Mount Misery

by Angelo Peluso

  The funniest thing to Rick was when they all came marching into the dining lodge one by one each morning for breakfast—they looked as if they were ready to pose for the centerfold of a high-end fishing catalog. They all dressed identically and to the nines with the same fashionable outdoors clothing, brand new stuff, just out of the box. Some still had price tags attached. It was if the gear and the look made them fishermen. It was a hoot, especially since most of Rick’s gear was held together with duct tape and silicone. Yeah, he felt contempt but it was a job and he did take some joy in seeing these titans of the financial services industry struggle at fly-fishing, beaten by lowly pea-brained fish. Not one ever asked him for help with casting technique. They knew it all. That’s why he preferred fishing with the ladies. They wanted to learn and Rick was a very willing teacher.

  One particular mergers and acquisitions guy really got under Rick’s skin. He was a guest of Ross Simonetti, founder of the world’s most successful hedge fund. Simonetti had reserved the entire lodge for some of his best clients and business associates, a $110,000 tab without tips. He also sprang for the two-grand, first-class airfare for each guest and the bill to outfit all the greenhorns: top of the line Orvis rods, three per guest—one for salmon, one for trout, and a spare—reels, line flies, waders, wading jackets, polar fleece pants and pullovers, hats, you name it. The only thing his guests had to bring were themselves, toothbrushes and underwear.

  Simonetti was a one-time physics professor at SUNY on Long Island with an absolutely brilliant mind. He made a ton of money at the blackjack tables in casinos all around the world. He had a system and formula for success that had him on the watch list of every gambling house from Connecticut to Dubai. While they couldn’t prove he counted cards or cheated them with his mind, he fell out of favor fast at all the tables. They harassed him constantly, so much so that it became a huge hassle for Ross to gamble any longer. So he took his talents to another gambling venue—the stock market. He had an idea that if he could apply some market performance modeling with Einstein-like regression analysis and remove the emotion from trading by having computers do all the thinking, he just might score big on Wall Street. He was right on the money with that concept. Ross recruited some of the best scientific and mathematical minds he could find—many were very fortunate former academia colleagues—and he lured away some of Microsoft’s best programming talent. Money is a great recruiter. This collection of brainpower formed the best hedge fund team in the world. These guys were so good at what they did that when the global economy collapsed in 2008, their DaVinci Premier Anatomy Fund earned billions. They had the highest returns in the business. Even the Senate Committee on Finance and Banking Reform was impressed. Ross was called to testify before that august but dazed and oblivious group as the bottom fell out of the global banking system. He was cool, calm, and collected and left his audience drooling over what he had accomplished while the rest of the financial world was being flushed down the crapper.

  Even though Ross Simonetti was a powerhouse titan in the world of high finance, he was still a humble and down-to-earth guy. That came from his roots, growing up in an Italian-Irish family from the Bronx, which taught him the values of family, friendship, and loyalty. He was one of the wealthiest guys in the world but one of the nicest guys you would ever meet. That was more than could be said for some of his weasel-like business associates and clients who thought their crap didn’t stink. This mergers and acquisitions asshole was one of those.

  As is customary at Alaska wilderness fishing lodges, the after-dinner hours are reserved for socializing, a few nightcaps, and for arranging the next day’s fishing itinerary. This is when the guides are paired up with their anglers. Lodges like to rotate guides so each guest gets different fishing experiences and is given an opportunity to sample some of the hottest fishing of the week. At Peninsula Creek Lodge, all the fishing was phenomenal but the best fishing was a helicopter ride away to remote tidal creeks off the Pacific Ocean side of the Alaska Peninsula. As a top-end fly-out lodge, they maintained a small fleet of aircraft used to shuttle clients to and from various rivers. The lodge also operated two Enstron F28F helicopters for access to very remote and fish-filled locations, inaccessible to their Cessnas or DeHaviland float planes.

