it.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Lew, pulling at her straps as she headed toward the path. “Well, enjoy the evening.” Beer belly moved off to let her by.
“How long
you
been livin’ in Loon Lake?” he said as Osborne walked past.
Osborne resisted the impulse to pretend he hadn’t heard the question. He wanted out of there as badly as Lew, but once courteous, always courteous.
“Little over thirty years.”
“Yeah? I’ll bet you know a friend of mine.” Beer belly rocked back on his heels. “Dickie Plyer—ring a bell?”
Osborne saw Lew stop and turn slightly.
“Oh, sure, I knew his father. I’m retired from a dental practice in Loon Lake and Dickie’s father and I had some patients in common. I remember Dickie growing up. Haven’t seen him in years. What he’s doing these days?”
Beer belly chuckled. “You mean when he’s not in the hoosegow? Last I heard, he’s into boats.” The hoosegow? Osborne wondered if that’s why bog hair was so pale.
“Boats?” said Osborne. “Well, isn’t that interesting. I ran into his older sister the other day. She’s in the custom dock business—”
“Docks, boats, you name it,” said beer belly. “They’re always into something, those two, that’s fer sure.”
Lew gave Osborne a slight nod.
“Boats, huh? So Dickie is building boats. Well, I’ll be,” said Osborne, trying his best to sound like a benign grandfather type. Then, not to seem too curious, he said, “Y’know, when you live in a little place like Loon Lake with all of three thousand people, you end up pretty familiar with the comings and goings of folks. His sister told me she’s living up in Presque Isle. I wonder if Dickie isn’t up there, too.”
His speculation was met with silence. Bog hair watched his friend. Beer belly shrugged. “Dunno, just heard he’s into boats.”
As if to change the subject, bog hair spoke up. “I know someone in Loon Lake—ever hear of Ray Pradt?”
“My neighbor,” said Osborne without thinking. Then he kicked himself, hoping he hadn’t just made a horrible mistake.
“Oh yeah?” The man set down his six-pack and spinning rod and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “I owe Ray. Now you talk about a good man…. ”
“He has his moments,” said Lew. “But I’ll tell you, when it comes to the hoosegow, Ray Pradt’s seen every one in a four-county region.” She watched beer belly kneel to open his tackle box, then walked back to look over his shoulder. “You might try that bass popper”—she pointed—”the Frenzy. These big trout go for flash and I’ve had luck with a Frenzy myself.” Beer belly picked up the lure.
“I mean it—that Ray’s a good man,” continued bog hair. “I was up ice fishing on Trout Lake couple years ago and my ATV went out on me. I was about froze to death trying to get it started, when Ray pulled up in that old truck of his. Almost ran me down! Does he still have that big walleye leaping off the hood?”
Osborne laughed. “That’s our Ray, door’s been jammed closed on the driver’s side so he has to crawl in the window of the damn truck—but he’s got himself an expensive, custom-designed hood ornament.”
“He gave me a ride into town. My feet were so cold, he had me wear his Sorel boots. Made me take ‘em with me. You know how much those things cost? You say ‘hi’ from Bert Kriesel, will ya?” Smiling, bog hair stepped forward to shake hands.
“Will do. Paul Osborne.” He took the man’s hand. As if bad hair, bad shoes, and baggy pants weren’t enough, Osborne couldn’t help but note that the guy’s upper jaw sported two of the longest canines he’d ever seen. Too bad some dentist somewhere hadn’t offered to file ‘em down—would take only a few minutes and would make the poor guy look a hell of a lot less like a carnivore.
Beer belly jumped to his feet and walked down to thrust a hand at Osborne. “Harold Jackobowski, pleased to meet you both.” He turned to Lew,
“Oh, yeah?” said Lew, pulling at her straps as she headed toward the path. “Well, enjoy the evening.” Beer belly moved off to let her by.
“How long
you
been livin’ in Loon Lake?” he said as Osborne walked past.
Osborne resisted the impulse to pretend he hadn’t heard the question. He wanted out of there as badly as Lew, but once courteous, always courteous.
“Little over thirty years.”
“Yeah? I’ll bet you know a friend of mine.” Beer belly rocked back on his heels. “Dickie Plyer—ring a bell?”
Osborne saw Lew stop and turn slightly.
“Oh, sure, I knew his father. I’m retired from a dental practice in Loon Lake and Dickie’s father and I had some patients in common. I remember Dickie growing up. Haven’t seen him in years. What he’s doing these days?”
Beer belly chuckled. “You mean when he’s not in the hoosegow? Last I heard, he’s into boats.” The hoosegow? Osborne wondered if that’s why bog hair was so pale.
“Boats?” said Osborne. “Well, isn’t that interesting. I ran into his older sister the other day. She’s in the custom dock business—”
“Docks, boats, you name it,” said beer belly. “They’re always into something, those two, that’s fer sure.”
Lew gave Osborne a slight nod.
“Boats, huh? So Dickie is building boats. Well, I’ll be,” said Osborne, trying his best to sound like a benign grandfather type. Then, not to seem too curious, he said, “Y’know, when you live in a little place like Loon Lake with all of three thousand people, you end up pretty familiar with the comings and goings of folks. His sister told me she’s living up in Presque Isle. I wonder if Dickie isn’t up there, too.”
His speculation was met with silence. Bog hair watched his friend. Beer belly shrugged. “Dunno, just heard he’s into boats.”
As if to change the subject, bog hair spoke up. “I know someone in Loon Lake—ever hear of Ray Pradt?”
“My neighbor,” said Osborne without thinking. Then he kicked himself, hoping he hadn’t just made a horrible mistake.
“Oh yeah?” The man set down his six-pack and spinning rod and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “I owe Ray. Now you talk about a good man…. ”
“He has his moments,” said Lew. “But I’ll tell you, when it comes to the hoosegow, Ray Pradt’s seen every one in a four-county region.” She watched beer belly kneel to open his tackle box, then walked back to look over his shoulder. “You might try that bass popper”—she pointed—”the Frenzy. These big trout go for flash and I’ve had luck with a Frenzy myself.” Beer belly picked up the lure.
“I mean it—that Ray’s a good man,” continued bog hair. “I was up ice fishing on Trout Lake couple years ago and my ATV went out on me. I was about froze to death trying to get it started, when Ray pulled up in that old truck of his. Almost ran me down! Does he still have that big walleye leaping off the hood?”
Osborne laughed. “That’s our Ray, door’s been jammed closed on the driver’s side so he has to crawl in the window of the damn truck—but he’s got himself an expensive, custom-designed hood ornament.”
“He gave me a ride into town. My feet were so cold, he had me wear his Sorel boots. Made me take ‘em with me. You know how much those things cost? You say ‘hi’ from Bert Kriesel, will ya?” Smiling, bog hair stepped forward to shake hands.
“Will do. Paul Osborne.” He took the man’s hand. As if bad hair, bad shoes, and baggy pants weren’t enough, Osborne couldn’t help but note that the guy’s upper jaw sported two of the longest canines he’d ever seen. Too bad some dentist somewhere hadn’t offered to file ‘em down—would take only a few minutes and would make the poor guy look a hell of a lot less like a carnivore.
Beer belly jumped to his feet and walked down to thrust a hand at Osborne. “Harold Jackobowski, pleased to meet you both.” He turned to Lew,
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