Curves Can Kill

by Larry Kent

  Vicki appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. She said, “Too bad the cabin wasn’t a mile further.”

  “We wouldn’t have made it,” I said.

  “Maybe not. But it would have been fun trying. What are you cooking on the stove?”

  “Kettles don’t cook, Vicki. They boil.’”

  “I want to help you cook.”

  “Can you mix pancake batter?”

  She pushed out her bottom lip, shook her head. “I only got as far as toast and soft-boiled eggs.”

  “Then watch a master at work.”

  “All right.”

  I found a mixing bowl and got busy with the ingredients.

  “It looks nice,” she said, breaking a long silence.

  But I was no longer interested in pancake batter. On the floor behind Vicki was a neat mound of striped jersey and black silk, I saw the latter out of the corner of my eye. The rest of my vision was focused on Vicki. What I saw was all Vicki. She grabbed the bowl of batter and held it like she was making an offering to a pagan god. Well, he could have it. As far as I was concerned, the pancake market had taken a sudden dive. But there was a sudden upsurge in batter-offering maidens. I stood there for a long time, at least ten seconds, drinking in the smoothest mixture Mother Nature had ever concocted. Oh, the ingredients!

  “Well, say something,” Vicki suggested.

  “Wow.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Zap! Zam! Zowie! And also shazam.”

  “Does that mean you like what you see?”

  “Honey, I even like what I don’t see.”

  She laughed down in her throat. I took the bowl of batter from her and set it on the table. She gave me her hand. “Let’s look around,” she said.

  The first room we inspected was her bedroom. Because of one reason and another, we didn’t get any further. The inspection took forty-five minutes. It could have taken a lot longer, but we didn’t want Lee and Rita to walk in on us. Poor Lee and Rita. All they were getting to my knowledge at least, was pancakes, bacon and coffee. The least I could do was have it ready for them. So I showered quickly and went out to the kitchen while Vicki luxuriated in the tub. With the first of the pancakes on the griddle, I picked up the mound of silk and jersey and took it to Vicki. She was playful—talked about another ride in the car, then a chase through the woods. When I didn’t show enough interest to suit her, she asked me to soap her back. I got out of there fast. I’m not nearly as pure as Ivory when I’m soaping a back like Vicki’s.

  The last of the pancakes were on the griddle when Lee and Rita arrived in the Buick. I went out and helped them in with the baggage, then we all had lunch. Rita kept looking at Vicki, who glowed; then she glanced at me and smiled.

  “Great meal,” Lee said over coffee. “You two must have been working hard.”

  I had to hit Vicki on the back to keep her from choking on her last bite of pancake.

  “We kept moving,” I said to Lee, and I had to slap Vicki’s back again.

  Lee pushed his chair from the table. “Well, let’s get the dishes done, eh? Rita and I have some writing to do.”

  “Leave the dishes to Vicki and me,” I said.

  “Dishes?” Vicki made a funny face.

  “And after that I think I’ll do some fishing on the lake,” I said.

  “Oooooh! I’d love to go fishing,” Vicki said.

  “Dishes first, honey. I’ll wash, you dry.”

  “See?” Rita said to Vicki, laughing. I told you this would be a different kind of vacation.”

  “If you really insist,” Lee said to me.

  Rita grabbed his arm. “They insist, boss. Let’s get out of here before they change their minds.”

  They hurried out of the kitchen. I handed Vicki a dishtowel. She looked at it with repugnance.

  “It’s very easy,” I said. “When I hand you a dish or a cup or a piece of cutlery or a pot or a pan, you wipe it dry with that towel.”

  “The things a woman does,” Vicki said sadly, “to go fishing with a man. And …” Her voice deepened and her eyelids went down, “... other things.”

  I ran hot water into the dish-filled sink.

  “Do you go fishing a lot?” Vicki asked.

  “Not enough.”

  “Is it as much fun?”

  “As what?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Other things.”

