Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

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.”