rest of the day to himself. And, as was his way, he fell upon his camcorder.
It wasn’t until he did so that he had a chance to really mull over the previous night’s doings, which he’d reflected on from time to time throughout his chores. His general reaction was more awe over a character like Sid Bifulco than concern over the manslaughter cover-up.
Mechanically, Bob fumbled with the clutter of tapes, putting them back in their respective boxes. He recalled how well the whole evening had come out on tape, including all that stuff by the headlights with all that radiator steam. Especially since at the time he hadn’t been aware the thing was taping. Those blank SUPER*PROCAM tapes he’d gotten at Wal-Mart held up well in low light. He’d watched the whole thing when he’d reached home the night before and had only fallen asleep sometime during Sid’s “getting away with murder” speech.
Holding the last empty SUPER*PROCAM tape box in one hand and the last boxless tape,
The Elvis Conspiracy
, in the other, Bob suddenly realized something was amiss.
It took another fifteen minutes or so for him to realize the possible ramifications.
“Just walk him around the boat! Like a dog on a short leash!” Net poised for action, Russ jockeyed behind Sid.
“If this thing’s a dog, it’s a Doberman, Smonig—whoa!” Rod doubling, Sid lurched forward to keep the line from breaking.
“He’s hiding under the boat. Just let him stay there a second. Keep the pressure on!”
“You said to let him sit there! So I’m lettin’ him sit there!”
“O.K., sorry, just making sure you don’t give any slack line.” Russ backed off and took a deep breath. “When he comes out take him for another walk around the boat, then we’ll see if we can bring him up for the net. Now, Sid, we don’t want to net him at the front of the boat. There’s not room for both of us there. And in back, there’s a chance we’ll foul the line in the propeller. Just pick a side, and you tell me when he’s ready, O.K.?”
“How the hell will I know when he’s ready? You think maybe I should ask the Doberman to roll over an’ play dead? Oh crap, here he goes—here he goes….” The tip of the rod made two deep dips. The line buzzed off the reel. Russ stepped forward.
“I think this is it—his last run to the deep water. Reel up. You’ll feel his head turn as he starts to come up.”
“Hey—here he comes!”
“It’s O.K.”
“Here he comes….”
“Steady now, steady…”
“Ooh, there he is! Nab him, Smonig!”
“Not yet. Wait till he turns on his side. He may have one bolt left—a short one—be ready.”
“Now, Smonig!”
“Wait—there he goes!”
“Whoa!”
More line buzzed off the reel. A tail splashed river water in their faces.
“O.K., Sid, bring him back, fast and headfirst and into the net.” Russ plunged the green mesh hoop into the river.
“He’s comin’!”
“Got him.” Russ heaved the net aboard and stumbled backward—the boat tipped—Sid took an abrupt step backward and the seat cut his calves out from under him.
Man overboard.
Man down rapids.
Before he even clambered aboard, Sid was posing the usual question.
“How big?” He was dog-paddling smack in the middle of Hellbender Eddy like he spent every afternoon splashing about in the river. Well, truth be told, he had.
“Big. Maybe twenty-five. Maybe more.” Russ held out a hand and Sid waved it off, draping one arm, then the other, then a leg over the gunnel. Sid went splat on the boat’s wet carpet.
“Twenty-five pounds! Shit, that’s gotta be some kinda record!” He ran his hands over his wet hair and pulled a grin up one side of his face.
“You may be right. On six-pound test line, I’d say you may have a line-test record for the state of Pennsylvania.” Russ produced a towel and a flask of whisky from a compartment under his seat. It wasn’t the first time a sport had taken
It wasn’t until he did so that he had a chance to really mull over the previous night’s doings, which he’d reflected on from time to time throughout his chores. His general reaction was more awe over a character like Sid Bifulco than concern over the manslaughter cover-up.
Mechanically, Bob fumbled with the clutter of tapes, putting them back in their respective boxes. He recalled how well the whole evening had come out on tape, including all that stuff by the headlights with all that radiator steam. Especially since at the time he hadn’t been aware the thing was taping. Those blank SUPER*PROCAM tapes he’d gotten at Wal-Mart held up well in low light. He’d watched the whole thing when he’d reached home the night before and had only fallen asleep sometime during Sid’s “getting away with murder” speech.
Holding the last empty SUPER*PROCAM tape box in one hand and the last boxless tape,
The Elvis Conspiracy
, in the other, Bob suddenly realized something was amiss.
It took another fifteen minutes or so for him to realize the possible ramifications.
“Just walk him around the boat! Like a dog on a short leash!” Net poised for action, Russ jockeyed behind Sid.
“If this thing’s a dog, it’s a Doberman, Smonig—whoa!” Rod doubling, Sid lurched forward to keep the line from breaking.
“He’s hiding under the boat. Just let him stay there a second. Keep the pressure on!”
“You said to let him sit there! So I’m lettin’ him sit there!”
“O.K., sorry, just making sure you don’t give any slack line.” Russ backed off and took a deep breath. “When he comes out take him for another walk around the boat, then we’ll see if we can bring him up for the net. Now, Sid, we don’t want to net him at the front of the boat. There’s not room for both of us there. And in back, there’s a chance we’ll foul the line in the propeller. Just pick a side, and you tell me when he’s ready, O.K.?”
“How the hell will I know when he’s ready? You think maybe I should ask the Doberman to roll over an’ play dead? Oh crap, here he goes—here he goes….” The tip of the rod made two deep dips. The line buzzed off the reel. Russ stepped forward.
“I think this is it—his last run to the deep water. Reel up. You’ll feel his head turn as he starts to come up.”
“Hey—here he comes!”
“It’s O.K.”
“Here he comes….”
“Steady now, steady…”
“Ooh, there he is! Nab him, Smonig!”
“Not yet. Wait till he turns on his side. He may have one bolt left—a short one—be ready.”
“Now, Smonig!”
“Wait—there he goes!”
“Whoa!”
More line buzzed off the reel. A tail splashed river water in their faces.
“O.K., Sid, bring him back, fast and headfirst and into the net.” Russ plunged the green mesh hoop into the river.
“He’s comin’!”
“Got him.” Russ heaved the net aboard and stumbled backward—the boat tipped—Sid took an abrupt step backward and the seat cut his calves out from under him.
Man overboard.
Man down rapids.
Before he even clambered aboard, Sid was posing the usual question.
“How big?” He was dog-paddling smack in the middle of Hellbender Eddy like he spent every afternoon splashing about in the river. Well, truth be told, he had.
“Big. Maybe twenty-five. Maybe more.” Russ held out a hand and Sid waved it off, draping one arm, then the other, then a leg over the gunnel. Sid went splat on the boat’s wet carpet.
“Twenty-five pounds! Shit, that’s gotta be some kinda record!” He ran his hands over his wet hair and pulled a grin up one side of his face.
“You may be right. On six-pound test line, I’d say you may have a line-test record for the state of Pennsylvania.” Russ produced a towel and a flask of whisky from a compartment under his seat. It wasn’t the first time a sport had taken
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