  But the Enstrons only had two passenger seats. With sixteen guests and weather-related flying restrictions, the lodge manager rotated clients between aircraft and locations throughout the week. The fee for running the whirlybirds came on top of the weekly rate at six hundred an hour—a drop in the bucket for Simonetti. Although the fishing was exceptional, one or two clients always felt they were getting screwed if they didn’t get to ride in the choppers every day. The M&A blowhard was one of them. If Rick had his way, the slime ball would never get to fly in the chopper. He had been a royal pain in the ass all week long for the other guides he fished with, incessantly complaining about one thing or another. Now Rick drew him for the following day. The guy’s name was Lenny Kramer. He couldn’t cast, he couldn’t fish, and he couldn’t hold his liquor. He was a rather large man and liked throwing his weight around. He still thought he was playing right tackle for Ohio State. A big dude like this and booze spelled trouble.

  It was about 9 p.m. All the other guests had left the dining lodge for their cabins. The morning coffee delivery to the guest cabins came early and the day’s fishing was exhausting. Rick, Lenny Kramer, and Peggy, the lodge’s assistant chef, were the only ones who still remained in the dining lodge. Peggy was cleaning up the last of the kitchen mess. Rick was in the tackle room, tying flies for the next day. He had a lot of luck this season with a purple, pink, and orange marabou fly. The silver salmon couldn’t resist it. Since he knew Lenny and his equally obnoxious buddy would lose a ton of flies due to their incompetence, he decided to tie an abundant supply. Lenny, as usual, had one too many beers and was breaking Rick’s balls about getting on the helicopter flight in the morning.

  “Come on Rick, there’s a couple of hundred extra in tips if you get me on the bird tomorrow.”

  “No can do, Mr. Kramer. We have the seats already assigned and the anticipated heavy fog in the morning might delay the flight. Don’t worry; we’ll get our share of fish where we’re going. There’s a solid run of big silvers just a short hop away in the Cessna.”

  Lenny pressed Rick with more money because now it was just a matter of personal pride and influence. “A grand. Get me on the bird and there’s a thousand-dollar tip in it for you.” Rick didn’t budge an inch. It was a matter of pride for him as well.

  It finally became apparent to Lenny that he wasn’t about to get his way. Rick really could use the extra money but he despised the attempt at being bribed by some drunken, rich scumbag.

  “This place sucks. I should buy the fucking joint and that fucking helicopter. And then you’ll do whatever I want or I’ll fire your ass.” Lenny mumbled obscenities as he staggered from the tackle room and into the main dining area.

  Rick was totally focused on his fly tying until he heard Peggy’s voice. “Please, Mr. Kramer stop that. Please take your hands off me.” Rick got up and moved into the dining room. The kitchen was off to the left, obscured from his line of sight by a wall filled with fish mounts.

  “Please Mr. Kramer. Stop that! Please!” Hearing that second, more urgent plea, Rick sprinted the remaining distance of the long dining room in a flash. He still had his pro ball speed. When he got to the kitchen, he witnessed Lenny groping at Peggy. One hand was on one of her breasts, the other paw mashed up against her crotch, and he had her pinned against the sink. He was massive and the small woman didn’t stand a chance escaping his weight and grasp. Rick placed a hand on Kramer’s shoulder and squeezed hard on his trapezoid muscle. The big man felt the sting and whirled around. He took a half-hearted swipe at Rick. Lenny had had a lot to drink but he still could be a formidable adversary. “You fucker,” Lenny said. “Who do you think you are touching me?”

  Rick tried diplomacy. “Mr. Kramer, t
he young lady does not appreciate your advances. I think you’ve had too much to drink. How about I walk you back to your cabin?”

  “Fuck off! I’ll do whatever I want.”

  “I don’t think so Mr. Kramer. Please, let’s stop before this turns ugly.”

  Kramer was so distracted by Rick that Peggy used the opportunity to escape from his oppressive weight and alcoholic stench. She ran from the kitchen and out the front door of the dining room.

  “I will break you in two,” Kramer said. “I’m the top of the food chain, you worthless prick. I can buy you and everyone else at this dump.” He threw a heavy but sluggish overhand right that totally missed Rick. As he did, he stumbled forward. Rick caught Kramer and prevented him from falling flat on his face.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this. Let’s just end it here.”