  “Well, both can be frustrating. Here’s a dish.”

  “Oh, thank you so much! Larry, why don’t we buy some paper plates?”

  “And miss all this fun? Vicki, you’re wiping the towel with the plate. It’s supposed to be the other way round.”

  “So I’ll change hands. Ooops!” The dish fell and broke on the floor. “There! Maybe you’ll listen to me next time. That wouldn’t happen to a paper plate.”

  “Try again.”

  “I don’t want to break all of Lee’s plates.”

  “If you break one more thing, you don’t go fishing with me.”

  “Will we fish in a boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “A big boat?”

  “A rowboat.” I saw her trying to gauge the size of a rowboat in her mind’s eye. “I’m afraid it won’t be big enough for that, honey.”

  She made a face at me. “You’re an old killjoy.”

  And so it went. She was a real fun girl.

  Finally we were finished with the dishes.

  “I’m tired,” Vicki said.

  “We’re going fishing,” I said.

  She pouted. “You’re sick of me already.”

  “I’m just worried about my health, that’s all.”

  She kissed the end of my nose. “Don’t be worried about a silly little thing like that, darling. If you get sick, I’ll look after you.”

  “Nurse,” I said, “cure thyself.”

  It wasn’t particularly funny, but we both laughed. Life was wonderful. Just a hundred feet or so away were big bass, gliding in green depths, waiting for my spinner or plastic worm to lure them into striking. And beside me was Vicki, who didn’t have to be lured.

  I got out my fishing things, rigged up a rod for Vicki, and we walked to the lake. A ten-foot dingy was up on the sand. I slid it into the water, held it against the jetty, helped Vicki aboard. It was a pretty small lake, maybe, a hundred yards across at its widest point, about two hundred yards long. I rowed over green weed, dropped the anchor gently when I saw patches of sand.

  “I’ll watch you for a while,” Vicki said. She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not very optimistic, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your worm looks awful sick—”

  “This is a plastic worm, honey. An artificial lure.”

  “It’s not even the right color. I never saw a yellow worm.”

  “The fish aren’t as smart as you. They don’t say, ‘There’s no such thing as a yellow worm.’ They say, ‘Ooooh, look at the pretty yellow worm.’ Vicki honey, stop banging your feet on the bottom of the boat.”

  “How do the fish know my name is Vicki?”

  “Never mind. Just be quiet. Don’t scare our piscatorial friends.”

  “I’ll bet you think I don’t know what that means.”

  “Being quiet?”

  “Piscatorial. It means fish. My sign of the zodiac is Pisces.”

  “I’m Aries the ram.”

  “Bla-a-a-a-h!”

  I grinned at her. “Behave yourself.”

  “I’ll bet Aries the ram wouldn’t say that to a cute little ewe. Oh, all right. You can stop making nasty faces at me. I’ll be quiet.”

  I cast out, released line as the plastic lure went deep. I wasn’t worried about it landing on weed. The two hooks were set high, only the barbs showing. To keep the hooks from picking up weed, all I had to do was hold the line taut—unless I felt the preliminary nibble of a fish, of course. I reeled in an inch or two at a time, giving the rod a little twitch every now and then to jiggle the lure. The
line knifed the water almost directly beneath the short boat rod when I felt a fish nose the plastic worm. I pulled a foot or so of line from the reel, gave line when there was a jerk, lifted the bail on the reel so the line would run out freely if the fish took the lure. The nylon began to move through my fingers, slowly at first, then fast. I watched the spool as line went out. Suddenly I clicked the bail home, lifted the rod. The fish hesitated momentarily, then the rod bent under the running weight of what had to be a good-sized fish.

  “You’ve got one!” Vicki screeched.

  “A nice one,” I said, feeling the thrill of exhilaration that only a fisherman knows.

  “Pull him in quickly,” Vicki said, clapping her hands together.

