos and made him dimly aware of the nearby bridge. They told him that his morning on the river was drawing to an end, but they didn't hurry him. He intended to chew each moment until he'd extracted all its flavor.
If you were on that bridge, you wouldn't think its din would allow for such reflection, but standing in the stream, with its splashing, bubbling water mere feet from his ears, the fisherman barely noticed the traffic.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
J-Hall was driving the clean, near-new Buick while Skaz gazed out the window. He'd done more chores for Skaz lately. Just a couple of weeks ago, they'd been equals, but then K-Dog got himself iced trying to expand their operation into a rival's territory, and Skaz had moved up. So Skaz gave the orders now, and J-Hall had tasted just enough of the glory of gang membership that he'd do whatever he had to do to avoid a fall from grace and privilege.
At seventeen, J-Hall already knew what he liked; Kools, crack, bling, and bitches. Although no genius, he'd figured out that he wasn't going to get those things, not in the amounts he craved, by working at McDonald’s for chump change. Skaz was his ticket.
Skaz was bad. To get what he wanted, violence and cruelty were merely inconvenient. He enjoyed that part of his work. And he was smart.
Which is why they were driving the spotless white Buick on the Watt Avenue bridge that morning. They had a delivery to make, and Skaz had said, "Five-oh think weez all be too lazy to be up this time of day. They doan figger we'd have straight haircuts, wear business suits, an drive a clean, new car that ain't all pimped out."
Not capable of such advanced cogitation himself, J-Hall was nonetheless impressed with that kind of forward thinking.
"Smart.", he'd said to Jimmy last night, "Real smart." So Skaz was the perfect leader -- evil and smart. All J-Hall had to do was be bad, and reliable, and he figured he'd get his share.
Skaz was aware of J-Hall's aspirations and planned to use them. Unfortunately, not everyone was happy about him stepping into K-Dog's shoes. There were a few, he judged, who'd give him some trouble, and he needed somebody he could trust. Tough, a good producer, good in a fight, quick to enforce his expectations on subordinates, yet not so ambitious as to be a threat to Skaz, J-Hall was a promising candidate.
J-Hall had to be tested, though, and Skaz wanted an insurance policy on J-Hall's loyalty. That's when he spotted the fisherman. "Perfect," he thought. They'd be back this way in twenty minutes or so. "Perfect."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Payne rod was an antique. It was made of bamboo and weighed twice as much as modern graphite fly rods, but the old man loved it. When his father had left it to him, the rod had taken trout from most of the streams in the U.S. and been lovingly refurbished several times.
The old man had cared for it too. It would be worth thousands to a collector, and it was priceless to him. He marveled at the craftsmanship that could turn a simple, cheap, prolific grass like bamboo into the perfect fishing instrument. He loved the feel of the Payne flexing as his line unrolled on the back-cast and tugged on the rod from behind. The Payne allowed him to sense the exact moment to begin the forward stroke that would place his fly precisely a foot upstream from a rising fish.
Unlike modern fly rods, the Payne wasn't round. Bamboo rods are fashioned by gluing together multiple strips of painstakingly tapered bamboo to produce a six-sided shaft. They make a different sound, and to the fisherman's ear, the old Payne, slicing through the air, had a whisper that was ideally suited to the watery-smelling dashes of breeze. It belonged, it was somehow kin to the sounds and scents of the stream.
He might be old, but his mind was swift, his eyes were bright, and from years of practice, his hand was a supremely coordinated instrument.
Focused on skipping his Goddard Caddis just below the riffle, he didn't notice the Buick as it came down the access road and stopped under the bridge.
"Why you wanna pull off down here?" J-Hall asked.
"You's gonna off the geezer," Skaz said quietly. His voice betrayed no emotion and no urgency.
J-Hall fought down the instinct to read Skaz's face. A glance like that would send the wrong message. It might seem like he wanted to negotiate, or needed to hesitate. Instead of looking, he imagined Skaz's expression. It would be a stone mask, sullen, with just the hint of a smile at one side of his mouth, and a trace of sadistic anticipation in the slightly bloodshot, mildly yellowed eyes.
