Free Tropical Depression by Jeff Lindsay Page A

slopping it onto plates already heaped with rice and a vegetable medley containing broccoli, green beans, carrots and mushrooms, all boiled into submission. “Dig in, Billy. Go on, laddie. Eat up, go go go,” he said, mouth already stuffed with two forkfuls of rice, one of veggie, and one of fish. I dodged a flying broccoli flower and sat.
    “Well, Billy,” he beamed at me. A grain of rice hit my forehead. “Life is worth living after all, eh?”
    He waggled an eyebrow, and then his face disappeared into the plate. He wouldn’t have seen or heard me if I disagreed, so I didn’t. I ate my fish.

Chapter Six
    The next three weeks went by without any real incident. The thought of Roscoe slipped into my mind a few times. I’d bat at it and it would go away again. It just didn’t seem to be anything to think about. There wasn’t much point, anyway; I felt very bad for Roscoe because I’d been there, been through the hell of losing a child. But he’d counted on that, hoped I’d have an empathetic response, and that made his visit a little too cold-blooded and calculated for me. I was having enough trouble right where I was, doing nothing more complicated than going fishing. I didn’t need to get back into the big game again.
    I’d made a halfhearted try at running Roscoe down at the airport the morning after my dinner with Nicky. Fighting a foul little beer hangover—which Nicky never seemed to get, no matter how much he drank—I had pedaled over to the airport and looked around. But either Roscoe had gone out sometime the night before or he was still lying low somewhere.
    Of course, they don’t tell you much at the airlines. The overly made-up woman at the American Eagle counter was just barely willing to admit that they had a flight to Miami, and under threat of torture she finally conceded that it was possible for someone to make a connection there for Los Angeles. But that was it. Since it was more than I expected I wasn’t all that disappointed. I figured Roscoe had flown out last night, after crapping out with me. I went home to an unwanted day off, feeling almost virtuous about my inability to track down any information at all.
    It was August and it was hot. Business always slacked off in the heat of the summer, so much that most of the fishing guides left town. There were fewer charters, but there were even fewer captains around, so things evened out. I was averaging two or three charters a week and that kept me busy enough so I didn’t have to think too much about anything. In fact, for a fishing guide just starting out, two or three charters a week is pretty good. I was tucking away a little money, building up a small reputation, and settling back into forgetting all about everything west of the Marquesas.
    That second week in August I had four charters. It was a new record and I might have celebrated, except I didn’t really feel like it, and anyway the fourth charter probably didn’t count since it was only ninety minutes long. It was a record in its own way. It was the closest I had ever come to cutting up a customer and using him for chum.
    The day started badly and got worse faster than the Florida weather. My charter, a pudgy, chinless guy from Manhattan named Pete, had showed up an hour late without apology. When we took off in my skiff the sun was already up. The tarpon had been hitting in the Marquesas for the last two weeks, but it was too late to go there now. By the time we made the thirty-mile trip the morning feed would be over and we’d have several hours of hot, dull work before the action picked up again. So I headed for Woman Key, which is much closer and has some pretty decent flats if you hit the tide right.
    It’s about a half-hour ride from the dock. Twenty minutes out Pete leaned back at me and signaled urgently. I throttled back and leaned forward to hear him better. Almost immediately I wished I hadn’t.
    “I don’t pay for transit time, do I?” he asked aggressively.