“Dog River, the one you had your swim in yesterday.”
The Dog? The Dog River was one of fly fishing’s great meccas, a destination of fantasy. One did not simply drive to the Dog River and fish it. I had always believed that one had to earn a place there. “Just swimming.”
“It’s a sweet life,” the mayor said. “For some.”
Ah, a clan hinted at. Life was filled with clans, mostly unnamed and untitled. Time to move the conversation on. “How do I get down to this . . . what’s it called?”
“Sturdivant’s.”
“Right.”
“You could walk it, but we sure won’t allow that. You’re gonna ride in style, Mister. Get yourself dressed and you’ll find our police cruiser out front.”
The mayor departed on squeaky wheels. I finished my coffee and couldn’t remember enjoying a breakfast so much.
•••
“You the hero?” The deputy had mirror sunglasses, thick brown hair, no jewelry, no makeup, full lips, high cheekbones. I looked past her into the cruiser. Her cap was on the passenger seat, a shotgun was standing upright between the seats, the usual radio gear, a frayed clipboard. The shotgun was a Remington with a short barrel. The deputy’s brass name tag said cashdollar.
“I’m Rhodes.”
“Good for you. Hop in,” she added, stuffing some of the gear under her seat. “You see Hizzonor?”
“He stopped in.”
“The man gives me the creeps,” she said, wheeling the car in a tight U. “Not the chair, him.” Then, “Both, truth be known.”
The village was called Dog River. She gave me a tour. I knew about the river, but I’d never known there was a town of the same name. How was this possible? Not that it merited knowing. It consisted of two dilapidated churches, four well-lit taverns, a small municipal building, an outdoor basketball court with netless, rusted rims, and two huge fly shops directly across the street from each other.
“Owned by the same guy,” Cashdollar said. “If it’s got to do with money up here, you can bet it’s got to do with fish. People come from all over the world, pay cash, a big bill a day for top guides, not including tips. River’s open year-round, most of it no-kill and always that at Sturdivant’s.”
I was glad to let her talk.
“A few people make a wad, but most up here don’t have a pot to pee in. It’s probably that way everywhere,” she added.
She talked a lot for a cop.
“Here we are, a county on a shoestring and tourists paying a fortune a day to chase fish.”
I nodded and remembered that wars had been fought for this, the freedom to maintain economic disparities.
There was an edge to her voice and something told me to steer the conversation to new ground. “Been a cop long?”
“College, five with the state, five here. I’m thirty-three and unattached, if that’s where you’re headed.”
“I never hit on a woman better armed than me.”
“Being a woman and a cop,” she said with a pause, “one doesn’t automatically cancel out the other.”
Eventually we pulled into a gravel lot in front of a pale log lodge with a huge red-and-gold sign, sturdivant’s. I looked for my car, but it was nowhere in sight.
“It’s not here,” I said.
“I’ll be go to hell,” Cashdollar said.
Her tires skidded on loose gravel and the emergency brake made a rasping sound when she engaged it. When I got out I saw that her cruiser’s tires were nearly bald.
“Sturdivant’s people probably stuck it somewhere,” she said.
As plausible an explanation as any. “Thanks,” I told the deputy, who touched two fingers to her forehead as a farewell.
The back entrance of the silver cedar log lodge opened into a towering great room with a cathedral ceiling and circular skylights. There was a fieldstone fireplace, three stories tall. The walls were paneled, not with the usual faux boards from Handy Andy but varnished cedar halves that stopped me in my tracks. The floor was hardwood, covered with an acrylic polish to make it shine. There were huge fish mounted on the walls. One of the specimens drew my attention. It was a brown trout, a great fat sow with orange spots as big as my thumbnails and teeth like a bone saw, a great hooked jawbone, eyes like silver dollars. A brass plaque underneath. dog river, salmo trutta. l: 47.25 g: 29.75 wt: 54.6. No date, no name. The monster looked vicious. The reality of the mount aside, I knew there were no such things as fifty-pound-plus brown trout, definitely not in Michigan and probably not in the world.
World-record brown trout had come out of the White River in Arkansas and Lake Michigan, both of them considerably smaller than this ridiculous thing. I decided that the mount had to be a joke, a grand put-on, no doubt to twitterpate cash-laden clients.
The front wall held original oils and watercolors. The oils showed a steady but heavy brush; the watercolors were diaphanous, well planned, rich in white space, brilliant executions. I was impressed.
There was a reception desk in the main room, manned by a scrawny teenager.
“My name’s Rhodes. I’m looking for my car.”
The boy gave me the once-over. “Sturdivant’s in the shop,” he said in a voice that suggested it hadn’t quite settled on its final timbre. He pointed to a door to the left.
The shop was paneled in glossed white cedar and ringed with felt-lined, glass-topped cases filled with multicolored flies. An enormous man sat in the center of the square formed by the cases. Rolls of fat pressed against his shirt and draped irregularly over a belt, which itself had turned mostly inside out under sheer pressure. The man had a topknot of fine white hair on the top of his head; the sides were shaved clean. There was a wispy tuft of white hair between his lower lip and first chin. He wore oversized sunglasses and was so still that for a moment I thought he was a mannequin.
