Sarah Weinman - Sex, Thugs, Roll, and Rock & Roll

That’s the problem with these rich guys: they think they are above the law.

No, I take it back. The problem with these rich guys is that, by and large, they are above the law. He’s absolutely right about the odds. If it comes down to a legal pissing match between me and the Client, I’ll wind up in jail and he’ll come through unscathed. If anything, the rumors of dirty dealings will probably bolster his reputation as a hardball negotiator. I know it, and he knows I know it.

The blinds on the front window glow briefly as headlights rake across them. A moment later, through the phone, I hear the sound of a pulled emergency brake. The purring of the car’s engine, which had served as a backdrop to our conversation, ceases.

“So,” he says lazily, “how about that refund?”

I consider my options one last time, but he has me over a barrel. I have no choice but to comply with his demand.

“All right,” I growl, “we’ll do it your way.”

“Excellent.” He speaks briskly, closing the deal. I hear him open the car door; when it slams shut a moment later, the sound comes to me in stereo: a sharp report from the receiver, a distant bang from the parking lot outside. “I knew you’d come around.”

A crescendo of footsteps, expensive shoes on asphalt, ceases outside my door.

“Knock, knock,” says the Client into his phone before ending the call.

I cradle the receiver and yell, “It’s open.”

The Client, clad in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, lets himself in. He takes two steps into the room, pivots, and closes the door. He is grinning when he turns back around, his face awash with triumph.

We lock eyes for a second. Then he breaks contact, glancing around the room in search of the duffel bag. “Is the money still here?”

“I think I’ve made my policy clear,” I say, rising to my feet. “No refunds.”

He continues to smirk, but his eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “I thought we were doing it my way.”

“Oh, we are,” I reassure him. “I believe your exact words were ‘Shoot the next person you see.’”

His smile falters as I draw the gun.

“Give the customer what he wants,” I say. “That’s my motto.”

Stripers swam up the Hudson earlier than usual that spring, and right away the fishermen were talking. I was working near Woodstock, hauling shale and aggregate for my cousin, and every day the other drivers would bring back stories about who caught what. Describing the good fishing spots on the river in detail, or lying about them-to keep the good fishing to themselves. The truth depended on who you were talking to. Baseball scores came first, then the fish stories. As far north on the river as the Athens lighthouse and as far south as you felt like sailing, although most of the guys didn’t go below Poughkeepsie. My cousin’s materials outfit was acting as a subcontractor on a state job, so we weren’t hauling weekends. Saturday and Sunday were good days to be on the river. I was simply glad to be out in the world and earning money at the time. I got involved with the wrong side of things up in Canada-moving meth on the northwestern border of Maine-and had just come back after four years away. It was my first stretch and I wanted to put it behind me. Listening to the guys talk about fishing made me want to get out there and put a line in the water. They were catching some big ones.

I was living on an old run-down farm-thirty acres-between Saugerties and Catskill that had been in my family for years. My great-grandfather’s brother George had owned the property. Nobody remembered what George had done for work, but he must have enjoyed his privacy. The farm was set way back off the road-the dusty dirt trail that led to it was close to a mile and the mailbox on the road never had a name on it-with the two-story main house on a slight hill. The main house was white and blue, with a wraparound wood porch overlooking the pond. A couple large sturdy red barns and two buildings about ready to fall over. The property had three little gray cabins on it, facing the mountains. Someone, years ago, put the cabins up and tried to get people to stay there. It hadn’t worked. The cabins each were equipped with a sink and a stand-up shower in addition to a flush toilet, which was probably illegal given the size of the property. The cabins had black phones in them, hanging on the wall, and when you picked them up, they rang to a single phone in the main house. For the guests, I imagined. There was still a gas pump and buried tank next to the one barn. I suppose if I went through the trouble of having someone come out and inspect the pump, I could have had my own gas on-site. It was an empire of dirt, but it was paradise to me.

I pulled the truck up the road that Friday and my father’s silver truck was parked in front of the house. He was sitting on the front porch in a lawn chair with his ball cap on, drinking a soda. He’d retired two years before from a local lumberyard.

“Hey there,” he said.

“How’s it going?” I said. “How’s retired life?”

“Can’t complain,” he said. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“You’re going fishing with me and Rich, okay? Be the best thing for you.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

He was getting in his truck. “See you at six a.m. Catskill dock.”

“See you tomorrow. Say hello to Mom for me.”

“Will do,” he said. “She’s going to visit her aunt.”

“Wish her a good flight,” I said.

He waved as he pulled away from the house.

Rich had a new boat he kept at the Catskill dock. It wasn’t brand-new, but it was new to him and he kept it shining. He was retired too, from a state conservation job. He made extra money running fishing charters out of Catskill and did pretty well for himself. Rich knew where the fish were. The other guy in Catskill who knew where the fish were was Tom, the man who owned the bait shop. Tom was a big, tall guy, an old basketball player. He had owned the bait shop in Catskill for years, and it was the best bait and tackle shop on the Hudson. All the fishermen along the river knew to stop at Tom’s before they went fishing, to get the latest report on conditions and fish. And to buy bait and everything else-reels, rods, the latest lures. Maps and charts. Tom could wind your reel with new line while you stood there and have you back out on the river in half an hour. Listening to Tom could keep you from getting shut out. No fish was no fun. When I passed Tom’s on my way to the dock, I saw my father’s truck in the parking lot. He pulled into the dock parking lot behind me and we headed out onto the Hudson River with Rich driving the boat.

“Tom says go north,” my father said to Rich.

“We’ll try it,” Rich said.

My father turned to me. “I asked you here for a reason,” he said.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Do you remember Bob?” he said. “Bob Threepersons?”

“Sure,” I said. “Still lives in Florida?” Bob had been in the army with my father and Rich. They hadn’t been in the same units, but met back here in the States when their tour of duty ended. Bob had been a tunnel rat. He was originally from Idaho. His whole family lived on a reservation out there. He still had a sister who lived on the reservation. He came and visited, almost twenty years ago. He stayed in one of the little cabins on the old farm. I remember Bob kept an owl for a pet.

My father nodded. “He’s having a heck of a time.”

“What type of problems?” I said. We were moving north through the water. The great Rip Van Winkle Bridge was overhead, with its huge stone pilings diving deep into the water around us. Rich stayed in a channel and we passed underneath. Rogers Island was on our right and the train tracks ran along the bank.