  “I’ll tell you what, buddy boy. I’m going to get down in a four-point stance, come off the line like a tiger, and tackle your sorry ass right through the front door. How you gonna like that, you chicken shit?”

  Although the drunk appeared out of shape as evidenced by his beer gut, Kramer was a powerfully built man and he could inflict some serious damage if he gained advantage over Rick.

  “Lenny. May I call you Lenny? Let’s have a beer and talk about fishing tomorrow. Come on, let’s end this.”

  “Red 32, Red 32, hut, hut. . . .”

  Rick knew Lenny was coming full force on the next hut, so he remained on his toes to maintain leverage and avoid a direct impact. Lenny was still quick and covered the distance fast. As Kramer charged off the imaginary line, he sneered, a crazed look in his eyes. In his drunken stupor, he probably thought Rick was a rival Penn State tackle. He came right for Rick’s midsection with his shoulder low, head outside the line of impact—perfect tackling form. But Rick deftly sidestepped his attacker and used the big man’s momentum to his advantage, driving Kramer headfirst into the sidewall of the dining room. Unable to resist the moment, he yelled “Olay!” as Kramer’s bulk crashed to the floor.

  Kramer was pissed. Oh, was he pissed. Even as drunk as he was, Kramer wasn’t about to be embarrassed by some punk fishing guide.

  “You cock sucker, I’ll kill you.” Kramer was up off the floor and on Rick in a split second. Rick tried to avoid the second charge but the oversized dining room table made an escape move impossible. The big man had a few tricks of his own and, as Rick tried to block the attack, Kramer put a classic lineman’s swim move on him and deflected Rick’s arms before he could deliver a strike. Kramer grabbed Rick in a bear hug and it was face-to-face, hand-to-hand. He wanted to inflict pain that would be remembered for a long time to come.

  Rick knew he was in trouble but he also knew what he had to do to extricate his body from this mess. With all the force he could muster, Rick pounded both of his hands, palms open, against Kramer’s ears, delivering a painful and disorienting ear slap. Kramer yelped like a puppy and for an instant released his grip on Rick. But he recovered amazingly fast. He shook off the slap and hugged Rick even tighter, driving him back into the kitchen and up against the refrigerator. It was just like sacking a quarterback. Kramer’s breathing was heavy and, with labored effort, he whispered to Rick that he was about to bust all his ribs. Rick tried to break the hold but Kramer was too strong. Rick had no choice but to go for Kramer’s most exposed point of vulnerability. Placing the leading edge of his right hand against Kramer’s throat, Rick used his left hand as a sledgehammer and focused a direct blow to the windpipe. Rick held back on the power of the blow; too much force would be lethal. Kramer didn’t deserve to die. He just needed to feel pain and remorse. As the power of the strike took effect, Kramer emitted a gurgling gasp and reached for his throat, the pain evident and the fear obvious in his eyes.

  Rick moved aside. Kramer fell to his knees but somehow managed to gather another burst of energy. He swung around with cat-like speed and reflexes and tackled Rick’s legs, taking him to the ground.

  Rick’s greatest fighting strength was his ability to grapple, but Kramer had some skills of his own. It was obvious to Rick that Kramer had had some formal training, perhaps as a collegiate wrestler. His moves were a bit rusty, but he knew what to do when he had an opponent on the ground. Kramer tried getting a scissor hold on Rick by positioning one of his thighs on the front of the Rick’s neck and the other leg on Rick’s back, while locking angles and squeezing to apply a choke hold. Kramer also attempted a simultaneous fish hook move on Rick by trying to insert his finger tips into Rick’s nose and mouth and pull until flesh ripped. Rick reacted as someone who had trained all his life for this precise moment; he put a reverse escape move on Kramer and got behind him. Kramer breathed heavily and drooled, every once in a while releasing a ghoulish, gurgling gasp from his pounded windpipe. Rick encircled the big man’s head and right arm with his legs and squeezed them together to form a triangle. Rick simultaneously pulled Kramer’s head down, effectively cutting off blood flow to the carotid artery. Kramer was seconds away from passing out from oxygen deprivation to the brain when the door to the dining lodge sprung open. Ross Simonetti was the first to rush in, followed by Joe, the lodge owner. Rick released his death grip, got up off the floor, and walked out. The following morning, he was on his way back to Long Island.

