Dead Bait 2

by Steve Alten

  “Let me get that journal for you,” said the grinning curator, leading the way out of the storage room.

  ***

  Under the guise of a backpacking tourist, Renfrew flew into Khartoum airport in northern Sudan. Early the following morning he took a southbound train.

  The landscape gradually changed as the rail journey progressed, transforming from rocky desert to grassland to subtropical forest. The people changed in nature too, from dark-skinned African-Arabs in the north of the country, to sleek, black-skinned Nilotic Africans in the south.

  At the railway line’s southernmost terminal, Renfrew disembarked. Gone were the mosques and the five daily prayer calls of the Islamic north. Instead, the prayer call was replaced by the tolling knells of a church bell.

  The relatively remote town Renfrew found himself in was still some distance from his final destination, so as the Oxford don followed in the footsteps of Henry Armitage, the Victorian explorer, he now took a rickety bus to a small village on the Congo border. The tarmac road ended and it was at this terminus that the anthropologist met Bol Karanga, the man who was to become his guide and translator.

  As Renfrew got down from the bus and rubbed the numbness from his backside, a crowd of tall, black-complexioned hawkers surrounded him. One wanted to carry his backpack (for an undisclosed fee), another wanted to direct the scientist to whatever passed as a hotel in this border outpost; yet others tried foisting roasted corn cobs, wafer biscuits and warm soda drinks on the visitor.

  Then the clamour around the anthropologist subsided into an uneasy silence as a squat, coffee-skinned man cut a swath through the throng. The hawkers backed away from the Westerner, muttering to one another in tones that were at the same time both fearful and angry.

  “Don’t pay any heed to these rip-off merchants, sir,” the little man said in perfect English. “They won’t be bothering you anymore. The problem is they think every white man is as rich as Rockefeller. They’ll extort cash from you for even the most basic service.”

  Renfrew’s apparent saviour held out his hand. “I’m Bol Karanga, a member of the Yinka tribe. My people live beside Lake Pio, not far from here.”

  The professor shook the man’s outstretched hand and introduced himself. He felt doubly blessed by Bol’s timely appearance. Not only had the Yinka tribesman’s intervention prevented Renfrew from falling victim to the pettiest of petty criminals, but according to Armitage’s journal Bol’s people lived in the vicinity of the mer-monkeys’ natural habitat of Lake Pio.

  As Bol Karanga, with the scientist’s backpack slung over his shoulder, led Renfrew to the only hotel in the out-of-the-way settlement, the professor had a few questions for his new friend.

  “How come you just happened to be at the bus stop when I arrived?” he asked. “And where did you learn such good English?”

  Bol explained: “In my younger days I worked as a tour guide in Khartoum. I showed embassy staff the Islamic sites of the city and the Pharaonic temples dotted around northern Sudan. Since English was their common tongue, I learned the language on the job. As for my being at the bus station, the only Westerners passing through this neck of the woods are either travelers on their way to the Congo, or anthropologists wanting to study the ethnically unique tribes around Lake Pio. I make it my responsibility to take care of their needs.”

  “Then it appears this time you’ve bagged yourself an anthropologist,” laughed Renfrew, just as a one-storey, breezeblock building—advertising itself as a hotel—came into view.

  ***

  The following day Bol Karanga prevailed upon a lorry driver to take himself and Professor Renfrew to the shores of Lake Pio. At first the man was reluctant to oblige, saying he had a return run to Khartoum. However a small fortune in foreign currency soon changed his mind.

  The driver picked his way along rutted bush roads, the branches of forest trees slapping against the sides of the lorry. Eventually, on the banks of Lake Pio, with fishermen in dugouts casting their nets, Bol instructed the driver to halt.

  “These Nilotic people are uncomfortable coming into our territory,” the Yinka tribesman confided in his guest. “They fear us because we’re so ethnically different to them.”

  “We all have our racial preconceptions,” Renfrew sympathised, climbing down from the cab and shouldering his backpack.

  Twenty minutes later the two men entered Bol’s home village. Children with emaciated bodies and bulbous heads swamped Renfrew, rushing about his feet and squealing with excitement. Outside the mud-walled, thatched huts of the settlement, women pounding grain stopped in their exertions and curiously eyed their Western visitor.