J-Hall knew with a sickening chill that Skaz wasn't kidding. He nodded his head slowly, struggling to maintain the appearance of complete control, while a pang ripped up from his gut to the roof of his mouth. It wasn't fear of being jammed up and incarcerated. Lots of his homies had been in stir, and, to a man, they'd made it clear that the joint hadn't affected them one damned bit.
J-Hall knew this was a test, and he was terrified that he might not pass. It wasn't the shooting he was worried about. Six months ago, he'd smoked that little turd, Jackson, for dissing his sister. No, it was messing up that J-Hall feared, not saying the right thing, not wearing the right expression, not approaching the job with exactly the right blend of menace and unconcern, not walking away with just the right swagger. He had to do it right.
His fear was compounded by the realization that he'd already lost control, that he couldn't remember the moment Skaz had laid the magazine on his lap. J-Hall had no doubt about the Glock it concealed, nor what would happen if he hesitated.
No matter. He'd pass.
Out of the corner of his eye, the angler saw them walking toward him, down the sandbar that juts out from under the bridge. As they drew opposite and stopped, he smiled and turned to greet them. But his smile wasn't returned. In J-Hall's face, the old man saw cold determination driven by fear and need. On Skaz's expressionless mask, he saw the anticipation of an utterly empowering moment.
His quick eyes took in the pistols coming out from under their jackets, and he knew that his terror was being savored as completely as he'd been savoring the morning light, the sounds, the breezes, and the feel of the old Payne.
Crack! Crack!
You wouldn’t have heard the gunshots unless you were very close. Skaz was counting on that. The babbling of the river was almost loud enough to drown out the noise, and the traffic on the bridge canceled what was left of the reports.
The old Payne darted downstream, then slowed, turned in an eddy, and the heavy butt end sank first. The reel caught on a rock, and the tip arced skyward in a jerky, spastic imitation of the old man's final, graceful cast. Silent as a tomb, the rod tipped down and went under.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
By 10:30 the coroner's wagon was gone. The sun was higher, and the air was sticky as the two cops paced the crime scene.
"C'mon, let's go. We're not going to find anything over here," Foster groused.
"It was an execution, see?" said his partner, Mead. "Two shots close to the eyes. Whoever did it was directly in front of his target."
"Nope," said Foster. "It was an execution all right, but there would've been powder burns at close range. The shooter used a scope and shot from across the river. We'll find footprints, and two fresh .22 casings over there. The rookies’ll find his rifle in the water.
"He must've been a hell of a shot, though."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Cutting school, the two kids rode their bikes down the trails along the opposite bank. Seeing the bright yellow crime scene tape, and the detectives' unmarked car, they stayed beyond the brush until well out of sight, then stopped downstream for a smoke.
"Hey. Look what I found!" Jason put the cigarette down, pulled off his shoes, and waded out to a small snag. He came back with the Payne. "Look at this old thing!"
"Cool," said Marshall. "Who ever heard of a wood fishing pole? Probably belonged to one of the bums that live along the river."
"Look at this string," said Jason. "It's fat as a clothesline. He must'a been fishin' for whales!"
They laughed. "Gonna keep it?"
"Naw. It's junk." Jason threw it back into the river, his cigarette butt behind it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The attorney much preferred the arcana of corporate contracts. But Smitty, an old friend, and fellow angler had asked him this favor a few years ago.
He paused while reading Smitty’s will. "And, to my nephew, Roger, I leave my Colt Woodsman. It's smooth as silk, has perfect balance, and is superbly accurate. You'll probably want to have it refinished because I kept it in a homemade holster behind the bib of my waders, and that wore down the bluing.
"I always intended to leave you my Payne rod, Roger, but in a jam one day, I had to drop it and grab the Colt to deal with a couple of snakes."
"That must've been a tight spot, Smitty," the lawyer looked up expectantly, hoping to hear the story.
The old man just nodded. He wasn't thinking about snakes.
He missed Dad’s Payne.