  “It’s not done that way, honey. This line is only six-pound test. If I give him too much pressure, it’ll snap.”

  The reel sang. I kept the fish under pressure, feeling its strength through the stretched nylon. The bass—I knew it had to be a bass—was deep, and it had no intention of stopping. The line on the spool thinned. I had the drag set at four pounds. I increased it to five. The run slowed but continued. I set the drag at six. There wasn’t much line left when the bass halted, sulking in the depths. I pulled back the rod, lost a little more line, moved forward, back again ... slowly, carefully. Finally, I felt the fish’s head turn, began to reel in. For a few seconds I lost as much line as I retrieved, then the fish moved reluctantly in my direction. I had maybe fifty feet back on the spool when the bass took another run. Most of the line I had regained went back to the lake. But it was all over bar the weighing. Ten minutes or so later I netted a dark-topped beauty of a lunker bass. I plopped the fish on the floor of the boat, admired it.

  “Gosh,” Vicki breathed. “How much does it weigh?”

  “About seven pounds, I figure.” I hooked the end of the stretch scale in its jaw, lifted. “Seven pounds, six ounces to be exact.”

  Vicki was all excited now. She wanted to catch a fish as big as mine. Her first attempts at casting roughed up the water and scared all fish within the radius of a dozen yards. Finally I cast out for her, told her what to do. Then I sent my plastic worm far out. Vicki had the first bite. She jerked the rod back and damn near fell into the water on the other side of the boat. Once again I told her what she must do.

  “It caught me by surprise,” she said. “I got a little excited. I’ll be all right the next time.”

  And she was. She struck well, played the fish to my instructions. Soon there was a bass of about a pound-and-a-half flapping about on the bottom of the boat.

  “He’s much smaller than yours,” Vicki said with disappointment.

  “But it’s a lot more handsome than mine,” I said. “And this size is the best for eating.”

  This made her happy. But there wasn’t another strike for more than an hour. I lifted the anchor, rowed to another spot, careful to keep the cabin and surroundings within my line of vision. Lee and Rita were working in her room. From time to time I saw him pass the window as he paced, dictating.

  The new spot produced one fish, caught by Vicki. It was hardly more than a half pound. Vicki insisted on keeping it until I told her that the poor little thing wasn’t old enough to mate. The clincher was when I said it was a female. She ordered me to restore the fish to the water, watched it swim on its side for a moment before diving to the depths.

  “Give ’em hell, honey,” Vicki said.

  We fished for another hour or so without so much as a nibble. Yet the lake was teeming with bass, for every now and then I could see one flashing in the weeds. But they wouldn’t bite. I tried plugs and spinners without success. No one can tell you why bass will suddenly stop striking. Some theorize that they’re simply not hungry; but this theory is shot down by the fact that you’ll often catch bass that are loaded with undigested food.

  “This is for the birds,” Vicki said. “I think we caught the only three fish in the lake.”

  “Plenty of sunfish and crappies,” I said. “Would you like a crack at those?”

  She said she would. So I rigged a fly rod and rowed close to shore. Soon I had a few fat crappies. Vicki wanted to try. I showed her how, leaned back and enjoyed a cigarette while she caught sunnies and crappies one after the other. Finally she grew tired of that and we returned to shore.

  “Now we clean the fish,” I said.

  “Not I,” Vicki said firmly. “I’ll watch you.”

  I didn’t mind I’ve never met the woman who can clean fish to my satisfaction. I scaled and filleted the catch, then I peeled off my T-shirt, kicked off my sneakers and dived off the end of the jetty in my shorts. The water was cold and sweet. Soon I heard a splash and Vicki was swimming around.

  “What are you wearing?” I asked.

  She showed me by floating on the surface. Nothing. Her firm young breasts were aimed at the late afternoon sun. A wonderful sight. I trod water and enjoyed it. Suddenly I had to close my eyes from a sudden flash that came from somewhere in the general vicinity of the track behind the cabin. The momentary glare could have been caused by the sun striking a bit of glass. Or it could have been the sun reflecting from the chrome or glass of a car. It could even have been caused by a gun.