  Leaving his backpack at the cluster of huts belonging to Bol’s family, the anthropologist strolled down to the lakeside with Bol to meet the village headman.

  At the shoreline, a tiny, white-haired old man was directing fishing operations. He proved to be the headman. With Bol acting as translator, Renfrew explained the reason for his visit.

  “I’m searching for the legendary mer-monkey,” he said. “I have an old journal in my possession which says the mer-monkey is indigenous to Lake Pio. I’ll richly reimburse you and your people if you help me locate a specimen.”

  Once a price had been arranged and a sum of money handed over, the Yinka headman led Professor Renfrew and Bol Karanga along the shoreline until they came to a lagoon. All the while, the dugout fishing boats kept pace with the trio.

  Finally the headman halted. He pointed towards the lagoon and jabbered away to Bol in a dialect unintelligible to Renfrew.

  “This is where the mer-monkeys reside,” Bol translated. “You’re free to wade into the water and collect a specimen.”

  The anthropologist took off his shoes and socks, but hesitated to enter the water.

  The headman laughed and spoke to Bol.

  Bol nodded. “He says you shouldn’t be afraid, Mr. Renfrew. Although mer-monkeys are carnivorous, they only consume fish.”

  Thus reassured, dreaming of the plaudits and the fame awaiting him on his return to England with a mer-monkey specimen, the scientist waded into the lake.

  Waist deep in the clear water, Renfrew shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun and searched the lagoon for any sign of a mer-monkey. A few fish swam past, but nothing remotely resembling the shrivelled up creature he had seen in the City Museum display case.

  ‘Plop! Plop!’ There suddenly came the sound of large bodies dropping into the water.

  Renfrew looked up in surprise and found the grinning Yinka fishermen leaping from their dugouts into the waters of Lake Pio. Then, before the anthropologist’s astonished eyes the men transformed, shrinking down in size into living versions of the mummified mer-monkey he had seen at the City Museum. Flicking their tails, they swam towards the hapless professor, their jaws chomping.

  Renfrew turned, headed back in panic for the shore and saw Bol Karanga and the headman walking into the water to meet him. He thought at first they were rushing to his aid, but moments later they too changed from their human guise into sharp-toothed mer-monkeys.

  The anthropologist barely had time to scream before keen little teeth started nipping off chunks of his flesh.

  ***

  A month later, at the City Museum in England, Simon Murdock, the dark-skinned curator, received a letter from home. His brother, Bol Karanga, thanked him for sending money and food to the clan. The headman, Bol explained, praised him for being a good son.

  Satisfied that he had fulfilled his filial duties, Murdock set to work on making a second forgery of Henry Armitage’s journal. When the document was ready, he would write a letter to Maxwell, the famous Cambridge anthropologist, inviting him to see City Museum’s mer-monkey - in reality the withered up corpse of Murdock’s great grandfather - in a storeroom display cabinet.

  Humans are so gullible, thought Murdock soaking newly prepared journal pages in black tea to age them.

  Today he had plenty of time to work on Armatige’s journal,
for outside it was raining heavily. The last thing the curator wanted was to get soaked.

  Heavy Weather

  Murphy Edwards

  Tobias Kunkhe flopped his gear on the deck of the ‘Stormy Weather’ and hocked a lewgy into the turd brown water. Icy waves lapped at the hull coaxing him to get under way. The dock was dark and empty except for the pre-dawn shadows of lingering fish ghosts. He was the first to arrive.

  At five o’clock sharp a freshly detailed Bentley wheeled into the parking lot. The car was immaculate, a 2009 Arnage RL Touring Sedan with gold trim, smoked windows, flawless black paint, even the wax had been waxed. Tobias had seen one other in his sixty-eight years. He knew the reputation of such an automobile. They had a price tag of 220 grand. This one, with all the bells and tweeters, would go 300 easy.

  Tobias watched the sky begin to boil with anger. Lightning knifed through black clouds, stabbing at the water with sharp thrusts. A storm was brewing, a snaggle-toothed, razor-backed, blood-letting, she-dog of a storm. It was the kind of storm Tobias Kunkhe lived for.

