The Montauk Monster by Hunter Shea Page A

always got a kick out of that. It was so much more entertaining than the news or sports or another gasbag spouting his political vitriol. But, he didn’t want to spook any fish, so he sat in silence, or at least the degree of silence you could get on the water as it lapped against the hull of the boat.
    Dan looked in the white bucket, saw the one flat-bellied fluke he’d snagged minutes after dropping his line. It had stopped flopping.
    “Did you warn your buddies after I hooked you?” he said to the still fish.
    It had been over an hour without so much as a nibble. This time of night was usually prime. It would be a couple of hours before the party fishing boats hit the water. As far as Dan could tell, it was just him and whatever swam under the dark waters of the sound.
    He nearly dropped his rod when the cell phone in his vest pocket rang. A picture of a smiling Jamie popped up on the display. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know she wasn’t smiling now. Dan ran his thumb over the screen, deciding whether to slide it over the answer or ignore icon.
    Before he could do either, his rod jerked in his hands. He dropped the phone to prevent the rod from being dragged overboard.
    “Dan, where the hell are you?”
    Slowly turning the reel, he glanced at the phone on the seat next to him. He must have hit answer . He hadn’t selected speakerphone , so Jamie’s voice was muffled and hard to hear.
    “Hold on,” he said, giving the rod an upward tug.
    He had a good one. As the fish fought back, he thought, This might feed us for three days.
    “Are you on the boat? Jesus, Dan, do you know how dangerous it is to go out when you’ve been drinking? Have you lost your mind?”
    There were many things he wanted to say. Instead, he ground his teeth and pulled in a couple more feet of line. Jamie would have to wait. He came out here to get away from her. Why the hell did she have to nag him from ship to shore?
    His forearms strained against the tug of the fish. This couldn’t be a flounder. They didn’t put up a fight like this. Had to be a bluefish. Some of those bastards were strong and ornery.
    “Dan. Answer me, Dan.”
    The reel clicked, slow and steady. Dan planted his foot against the side of the boat. He dipped the rod, gave the line some slack, which the fish greedily took up. He pulled, feeling the full weight of it.
    “Oh, I’ve got you now,” he hissed.
    Jamie continued with her diatribe. Dan didn’t pay her any mind. He just kept turning the reel, tic-tic-tic , despite the considerable weight at the other end. He shifted in his seat, nudging the phone off its perch and flipping it into the bucket on top of the fluke. Now that made him smile.
    “Come on, you know you’re beat,” he grunted.
    The line jerked, zigging and zagging from left to right.
    Must be close to the surface now.
    The water rippled. Dan brought in another foot of line. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face. Adrenaline flooded the hangover from his system. This could be one of the biggest catches he ever made in the sound.
    “Dan, are you listening to me?” Jamie’s voice echoed in the bucket.
    “That’s right, you bitch!” Dan shouted, to the fish, not his wife, though he knew she’d never believe that.
    With one last tug, the fish, a bluefish, its cold flesh sparkling in the moonlight, broke the surface in a spray of boiling foam. Dan stood, maneuvering so he could bring it over the side. It hung in midair, its mouth impaled by the hook, struggling to break free.
    “You gotta be at least twenty pounds. Wait’ll I show Gus and Ernie.”
    The fish was going to wreak havoc on his boat. He might have to give it a whack with the lead-filled baton he kept on board. Keeping the dangling fish within the confines of the boat, he bent his knees and reached down for the baton. He’d bought it at a garage sale of a cop’s widow. It had seen its share of fish heads ever since. He often wondered what other kinds of heads it had