“Mister Sturdivant?”
“The gods willing,” the old man said with a rheumy croak.
“My name is Rhodes. The mayor said my car was hauled here.”
The old man chuckled softly. “You’d be the hero.”
I didn’t like his tone of voice. “Is it here?”
“Was,” Sturdivant said. “I am almost certain it was.”
I was in no mood for games. “Where is it now?”
“Gone. This is not a public parking lot.”
“But it was brought here?”
“I heard it said, but cannot attest.” Fat fingers adjusted the military-style sunglasses. He did not look at me.
I leaned over and saw a white cane with a red tip. He was blind?
“Where’s the car now?”
Sturdivant grimaced. “Things come and go. I can’t keep track of everything.”
“Who can tell me?” I asked, exasperated.
“Whoever moved it.”
I was confused. “Are you trying to tell me somebody stole it?”
“I have no insight into motives. It was here and now it’s gone. I can only attest to facts. I leave conclusions to others.”
“When was it taken?”
“After it was here.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do? I need that vehicle.”
Sturdivant spread out his hands and grinned. “Make do, adapt, persevere.”
What a weird bird. “Can I use your phone?”
The old man pointed toward a corner of the shop where there was another door. “For a mere dime anyone may use the house phone.”
I went to the phone, dialed the operator, and asked for the police.
“Dog River Police. Officer Cashdollar.”
“This is Rhodes. My car is gone.”
“What’s that mean, gone?”
“Not here.”
“You talk to Sturdivant?”
“I talked at him.”
�
��He is a tad odd,” she said.
Up here odd was beginning to look like the norm. “No kidding. What do I do now?”
“I’ll be there in a few.”
A time unit was not specified, and this bothered me. People hereabouts seemed pretty loose with what I had previously taken to be fairly mundane social interactions. It was like being whisked off to Oz and finding it populated by lawyers.
“Thanks.”
“It’s my job,” she said and hung up.
“I’ll pay you back,” I said when I went back into the shop.
“There’s no hurry,” said Sturdivant.
I started to go outside to wait for Cashdollar, but stopped. “That big brown in the other room. Is that for real?”
Sturdivant smiled. “Some say yea, some say nay. I leave it to each to make his own determination. We are, after all, a democracy.”
“It would be a world record. I’ve never heard of browns that size.”
“One man can’t hear everything. Big fish are everywhere if a body knows how to see them.”
The man was talking gibberish. “What was it taken on?”
“Certainty, imagination, luck,” Sturdivant said. “And a snowfly,” he added after a long pause.
My gut tightened. “Never heard of that. Is it a local pattern?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Got any on hand?” I glanced at the glass-topped cases.
“Each must tie his own.”
“Are there pictures, guides, recipes?”
“They vary,” Sturdivant said. “Mine and yours would no doubt be different.”
I started to reply, but stopped myself. I glanced up at the fireplace on my way out for another look at the fish and decided my initial conclusion had to be correct; it was an elaborate put-on. Un truite faux, the French might say. A fake.
Cashdollar had pulled up behind the lodge and was waiting for me.
“I put the word out on your wheels. I’ll talk to Sturdivant and his people later.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you should probably find something to do with your time until it shows up.”
“That’s it?”
“You want me to drive aimlessly around the county looking for it?”
I leaned against her fender. “I don’t need this.”
“There’s not much you can do,” she said sympathetically. “Have you got money?”
“Not without the vehicle. My wallet was in it.”
“Relax,” she said. “It’ll turn up. They always do up here. It’s probably just kids wanting a joy ride. You being a hero and all, Sturdivant might put you up until we locate your wheels. I’ll have a word with him. He’s got fancy cabins with nice views of the river. You’ll at least be comfortable.”
“You do real estate on the side?” I asked.
“What I do on my side is my business,” she said sharply. “Anybody ever tell you you’ve got a chip on your shoulder?”
“You’re the first.”
“Then I won’t be the last,” she said. “You want me to ask Sturdivant or are you one of those big, strong macho men?”
I felt foolish. “I’d be obliged.”
She adjusted her gunbelt, clomped up the wooden steps, and disappeared inside.
I sat down on the steps and watched a man knocking dents out of an aluminum driftboat with a rubber mallet. I wished I could knock the dents out of my own life that easily, push the clock back and let me have another go at everything, but I had no idea what I could do differently to change the outcome. I had stopped to take a leak and gotten caught by circumstances. There was no logic. I had known men killed in Vietnam who had done nothing more than use a different shaving cream; that had been sufficient to turn the tide of luck. Why not, then, a cause as simple and inexplicable as stopping to micturate at the wrong place? There were scholars dedicated to finding rationality. They might as well try to find hair on a snake.
The boy from the reception desk led me to a cabin beside the Dog River and presented me with two sets of keys while Cashdollar looked on.
