Free Racing the Rain by John L Parker

little Cassidy kid. You remember, the one old man Branch said got his anchor up from sixty feet? Said he was straight up and down over it and damn if the kid didn’t go down and work it out of the rocks. Sixty feet down. Went home and measured the wet rope.”
    Bobby was looking out at the intracoastal, bored. He spit into the broken shells of the parking lot.
    The white man’s smile disappeared like a light going off. His eyes weren’t dead like Bobby’s, but overly active, jumping around like he was barely in control of himself. Cassidy didn’t know which one of them was scarier.
    â€œThis right here’s the reason, Bobby, the reason we ain’t been able to find a eating-size lobster around Frasier’s Reef in more’n a year! What do you think about that?”
    Bobby sat up straight, and for the first time seemed to look at Cassidy with interest.
    But then the white man’s attitude seemed to change abruptly. His smile came back and he casually nudged the zinc bucket out from under the bench toward Cassidy.
    â€œAnyway, the name’s Floyd, people call me Lucky, and this here’s Bobby Lincoln from over to Riviera Beach. We just wanted to say howdy in case we ever happen to run into you out there on the salt salt sea,” he said.
    Cassidy sensed a trick and didn’t reach for the bucket yet. When he glanced at the ground, he saw the big shadow coming from behind him.
    Trapper Nelson stood there, arms akimbo, looking huge and not happy.
    â€œGo on and take your fish inside, Quenton,” he said. “I’ll help Floyd and Bobby get on their way.”
    Cassidy grabbed the bucket and pushed through the screen door. Glancing back, he could see Trapper Nelson stepping closer to the two men, who stared up at him.
    â€œAren’t you supposed to be in school, young man?” said old man Tolbert, almost hidden behind the counter, sitting back in his ancient metal office chair, reading a tattered issue of Harper’s Magazine .
    â€œNo, sir. It’s Saturday,” said Cassidy, hoisting the bucket onto the table beside the bubbling bait tank. Dave Tolbert knew what day it was, and Cassidy knew that he knew.
    â€œSo it is, so it is. What do you have for us today?”
    â€œBallyhoo mostly. A few greenies and menhaden that got mixed in with them.”
    The old man rose from his seat and peered into the bucket, pushing his reading glasses up to peer through them.
    â€œWhere’d you get ’em?”
    â€œTide pools off Air Force beach.”
    â€œHmmm. Very nice. I count about thirteen ballyhoo, plus about a half dozen of the other. That what you figure?”
    â€œI thought it was only eleven, sir.”
    â€œWell, they are moving around pretty good in there. We’ll call it thirteen. Okay, they’re going for a dime, threads and pogies get a nickel each, making it a buck eighty, right?” he said, punching up No Sale on the ancient cash register.
    â€œUh, I believe that’s a dollar sixty, sir,” said Cassidy meekly.
    Tolbert pretended to do some figuring on the margin of his newspaper with the stub of a golf pencil.
    â€œRight as rain,” he said. “Never was good at the higher mathematics.” He ceremoniously placed a dollar bill on the counter with one hand, and two quarters and a dime on top of it with the other.
    He smiled at Cassidy. “It’s been a business doing pleasure with you.”
    Cassidy laughed again. “Thanks, Mr. Tolbert,” he said, folding the bill into a small square with the coins inside and tucking it into the pocket of his bathing trunks. He turned toward the door.
    â€œSay, Quenton.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œI saw you talking to Floyd and Bobby out there.” Old man Tolbert lost his smile briefly, then found it again.
    â€œYes, sir,” said Cassidy.
    â€œYou didn’t hear it from me, but they are two people it’s a good idea not to get to know too