Free Sleep with the Fishes by Brian M. Wiprud

and headed for the bar. A guy who bought the drinks got special license to be drunk, stupid, or obnoxious.
    “So, how was Ballard Pond?” Russ sat across from Sid. “Get any?”
    Sid’s expression was fixed, but a bloody tint rose across what looked like two tiny hickeys on his neck, over his angular jaw, and up to his silver-tinged hairline.
    “To be perfectly honest, Smonig, not so friggin’ good.”
    “Uh-huh. Well, I didn’t mean to bother you out there, but I was trying to—”
    “Smonig, that Trout Lady tells me you’re some kinda fishing expert around here. That right?”
    “Well, I do a little guiding, tie a lotta flies, write…”
    “Don’t let him fool ya, Sid.” Lloyd returned with the drinks. They poured them fast and sloppy at The Pond. “Russ here’s the local guru. Everybody around the Eddy tries to pump him for info on the hot spots. But Russ here’s got a price. Why, ya should have heard the little speech he made at the Five Star.”
    “You got a price, Smonig?” With the smooth sweep of a magician, Sid used one hand to pluck his own drink and hold out the other for Russ.
    “I charge by the half day, seventy-five dollars.”
    “Seventy-five bucks, huh, for a half day?” Sid tugged pensively at an earlobe. “Tell me, Smonig, how many kinds of fish can you go for in half a day?”
    Russ sipped his drink and winced from the bite. Though he liked it well enough, whisky was the exception rather than the rule. It wasn’t in his budget.
    “Hm. Maybe two or three, but generally a client is after something in particular, like trout.”
    “And how many kinds of fish, fished for in all the different ways you can fish for ’em, are there around here?”
    Confused, Russ blinked, then went to put his drink on the table but didn’t. “Huh? I don’t follow.”
    “Don’t ya get it, Russ?” Lloyd interjected, snapping his cheroot at the ashtray. “Our new neighbor here is trying to figure out how many half days it would take to learn everything ya know about fishing around here.”
    Casting an eye in Lloyd’s direction, Sid smirked, reached out a hand, and gripped Lloyd’s shoulder.
    “You’re a sharp guy, Louie.” Sid gave Lloyd’s shoulder a few hard squeezes and let go. Lloyd puffed at his cheroot somewhat uneasily. “You got another of them there wheezers, Louie?”
    “Wheezer?”
    “Yeah, a cigar?”
    “Oh, uh, sure.” Lloyd handed one over.
    “And a light?” Sid tilted his head back and to the side.
    “Oh, yeah, sorry.” Lloyd lit Sid’s cigar.
    Sid drew deeply and with obvious satisfaction on the cheap cigar. “Russ, I like your friend Louie.”
    “Yup, Louie is kinda handy to have around, I guess,” Russ mumbled uneasily.
    “Louie’s kinda, I dunno—whatsit the French say? A certain
I dunno what
? Anyhow, when you figure out your price, Smonig, swing by for a drink.” Scooting his chair out, Sid got to his feet and downed his Canadian. He set his glass on a folded ten. “Have another round on me, boys. Adios.” He ran his fingers through his hair, instinctively checking his peripheral vision as he walked from the dark barroom into twilight.
    No sooner had Sid stiff-armed the front door than Big Bob stomped over to the slack-jawed Russ and Lloyd.
    “Hey, Russ, who was that guy?” Bob helped himself to the pitcher.
    “My new neighbor,” Russ said absently. “Moved into the Ballard place.”
    “Guy sure looks familiar. Like an actor or something.”
    Little Bob, his wife, Val, and his camcorder had just arrived. The latter was zooming in on Russ, Lloyd, and Big Bob.
    “Or ‘something’ is about like it!” Lloyd started to chortle through his cigar smoke.
    Russ gave a short laugh and mugged Sid’s half-lidded, smooth demeanor.
    “Yo, Louie, you got another of them wheezers?”
    “Sure, boss!” Lloyd unwrapped a cheroot and fit it in Russ’s mouth.
    “Hey, guys, this is great! Doc, turn toward the camera.” Little Bob danced around for a better