“Sturdivant says everything’s on the house long’s you need it. Guides and drifts eat at oh-six-hunert and twinny-one-thirty. That’s military time. Dining hall’s thataway,” he concluded, with a jerk of his thumb.
“Drifts?” I asked.
“Clients,” the boy said, enunciating carefully. Satisfied that I had no further questions, he pointed crisply. “Follow the trail through the white pines. All lunches are at rest stations on the river, prearranged, which means those back at the lodge gotta fend for themselves. Sturdivant runs a tight ship. Clean up after yourself. You wanna fish, Sturdivant says he can fix it. We got browns legal all year, but it’s all no-kill.”
I couldn’t resist an opportunity. “What’s the story with the snowfly in the lodge?”
“Snowfly, snowball, what do I know?” the boy said. “I’m joining the army in September. Gonna be an Airborne Ranger. You know the Rangers?”
I did. Dead ones mostly.
“They’re the best,” the kid said wistfully. “Rangers don’t do fish, man. They do people.”
When the boy was gone, I looked at Cashdollar and said, “Misdirection is better than no direction?”
She grinned.
“It’s good to see patriotism alive,” I said.
“He’s a decent kid,” she said. “He just wants out.”
“Is that a common theme around these parts?”
“Not as common as you’d think.”
I was ashamed by my earlier surliness. “I was out of line earlier.”
“You were just upset,” she said. “If you get seriously out of line, I’ll make sure you know.”
A statement of fact, absent animus. I had little doubt she could back it up.
“How long do you think it will be?” I asked.
“To locate your ride? A day, maybe two. Not much goes unobserved in these parts. Folks around here see abandoned wheels and we hear. If you need anything, give a call.”
I thanked her and watched her walk back toward the lodge.
I was in no mood to go inside yet. The air was heavy. I made my way over to the river and worked my way downstream, staying back from the bank to avoid slipping. The river was nearly black under the gray sky. The water was up and fast and every turn had its own series of notes. I was amazed at the density of cover. Everywhere there seemed to be logjams and boulders and sharp turns that pushed the flow downward to chop deep beneath the obstacles and create holes. Every object pushed water aside, which in turn changed the course of the river. Natural power at its finest.
Obviously God was still bowling.
Deputy Cashdollar called ahead and stopped by my cabin early the next afternoon, her hat pulled down tight, her jaw set.
“Better have a seat,” she said. Cashdollar was a small, compactly built woman with an appealing face, which was now angled deeply into intense fury. “We found your vehicle. It’s been stripped.”
“My wallet?”
“Gone. Everything.”
All I could think was that I had been wearing the same clothes for days.
I trudged sullenly over to Sturdivant’s lodge. I was out of work and had neither money nor wheels. The lodge was full. Two dozen people were drinking, broken into smaller groups, talking, laughing, like any cocktail party anywhere, only here the sole subject seemed to be fish. Sturdivant was camped on a stool in the corner, his dark glasses on, his white cane in hand like a scepter.
I noticed that people gave him a lot of space.
“Mister Rhodes,” Sturdivant said as I approached.
“How did you know it was me?”
“The eyes are gone, but the ears remain sound and other senses enhanced. Nature compensates. I hear you’ve had more bad luck.�
��
“How far to a town where I can rent wheels?”
“Forty miles, but why encumber yourself? You’re quite welcome to remain here.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“We all make our own choices,” Sturdivant said. “You can stay or go. Either choice does not inconvenience me or my staff.”
“I appreciate that, but as soon as I can get in touch with my bank, I can pay.”
Sturdivant smiled. “There are many ways to pay. The rate here is two hundred and fifty dollars a night, meals included.”
I blinked. “I didn’t know.” More to the point, it was way out of my league.
“I’ve embarrassed you,” Sturdivant said. “I repeat, be my guest. I insist.”
“I don’t understand.”
“As I said, we do things for our own reasons and these suffice.”
“Maybe for a few days,” I said, relenting. “Until I can make other arrangements.” The image of the trout over the fireplace flashed through my mind. I had finally seen the Dog River, had lived with its reputation all my life, and knew that its trout were calling my name. I’d accept his generosity, maybe do a little fishing, and then move on.
Sturdivant nodded approvingly.
I started to turn away, but turned back. “The kid who took me to the cabin said you’d set me up to fish.”
Sturdivant nodded lugubriously. “Talk to Mister Medawar down in the guide house.”
•••
I walked down to the guide house before sunrise. Del Medawar was an older man with swept-back silver hair and bright blue eyes. I had slept uneasily, trying to push my mind away from my predicament. The rain had finally stopped; thermal plumes rose from everything.
“I’m Rhodes,” I said. “Sturdivant told me to see you about getting set up.”
“That’s my job,” Del said. “Hard to raise them right now, the water being this high.”
“I don’t mind working for my fish,” I said.
Del nodded. “The natural order. Where do you want launch and pick up?”
“I thought I’d just wade some.”
“Be better if you took a boat.”
I accepted the offer. “Thought I’d spend all day. Want to give me a good idea of where to get in and out?”
The Snowfly Page 37