  CHAPTER 8

  Nick watched Katie as she rifled through some folders in her filing cabinet. “I’m finding it hard to believe these things might actually be fish. It seems too far-fetched,” he said.

  “Didn’t we get a police report at the beginning of the summer about some surfers out in the Hamptons being attacked by a large school of small fish?”

  “Those were small bluefish biting at shiny jewelry and dangling toes. Minor bites and lacerations, but nothing that would compare with this.”

  “But weren’t there also reports of some bigger fish in the mix? Some witnesses said they were sharks. Maybe they weren’t sharks?”

  “Are you thinking our mystery fish may have traveled up here with those smaller bluefish?” Nick said.

  “Perhaps. Bluefish can create quite a scene when they migrate and feed, and the ensuing commotion may have attracted other large predators.”

  Katie was somewhat on the right track. The movements of predatory fish will often track closely to the migration patterns of prey species. Striped bass, for example, will be found hot on the heels of transient schools of Atlantic menhaden. The school of creatures Katie was trying to identify had entered the waters of the Long Island Sound after oceanic wanderings had taken them far from the place of their birth. They met up with the large school of small bluefish off the Jersey shore where they wreaked havoc with the smaller fish. This mayhem continued as the creatures moved north. Once off the south shore of Long Island, the school of small blues dispersed. The creatures lost interest in that game and zeroed in on bigger prey.

  After spending time off Montauk Point, The Race, and Orient Point feeding undetected on whatever crossed their paths, the creatures entered the Long Island Sound, not far from the harbors that nurtured them as juveniles. These enormous beasts would settle into a late summer and fall feeding pattern, ranging between Wading Neck to the east, the Squeteague River to the west, and out to the Middle Grounds and Stratford Shoal. Those geographic points formed a triangular killing zone. As long as the creatures found food, they would remain. These monsters would attack and eat anything that intersected their path, regardless of size. But they preferred to hunt their prey—nothing was too large for their heinous killing methods. Abnormal growth rates resulted in these animals reaching gargantuan sizes. An attacking pack of these fish could swiftly annihilate anything they encountered in the Sound, humans included. They were the largest and the most deadly species to be found anywhere in the world. They not only grew to phenomenal size but also had become more aggressive than notoriously ill-tempered bull sharks. Their savagery was unprecedented in the natural world. They would often tear into unfortunate prey, slashing, slicing and dicing, leavin
g body parts in their wake. And when they became satiated, they would regurgitate their meals and do it all over again. They were ruthless in a way that was unique in the animal kingdom. Other animals mostly just kill what they need for survival. But these superior organisms killed wantonly and nonstop.

  Katie found the folder she was looking for and she read a loud for Nick’s benefit: “Bluefish are one of the most popular game fish found along the East coast of the United States. They range from Florida to Nova Scotia. They are migratory, found worldwide in tropical and temperate oceans, inshore and offshore. They are prized both for their prowess as relentless fighters when hooked and the quality and flavor of their flesh, especially the smaller fish.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “This is prime time in our area for bluefish. And what if those other sightings off New Jersey were of large predators traveling with them? They could be our mystery fish. There are bound to be more encounters.”

  “You know that big money bluefish tournament is coming up soon. Labor Day weekend.”

  “Great! That is just what we need. All that chum and bait in the water will get every bluefish in the Sound in a frenzied feeding mood, and who knows what that might attract.”

  Katie then pressed on with her ichthyology diatribe in the hope she might reveal some additional clues to the killing. “Bluefish are often located in shallow bays and inshore waters. When migrating, schools the size of a football field can be been found. Some of these large schools of bluefish number in the thousands. In 1901, a school was spotted in Narragansett Bay, Rhode Island, that was almost six miles long! Can you imagine falling into that mess? Bluefish roam the entire water column, top to bottom, swimming continuously day and night.”

  “So?”