Free Fishing With RayAnne by Ava Finch Page B

businesses that share the same building as WYOY, like the alt-rock FM station on the eighth floor, or the wind-power turbine distributor. Might he be one of the dozen male viewers watching the show? Remembering where she meant to go in the first place, she pats multiple pockets, but her expo map is gone, probably left at the concession stand. She turns back, hoping the guy might have one, or maybe know where Lefty’s Bait is, but he’s gone, the only sounds more gunshots erupting from speakers at the Kill Cam booth and more pips of gunfire from the indoor shooting range.
    She aims herself past another aisle of weapon booths. At the NRA stage a crowd is gathered to hear what’s-his-Wayne holding forth on his ten-point plan to train and arm grade-school hall monitors, while a boy wearing body armor walks the length of the stage before turning awkwardly like a model, not quite carrying it off under the weight of the vest and the firearm. She shudders, thinks of her twin nephews, while Mr. LaPierre bombasts. Her brother Ky maintains that when it comes down to it, those who deserve it rarely get gunned down.
    A shortcut takes her through the marina, a relative oasis compared to the rest of the expo. At the Evinrude dock she sees Roger Lyndon and instinctively ducks to avoid his radar. Too late—he’s made eye contact and one bushy eyebrow has jumped. His voice isn’t loud and carries his words like cargo on a barge. “Hey, hey, hey. Look who we have here! Miss RayAnne Dahl.” Roger is surrounded by the usual interchangeable klatch of minions not yet fired, ready to trip over each other to fetch whatever Roger snaps his fingers at.
    “Uncle Roger.” It’s what she has called him since she was five. Forget that the word “uncle” conjures protective or trustworthy. Roger is nobody’s uncle; he’s the Don Corleone of pro fishing—if a favor needs doing or a deal needs cutting, it’s Uncle Roger one goes to. She feels his gaze ooze across her and somehow take in everything, front and back. RayAnne feels her confidence peel to the floor like some yellow skin to skid on with the next misstep. As he reaches for her, she steps squarely backwards and extends a hand for him to shake. He practically tuts and presses her hand aside to pull her into a cloying embrace, ripe with cigar smoke and Old Spice, snugging her too closely and for a beat too long, as if waiting for her to relax into the grip she’s already wiggling from.
    He lets go and sighs hugely, then smiles with his piano-key teeth. “I hear you’re doing good things, RayAnne.”
    “Do you?” She waits for him to elaborate while stealing wary glances at his lackeys. “From who . . . um, whom ?”
    “Oh, you know, the old jungle drums, the trapline. So how’s Kermit the Frog working out for you?”
    “Kermit?”
    “Your new boss—public tee-vee. I’ve heard you’ve gone over to the Obama Care Bear channel.”
    RayAnne looks up to the limp port-of-call flags on the fly deck of a massive fishing yacht called Roger Dodger . Such boats are only the heel of Roger’s bread and butter; he also owns a franchise of fishing resorts called Pikers and three cable channels. He sponsors half a dozen pro-sport programs, including Whoppers and his Everglades reality hit Cast-A-Gator , which features a trio of swamp-dwelling families, three brothers the obvious result of intermarriage. Most of their conversations require subtitles to be understood.
    Behind his back, Roger is often referred to as Master Baiter.
    “Well, Uncle Roger, I understand our numbers are pretty good.”
    “Is that so?” He looks at her as if she knows no such thing.
    “So I guess Kermit’s doing all right by me.”
    “Six figures, I trust? After all, you’re fishing and what? Making girl chat?”
    Six figures? “I pay my mortgage.” Girl chat?
    Gran would split a seam to hear such talk—it’s so utterly tactless to ask about someone’s means, unless of course they are in need. Simply,