  Chapter 6 ... night meeting ...

  I fried the fish for dinner, leaving the fillets of the big bass in the refrigerator. I’ve learned that large fish are much better after they’ve been allowed to firm either on ice or in a fridge for about twenty-four hours. The four of us ate with good appetite.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I announced after dinner.

  “I’ll go with you,” Vicki said.

  “You will not. I’ve cleaned the fish and I’ve made dinner. If the three of you have any sense of justice, you’ll pitch in together and do the dishes.”

  There was some kidding around, but finally I left the cabin on my own, entered the woods beside the track, walked to where I thought the flash of light had originated. I didn’t find anything that might have reflected the glare of the sun—but I did find a set of tire tracks that didn’t match the tires of my car or Lee’s. I didn’t even have to check Lee’s tires, for these tracks went twenty feet or so into the woods on one side of the track and ten feet on the other; the driver had turned the car around and headed back towards the general store. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in my mind that what had temporarily blinded me when I was swimming with Vicki had been the sun reflecting from the glass or chrome of this car.

  The driver of the car couldn’t have been a sightseer, I decided. A man would have to be more stupid than curious to risk his springs and shock absorbers on a track as bad as this one unless he knew what to expect at the other end. Of course, he could be a fisherman who’d been helping himself to the fish in Lee’s lake; and who, seeing that the cabin was occupied had decided to get the hell out of there.

  I followed the tire tracks for about a mile before returning to the cabin. The dishes were done. Vicki, Rita and Lee sat around a card table, playing rummy.

  “How about bridge?” Lee suggested.

  “I’m easy,” I said.

  “I’m not a very good player,” Vicki said.

  “Then you can be Larry’s partner,” Lee said. “Shall we make it interesting? A penny a point?”

  I couldn’t get interested in the game. I kept thinking about the car. It was Vicki who sent my mind moving in another direction. She hooked a leg inside mine, massaged the inside of my leg, just above the ankle. This made me think of how she had looked floating on the lake. And this in turn stoked my imagination. “Stoked” is the correct word. Soon I was feeling very warm indeed.

  At about nine o’clock, Vicki yawned. It was a very elaborate yawn.

  “Don’t let us keep you up,” Rita said.

  “Sorry,” Vicki said. “It’s not the company. Larry wore me out on the lake this afternoon. We even went swimming.”

  “Yes, I saw you dive off the jetty,” Rita said. “I meant to compliment you on your swimsuit, Vicki.”


  “Oh, you liked it?”

  “Very becoming.”

  “Thank you, darling.”

  “What color would you call it?”

  “Flesh-colored, I think.’”

  Rita turned to me. “What did you think of Vicki’s swimsuit?”

  “It’s beautifully designed,” I said.

  “You’re so sweet,” Vicki said.

  I looked from Vicki to Rita. Their faces showed nothing.

  It could have been that Rita was being slightly bitchy; if so, Vicki was doing a great job of keeping cool. On the other hand, they had known each other for a long time and it was possible that they often confided in each other; if this was the case, maybe they were indulging in what they considered to be a naughty exchange of witty quips. I’m just a mere man, so I had no idea what they were up to.

  “Let’s play cards,” Lee said. “Come on, Larry, shuffle the cards and deal.”

  “I ... I think we’d better make a time limit,” Rita said hesitantly. “Vicki is rather tired, Mr. Howard, and I have to be up early to type the rest of that article in time to get it in the mail.”

  “All right,” Lee said. “One more rubber then. Does that suit everybody?”

  We indicated that it did and I dealt out the next hand, thinking how interesting it was that Rita called me “Larry” and Lee “Mr. Howard.” And he was supposed to be in love with her. Maybe he hadn’t got around to telling her yet. In many ways, Lee was an oddball.