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CHAPTER 11, EXCERPT 3
This bit of news prompted Waverly to leave the fireside and walk bowlegged down to the lakeshore and the excited ladies. Frank stayed where he was, close to the fire, thinking Judy and the two guests must’ve stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalog.
Look at Judy down there in an earth-toned hunting jacket. Blue plaid flannel shirt with the tails hanging out, white turtleneck and new-looking jeans, her blonde hair tied back in a little ponytail. Frank was hoping for a look from her but so far nothing, she hadn’t even seemed to notice him. The couple, Pillsbury’s friends—the guy a buttoned up-button-down type with horn-rim glasses and the chick a decent-looking brunette of about thirty, red scarf tied around the crown of her head—were both wearing thickly woven sweaters and tan outdoor slacks that looked like they’d come off the rack this morning. They were also wearing matching green, knee-high rubber boots.
Standing close to Pills, Frank was now positive the man was the one he’d seen beating on Ray last fall. And he was getting the urge to say something to the big prick with the inbred sense of self-importance and the permanent I’m-better-than-you look. Did Pills actually believe he was man enough for Judy Bruton? Was he deluded enough to think she’d even give him a second glance if he wasn’t rich? Was he unaware she was going to take him for a ride? Seemed so. Ignorance, man. But Frank pushed back his vitriol—he was feeling strangely reticent all of a sudden—and stayed within the bounds of polite company. “You do much fishing, Mr. Pillsbury?” he said, doing a little fishing himself.
Pillsbury, in his watery monotone, said, “Please call me Rick, Frank. Mister rings a bit too formal for our current surroundings, I think. As far as fishing goes, I’ve had a little experience: Some fly fishing for cutthroat trout in Montana and Colorado, salmon on the banks of the Columbia, and bonefish in Florida, just to name a few. But this kind of thing here is something new to me. And I confess, standing so close to a beautiful body of water such as this, gives me the urge to break out a long stiff rod and do some casting.”
“I’m a long pole man myself,” Frank said, “But you have to admire the efficiency of the dip net. Just puts itself in the path of its desired object and stays there, wide open and inviting, until the prey slides in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And once in, very few ever get back out again, y’know? A very efficient use of energy, don’t you think? And the seine—like those two guys over there are using,” Frank pointed down at two young men dragging a long stretch of netting affixed to two poles along the shadowy shoreline, “is the most efficient trap of all. It takes two people to work it, but when the smelt are really running, when the little fish are overflowing with the need to procreate, the seine can really do some damage.”
Frank checked Pills for a reaction but the rich prick just took a drink from his beer bottle and stood stick-straight staring down the beach at Judy, Frank thinking it was only a matter of time before Pills called him Old Sport. They both kept their eyes trained on Judy splashing in the shallows in Moran’s too-big hip boots, saw her give Waverly a playful shove as Keith offered up the smelt net. Frank didn’t like the feeling it gave him—and fuck, was pissed just having any reaction at all—but figured Pills was a tich perturbed himself. But Pillsbury remained stoic in his dark pullover windbreaker, designer jeans and well-oiled hunting boots, the only indication of unrest his twitching jaw tendons. The man was acting as if he actually thought he was cool, some kind of stud, when in fact he came across like a grandiose—Frank couldn’t think of a more descriptive term than douchebag.
Okay, enough of that shit, Frank said to himself. Keep it together, man.
Frank and Pillsbury stood by the flickering fire watching the two women at the shoreline goofing with Waverly, the girls taking turns dragging the net through the frigid water and whooping with delight when it came out with a few fish flopping in the cone. Moran was standing awkwardly to one side voicing the occasional instruction—Moran a self-proclaimed expert on just about anything—and holding a plastic garbage bag for the captured smelt.
(To be continued)
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