Short Money by Pete Hautman

Author:Pete Hautman [Hautman, Pete]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-0622-3
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2013-03-15T16:46:00+00:00

XVI

For his part, the lion is no seeker of quarrels. His object throughout is to save his skin. If, being unarmed, you meet six or seven lions unexpectantly, all you need to do—according to my information—is to speak to them sternly and they will slink away, while you throw a few stones at them to hurry them up. All the highest authorities recommend this.

—HUNTING BIG GAME IN THE WILDS OF AFRICA—THRILLING ADVENTURES OF THE FAMOUS ROOSEVELT EXPEDITION

THE ROOM WAS SMALLER than most third world jail cells, and far colder. Windowless; unfinished plywood walls; translucent corrugated-plastic roof. A tiny kerosene heater cranked out the Btu’s, but with the outside air temperature hovering around twelve degrees Fahrenheit, it was never quite warm enough. The floor was a solid sheet of ice, about twelve inches thick.

“Son, you got to pretend you is one,” croaked Sam O’Gara, his voice shredded after two days of kerosene fumes, cold feet, and Pall Malls. His diminutive, wiry, gaunt frame was sealed into a pair of lumpy, greasy coveralls stuffed with an assortment of undergarments. He wore a mottled corduroy cap with turned-up earflaps. Several days’ growth of white-and-gray whiskers gave his wrinkled features a silvery sheen; his button eyes penetrated a veil of blue smoke from his cigarette.

“I don’t have to pretend, Sam.” Crow had met Sam O’Gara, his natural father, for the first time at the age of eighteen. Since then, they’d had friendly if sporadic contact. Crow liked Sam. But they just didn’t have a lot in common. He looked down into his fishing hole through the clear winter water. He could see the rocky bottom of the lake nine feet below. He moved his short jigging rod up and down, looking to see that his minnow was still on the line. Not that he gave a damn if he caught anything. He already had more frozen walleye and crappie than he could fit in his freezer.

For the past forty-eight hours, his world had been restricted to a rented cabin on the southwestern shore of Lake Mille Lacs and this six-by-eight-foot ice-fishing house, a half mile offshore. The first day had been interesting for about three hours. He had never spent much time with Sam, not in such close quarters. The old guy had started to repeat himself. Crow figured that was due to the half pint of Jack Daniel’s the old man had sucked down. By midafternoon, the conversation had become solid reruns. Even his questions were the same.

“Getting any nibbles, son?”

“Nope.”

“Got to stick with it. Fuckers’ll be bitin’ soon.”

“Hope so.”

“You betcha.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I lost another goddamn minnow … you getting any nibbles?”

The same short conversational loops, over and over. Sam kept forgetting about the status of Crow’s marriage. Kept going back to it.

“So how’s that little gal you was with, that Melinda?”

“She’s fine, Sam. We’re separated.”

“I figured. Too damn bad.”

“I know.”

“They ain’t worth chasin’ twice.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Your mama couldn’t stand havin’ me around, y’know. Persnickety as all get-out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I say hell with’m all.”

They must have had that exchange half a dozen times.

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