  The Bentley rolled to a stop, hogging two parking spaces. A man in his mid-forties slid out, turning his jacket collar up to ward off the morning chill. The Bentley door shut with a smooth, solid, two-grand thunk. The man approached with a confident swagger Tobias had seen before. It was a common trait among his clients. As he approached the dock, he paused to light a cigar, taking in the sweet smoke from a fresh Macanudo. Tobias was unfazed.

  “You’re the guy, right? The storm bringer?” His face was cloaked in shadow, but his voice was clear and forceful.

  Tobias leaned heavy on the boat rail and hocked into the water again. “I been called that a time or six. You Rosselli?”

  The man nodded, pacing the dock like he owned it. He extended his hand for the obligatory hand shake. Tobias gave him a quick up-and-down, ignoring his outstretched hand. “You bring it?”

  Rosselli paused under the dock’s lone security light, slid the sleek leather cigar case back in his jacket and nodded again. In the sparse light his features were revealed—forty-five and fit, close-cropped hair showing the first signs of gray. He was a man who commanded respect and usually got it.

  “All of it?” Tobias asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  Tobias watched Rosselli squirm. “Gonna need it up front, like we agreed.”

  Rosselli was pensive, grinding his fingernails into his palms with white-knuckle style. “Thought we might do a fifty-fifty. Half now and half when we’re through.”

  Tobias breathed heavy into his callused palms. He grew weary of the last minute dickering. He could tell this one was far more accustomed to taking cash in than doling it out. “Get back in your car. We’re done.”

  Rosselli’s jaw dropped. “Hold up. No reason to get testy. I mean, we’re just talking here, right? We’re just two businessmen working out a little something-something, and every good businessman knows everything is negotiable, especially the price.

  “Cough it up or pack it up, Rosselli. It’s your choice. I got bigger fish to fry.”

  Rosselli wasn’t used to compromise. He was a deal maker, the kind who always held all the right cards no matter how high the stakes. It was his forte’. “How about seventy five percent now and I hold the rest as security till we dock? Deal?”

  Tobias turned and watched the storm draw closer, talking over his shoulder. “I don’t do deals.”

  Rosselli took a long draw on the Macanudo, watching the tip glow like a devil’s tail. When the smoke in his lungs expired, he released it into Tobias’s face with a dismissive puff. “No reason we can’t renegotiate, is there? Like I said, we’re both businessmen, am I right?”

  “The deal was eighty grand, Rosselli, up front, in cash, no exceptions.

  Rosselli paused, then stepped back to the Bentley and popped the trunk. Tobias watched him fumble in the dark, keeping one hand on the .38 in his waistband in case Rosselli had the same idea.

  Rosselli hoisted a canvas shoulder bag out of the trunk and brought it to Tobias. It was stuffed to the gills with neat stacks of hundreds—crisp, banded and unmarked. “It’s all there. You can count it.”

  “I intend to.”

  Rosselli gave Tobias a half-hearted grin and climbed aboard the ‘Stormy Weather’. “Let’s hit it.”

  Tobias cut him short. “Not so fast. That’s just half the bargain. Along with payment, you agreed to sign a waiver releasing me of all liability.” He shoved a crumpled sheet of paper and a ball point pen into Rosselli’s hands, eyeballing his manicured nails.

  Rosselli scanned the document. “Sure-sure, but I assure you this won’t be necessary. We have a gentleman’s agreement that covers—”

  “In return,” Tobias interrupted, “I agree to take you into the eye of the biggest, black-toothed, motherfucker of a storm you’ve ever witnessed. While we’re in the eye, you’ll have a chance to catch the most gawdawful humongous fish you’ve ever ran into. You hook it, it’s yours.”

  Rosselli tried to protest. Tobias held up a hand shushing him. “That’s my rules. You don’t wanna play by my rules, I could give a shit less. Won’t be the first time someone punked-out on me. You agree to follow the rules, then sling some ink on that release and we cast off. Otherwise, the ‘Stormy Weather’ stays right where she’s docked and you can cruise over to the yacht club, swill a half dozen double martinis, and talk to your pals about what could have been.

