Rags’ desk. Hard to miss actually because the story and the bold, all-caps headline are circled in bright red ink.
I hear Rags coming. There’s only time for a quick peek. Seems a Branchtown charter boat’s first mate was lost at sea yesterday while attempting to land a two to three-hundred pound Mako shark. Neither the man, the malfunctioning equipment —a flying gaff—or the shark were recovered during an extensive search.
“How’d you like to go fishing next weekend, Carr?”
It’s Rags, swaggering into his office. The sales manager has been all smiles, humming Sousa marches since he ran me down in his Jaguar.
“You, me, Mr. Vic and one or two of his cronies,” he says. “We’ll take the Triple-A out, have some fun.”
I stare at Rags, a little confused, not only by the juxtaposition of this lost-mate story and the fishing offer, but by the strange workings of my sales manager’s mind. Why would I want to do anything with him? My gaze moves from Rags’ happy face to the newspaper story.
“Oh, yeah. Can you believe that?” Rags says. “What a way to go, huh?”
“I don’t understand what happened,” I say.
Rags slides behind his desk-slash-breakfast counter. He puts a hand on his necktie to keep the silk out of the bagel with cream cheese he’s ready to consume. “Vic says it happens once and a while with flying gaffs—this big hook they stick in the fish to bring him on board?”
“I know what a gaff is.”
“Well, with flying gaffs Vic says you stick the hook in, then the handle part comes off and you have the fish on a thick rope. The mate’s arm must have gotten tangled, or the damn shark just caught him by surprise.”
My stomach turns sick and sour thinking about that ship’s mate. Imagine being yanked overboard and towed to your death by a fish?
Rags points his finger at me. “I get it. You see this story, then I walk in saying let’s go fishing.”
I must look pale. “Pure coincidence no doubt.”
Rags shakes his head. “Sit down, Carr, we need to talk.”
Rags pushes his poppy seed bagel to one side, then plops into his swivel chair and props his feet up. He’s got on a charcoal gray suit, white shirt, a black and gold regimental striped tie. He looks good, but the man is evil.
I sit in one of two upholstered, high-back chairs that face his modestly worn desk. He’s Mr. Vic’s fourth sales manager in seven years. I find myself staring at the barely scuffed soles of Rags’ new Florsheims.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot,” Rags says. “You’ve got that form you want me to sign, right?”
“Right here.”
I hand him Gerry’s “Third Party Authorization to Transfer Funds or Securities Between Accounts” but Rags puts it down without looking, says, “Let’s get this other thing straightened out first.”
He leans back, makes a tiny A-frame house out of his hands and fingertips. “Okay, just so you know, here’s what happened: I read the paper this morning and was curious about that story, so I circled it, took the paper to Vic, asked him about the flying gaff. When he’s done telling me, Vic asks how you and I are doing, if we’d made peace yet. I told him yes and no—I’m being honest here, Austin—and so Vic suggests we all go fishing together, have some fun.”
I stare back unconvinced. Rags and I have disliked each other from the second we were introduced. A strong, instinctively mutual distaste in the exchanged gaze. A male challenge or something. It’s a hard thing to put in words because the emotion feels so primal, as deep as our lizard-brain core.
“So, yeah, you’re right. It’s no coincidence,” Rags says. He shakes his head. Smiling. “The story and the fishing invitation are connected, but not because I’m planning to kill you with a flying gaff, okay?”
THIRTY
The grin on Rags’ face makes my teeth grind. I don’t know why he thinks this is so goddamn funny. The bastard ran me down. Could have killed me. Why
I hear Rags coming. There’s only time for a quick peek. Seems a Branchtown charter boat’s first mate was lost at sea yesterday while attempting to land a two to three-hundred pound Mako shark. Neither the man, the malfunctioning equipment —a flying gaff—or the shark were recovered during an extensive search.
“How’d you like to go fishing next weekend, Carr?”
It’s Rags, swaggering into his office. The sales manager has been all smiles, humming Sousa marches since he ran me down in his Jaguar.
“You, me, Mr. Vic and one or two of his cronies,” he says. “We’ll take the Triple-A out, have some fun.”
I stare at Rags, a little confused, not only by the juxtaposition of this lost-mate story and the fishing offer, but by the strange workings of my sales manager’s mind. Why would I want to do anything with him? My gaze moves from Rags’ happy face to the newspaper story.
“Oh, yeah. Can you believe that?” Rags says. “What a way to go, huh?”
“I don’t understand what happened,” I say.
Rags slides behind his desk-slash-breakfast counter. He puts a hand on his necktie to keep the silk out of the bagel with cream cheese he’s ready to consume. “Vic says it happens once and a while with flying gaffs—this big hook they stick in the fish to bring him on board?”
“I know what a gaff is.”
“Well, with flying gaffs Vic says you stick the hook in, then the handle part comes off and you have the fish on a thick rope. The mate’s arm must have gotten tangled, or the damn shark just caught him by surprise.”
My stomach turns sick and sour thinking about that ship’s mate. Imagine being yanked overboard and towed to your death by a fish?
Rags points his finger at me. “I get it. You see this story, then I walk in saying let’s go fishing.”
I must look pale. “Pure coincidence no doubt.”
Rags shakes his head. “Sit down, Carr, we need to talk.”
Rags pushes his poppy seed bagel to one side, then plops into his swivel chair and props his feet up. He’s got on a charcoal gray suit, white shirt, a black and gold regimental striped tie. He looks good, but the man is evil.
I sit in one of two upholstered, high-back chairs that face his modestly worn desk. He’s Mr. Vic’s fourth sales manager in seven years. I find myself staring at the barely scuffed soles of Rags’ new Florsheims.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot,” Rags says. “You’ve got that form you want me to sign, right?”
“Right here.”
I hand him Gerry’s “Third Party Authorization to Transfer Funds or Securities Between Accounts” but Rags puts it down without looking, says, “Let’s get this other thing straightened out first.”
He leans back, makes a tiny A-frame house out of his hands and fingertips. “Okay, just so you know, here’s what happened: I read the paper this morning and was curious about that story, so I circled it, took the paper to Vic, asked him about the flying gaff. When he’s done telling me, Vic asks how you and I are doing, if we’d made peace yet. I told him yes and no—I’m being honest here, Austin—and so Vic suggests we all go fishing together, have some fun.”
I stare back unconvinced. Rags and I have disliked each other from the second we were introduced. A strong, instinctively mutual distaste in the exchanged gaze. A male challenge or something. It’s a hard thing to put in words because the emotion feels so primal, as deep as our lizard-brain core.
“So, yeah, you’re right. It’s no coincidence,” Rags says. He shakes his head. Smiling. “The story and the fishing invitation are connected, but not because I’m planning to kill you with a flying gaff, okay?”
THIRTY
The grin on Rags’ face makes my teeth grind. I don’t know why he thinks this is so goddamn funny. The bastard ran me down. Could have killed me. Why
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