Gator Aide by Jessica Speart Page A

by any chance, would you?”
    The giggling stopped as Vinnie put down his fork and stared at me.
    “Yeah, I know Frank. Why? Do you know Frank?”
    “I used to hear his name around New York. It seemed a strange coincidence to come down here and find that he used to be in business with Hillard. I was just wondering if you might have worked with him also.”
    Vinnie mopped up the sauce on his plate with the last piece of garlic bread, wolfing it down in one fell swoop.
    “Ya know, youse should really stick ta dead animals. And since there ain’t none of ’em around here, if you’re finished eating, I’d say lunch is over.”
    I decided to head back to the office to report my findings to Charlie, and see if I could begin to piece together any of the ragtag ends. He was ready for me the moment I walked in the door.
    “Bronx, get in here!”
    Charlie was busy scratching furiously away at his neck, which by now was the color of rare roast beef. “Goddamn these chiggers.”
    Pushing his cap back on his head, his fingers strayed to his scalp, smoothing an unruly lock of hair that was no longer there. He stared at a photo of his former wife, mulling over what he was about to say.
    “What are you doing tonight, Bronx?”
    I froze, thinking the worst.
    “Jesus Christ, you’re damn antsy. Calm down. You ain’t nothing like my type. I just thought we’d go do some fishing.”
    “What kind of fishing do you do at night?” I didn’t think my company was something Charlie particularly hankered for all that much.
    Hickok guffawed as though the joke were on me.
    “Fishing for outlaws, of course. Something you ain’t been too successful at during your stay down here so far. You game, or you got your evening chock-full of other nocturnal activities?”
    By eight o’clock that night we were on the road in Charlie’s old pickup, headed toward the west bank of the Mississippi, with a small trailer hauling his mud boat behind. Charlie’s driving consisted of a series of near misses as he continually came close to hitting anything in his path, be it cars or animals, as his truck straddled both sides of the road. Deciding it would be best if I closed my eyes, I’d just begun to doze off when he hit a rut in the road, making my head bounce off the roof with a resounding thud. I looked over to see Charlie grinning in delight.
    “Who are we looking for anyway? Anyone in particular?”
    “Not we, Bronx. Me. You’re just along for the ride. Maybe learn a thing or two on the way. See if I’m wasting my time, or if there’s any hope of making a real agent out of you.” Charlie pulled out a Baby Ruth and proceeded to have his dinner. He threw me a Nestlé’s Crunch, and I joined him in the evening meal.
    “I’m out after the most notorious outlaw in the country. One Trenton B. Treddell. He’s a wild man, Bronx. That s.o.b. has been getting away with murder for years. But I’m gonna catch his ass. I can feel it.” Charlie was on a roll. “Trenton’s been killing the shit out of wildlife for years. The man’s a downright game hog. But when I get hold of him, and you’ll notice I say
when
, I’m gonna eat his lunch for him.”
    I’d heard about this from others who had worked with Charlie. Trenton Treddell was his Moby Dick. He’d been after the man for years. In fact, he’d been out chasing Treddell the night his wife finally left. The running joke in the Service was that someday Trenton would end up catching him. More than a few in Fish and Wildlife felt that was the only way they’d ever get rid of Charlie. A few had even suggested paying Trenton to do the deed.
    “How long have you been after this guy, Charlie?” It seemed a reasonable enough question. But then, I was dealing with Charlie Hickok. Reasonable wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.
    “Listen, Bronx, when you learn to do your job and become a real agent, then you can think about criticizing me. But until that day comes—and it seems like one hell of a