  Lightning flashed over the glossy Black Bentley, making Rosselli cower like a beaten dog. He couldn’t believe it. He’d been bested by a commoner, a bait and tackle boy. Still, he wanted bragging rights, something to puff up about while playing the back nine at Cedar Bluffs with the senior partners. He grabbed the paper and signed it quick. It was the first time he’d signed anything without consent of his attorney.

  Tobias looked at the signature, then folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. He watched Rosselli, his arms crossed, foot tapping, eyes giving him that ‘let’s get on with it’ look. Tobias marveled at his lack of preparation—the Italian loafers, tailored slacks, fitted shirt with French cuffs and starched collar. The man was totally clueless.

  “We gonna do this thing or what?”

  Tobias reached into a steamer trunk. “Not the best fishing gear you’re wearing. You better put these on.” He handed Rosselli a pair of knee-high rubber boots and some salt stained overalls.

  Rosselli’s nose wrinkled like he’d bit into a turd turnover. The boots were a size too small and the overalls smelled of chum and rancid fish guts. A white worm uncoiled and wriggled out of the pocket, hitting the deck with a soggy plop.

  As they got under way, Rosselli opened a link and began yapping on his Bluetooth. Tobias marveled at the device hanging from Rosselli’s ear like an eight gigabyte tumor. To Rosselli, it was his link to the outside world; to Tobias it was little more than a high priced, high-roller’s security blanket. The first few miles were calm. Rosselli marveled at how smooth the ‘Stormy Weather’ cut through the water. The sky over the disappearing dock was as clear as a summer day. Sunlight gleamed off the gold trim of the Bentley sending out rays as bright as a lighthouse beacon. Up ahead was a different story. The clouds were gone. All that remained was a slate black sky stitched together with jagged threads of lightning.

  As the storm began to rage, other boats blasted by on their way to dry land. Rosselli watched as other crews waved them off, pointing toward the shore with frantic hand gestures. Rosselli laughed into the wind, wondering how seasoned boatmen could turn tail so quickly in the face of a rain storm. Tobias stared straight ahead, steering toward deeper water. He pushed the throttle to full and took the building waves head-on.

  Rosselli strained to get his sea legs. The sway of the boat worked on his gut like a bowl of sour chowder. He pulled a silver hip flask from his back pocket and unscrewed the cap.

  “No drinking on deck,” Tobias shouted from the helm.

  Rosselli ignored the order and tipped the flask
to his lips, drinking deeply. The bourbon cycloned down his throat and hit his stomach with an angry satisfying burn. He turned to face the storm, letting the rain pelt his neck and chest. Water rushed over the bow in white-lipped waves. At times the entire deck was momentarily submerged. A bolt of lightning struck an inch from Rosselli’s left foot. He felt the raw current surge through his toes and shoot out his fingertips.

  Tobias watched him from the wheelhouse. He’d seen it before. They came from every corner of the country, each of them dying to be weekend warriors, longing for the Great American Outdoor Adventure. They craved it like a junky shaking for a fix. Risk was their dope and men like Tobias became their suppliers. Tobias knew, at the first sign of real danger, most of them would roll up in a ball and shit themselves.

  The waves continued to build, growing to twelve foot walls of angry brown water. With them, came driftwood, hanks of moss, dead limbs and roots, even wreckage from vessels too weak to survive previous storms. When the boat nosed in hard, Rosselli began to cower, confident the ‘Stormy Weather’ would capsize any second. Tobias cut the wheel hard, piercing the eye at a steep angle.

  Deep inside the eye of the storm the water was as slick and smooth as greased glass. Tobias dropped anchor and pulled out a deck of cards. “I’ll shuffle, you cut.”

  Rosselli looked at him in disbelief. “What the fuck? I came here to fish, not join a bridge club.”

  Tobias raked the cards through his fingers. “Gonna be about twenty minutes. My game is Tonk. Ever play it?”

  “Hell no.”

  “You’ll learn.”

  Rosselli emptied his hip flask in one final gulp. He cut the cards and waited for Tobias to deal. “Twenty minutes, no longer. After that I better be hauling in fish.”