it?”
“You just hang on a minute, okay? We got to get it off the boat.”
Billy-Jay grabbed hold of Mikey’s T-shirt, as if not wanting him to leave. Mikey felt like tossing him up on his shoulders and carrying him on board. Sometimes he did that. Bill did, too. But there was still work to be done.
Besides, Bill had something planned that Mikey didn’t want to miss.
Cal and Ernie were out in the stern cockpit gazing up at the crowd massing on the pier. They looked like completely different men now, both standing taller. Alison stayed in the cabin, her arms folded, the sketchbook, pencil pouch, and paperback book tucked under them.
Mikey jumped back down onto the Crystal-C.
He took up the stern line and snugged the boat up against the bumpers. Ernie, then Cal, climbed off the boat.
“Ali?” Cal said, looking back.
“In a minute,” she said.
Cal studied her. He pursed his lips, then raised his eyebrows in resignation. “Well, don’t take too long, honey. We’re gonna take some photos and I want you in them, all right?”
Alison shrugged.
Cal lingered a moment longer, then turned to follow Ernie over to the fish scale.
Mikey and Bill hauled the mahimahi out of the fish box. A hush fell over the crowd. Bill had hold of the tail. Mikey gripped it by its gills, and together they hefted it up onto the pier. Bill grimaced, and Mikey wondered if it was because of the wound, or if he was just now starting to add up all the problems this particular fish could bring to the Crystal-C.
On the pier Bill’s friend Jimmy picked up the mahimahi’s tail. He threw a short length of rope around it, looped it over the scale hook, and pulleyed the fish up off the concrete, the scale chain clinking and rattling.
Bill tossed the ono up onto the pier. It slid dead-eyed to a stop near the fish scale. No one even glanced at it.
The arm of the scale wagged forward and back, forward and back. It jiggled and slowed and stopped.
“Ho!” Jimmy said, his white teeth lined in gold. “Ninety-one pounds and six ounces. You da man, Billy Monks. You broke the record. You caught Bigfoot.”
The crowd erupted in applause.
Bill got off the boat. He took his T-shirt out of his back pocket and pulled it over his head.
“Who’s the lucky angler?” Jimmy shouted.
“That’d be me,” Ernie called, waving a hand. He pushed closer. The noisy crowd made way, clapping.
Mikey looked down and studied the floorboards. A trail of watery blood ran from the fish box to the gunnel. One of Alison’s white shoes had specks of red on it.
“Well, hang on, then,” Jimmy said. “I got an official IGFA application form in the truck. We can fill it in now.” He whistled, adding, “Man, I gotta call a reporter.”
Flash cameras went off as people surged in around the hanging fish.
Cal and Ernie flanked the mahimahi, grinning and waving, bloated as puffer fish.
Come on, Bill. Say something. Do something.
He’s waiting for the right moment, Mikey thought. Maybe he’s waiting for the reporter, to say it then, say it’s a great fish, probably the greatest mahimahi ever caught, but too bad it’s not official because . . .
Yeah. He’ll do it like that.
Mikey wiped his clammy palms on his T-shirt. His heart thumped in his ears.
“Give me a hand up?” Alison said.
Mikey jumped. “Oh . . . sure.” He’d almost forgotten she was there. “Sorry.”
Mikey grabbed the stern line and pulled the boat closer. He took her hand. She stepped up onto the gunnel, then the pier. His spirits sank even lower when she let go and looked back down on him. It felt as if something were slipping away. He didn’t know what. Something like a friend, leaving for good.
Alison smiled. “Coming?”
Mikey shook his head. “I don’t want any part . . . I don’t like to have my picture taken.”
“Come on, in this crowd they’ll never find us.”
Mikey hesitated, then dropped the stern line and jumped up onto the pier.
The photographer’s rattletrap
“You just hang on a minute, okay? We got to get it off the boat.”
Billy-Jay grabbed hold of Mikey’s T-shirt, as if not wanting him to leave. Mikey felt like tossing him up on his shoulders and carrying him on board. Sometimes he did that. Bill did, too. But there was still work to be done.
Besides, Bill had something planned that Mikey didn’t want to miss.
Cal and Ernie were out in the stern cockpit gazing up at the crowd massing on the pier. They looked like completely different men now, both standing taller. Alison stayed in the cabin, her arms folded, the sketchbook, pencil pouch, and paperback book tucked under them.
Mikey jumped back down onto the Crystal-C.
He took up the stern line and snugged the boat up against the bumpers. Ernie, then Cal, climbed off the boat.
“Ali?” Cal said, looking back.
“In a minute,” she said.
Cal studied her. He pursed his lips, then raised his eyebrows in resignation. “Well, don’t take too long, honey. We’re gonna take some photos and I want you in them, all right?”
Alison shrugged.
Cal lingered a moment longer, then turned to follow Ernie over to the fish scale.
Mikey and Bill hauled the mahimahi out of the fish box. A hush fell over the crowd. Bill had hold of the tail. Mikey gripped it by its gills, and together they hefted it up onto the pier. Bill grimaced, and Mikey wondered if it was because of the wound, or if he was just now starting to add up all the problems this particular fish could bring to the Crystal-C.
On the pier Bill’s friend Jimmy picked up the mahimahi’s tail. He threw a short length of rope around it, looped it over the scale hook, and pulleyed the fish up off the concrete, the scale chain clinking and rattling.
Bill tossed the ono up onto the pier. It slid dead-eyed to a stop near the fish scale. No one even glanced at it.
The arm of the scale wagged forward and back, forward and back. It jiggled and slowed and stopped.
“Ho!” Jimmy said, his white teeth lined in gold. “Ninety-one pounds and six ounces. You da man, Billy Monks. You broke the record. You caught Bigfoot.”
The crowd erupted in applause.
Bill got off the boat. He took his T-shirt out of his back pocket and pulled it over his head.
“Who’s the lucky angler?” Jimmy shouted.
“That’d be me,” Ernie called, waving a hand. He pushed closer. The noisy crowd made way, clapping.
Mikey looked down and studied the floorboards. A trail of watery blood ran from the fish box to the gunnel. One of Alison’s white shoes had specks of red on it.
“Well, hang on, then,” Jimmy said. “I got an official IGFA application form in the truck. We can fill it in now.” He whistled, adding, “Man, I gotta call a reporter.”
Flash cameras went off as people surged in around the hanging fish.
Cal and Ernie flanked the mahimahi, grinning and waving, bloated as puffer fish.
Come on, Bill. Say something. Do something.
He’s waiting for the right moment, Mikey thought. Maybe he’s waiting for the reporter, to say it then, say it’s a great fish, probably the greatest mahimahi ever caught, but too bad it’s not official because . . .
Yeah. He’ll do it like that.
Mikey wiped his clammy palms on his T-shirt. His heart thumped in his ears.
“Give me a hand up?” Alison said.
Mikey jumped. “Oh . . . sure.” He’d almost forgotten she was there. “Sorry.”
Mikey grabbed the stern line and pulled the boat closer. He took her hand. She stepped up onto the gunnel, then the pier. His spirits sank even lower when she let go and looked back down on him. It felt as if something were slipping away. He didn’t know what. Something like a friend, leaving for good.
Alison smiled. “Coming?”
Mikey shook his head. “I don’t want any part . . . I don’t like to have my picture taken.”
“Come on, in this crowd they’ll never find us.”
Mikey hesitated, then dropped the stern line and jumped up onto the pier.
The photographer’s rattletrap
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