Free Racing the Rain by John L Parker Page A

well.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Mr. Tolbert brightened suddenly. “You going fishing with Trapper Nelson this morning? If so, perhaps you’d be interested in some excellent baitfish. I just happened to get a fresh shipment in earlier today. Let you have some awful cheap. Ballyhoo a buck each, greenies and pogies two bits!”
    Cassidy giggled again. “We’re supposed to go for a run on the beach,” he said.
    â€œYou’re going to run with Trapper?”
    â€œTry to, I guess,” said Cassidy. “We’re going to cross over in the boat and then run down toward Juno.”
    â€œYou know he runs all the way down to the other inlet sometimes, don’t you? Must be over twelve miles. He used to do a lot of road work out there back when he boxed.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWell, take it easy on him. If I’m not mistaken, I just heard him bid Lucky and Bobby a fond adieu. Here, don’t forget your bucket.”
    Trapper was helping the other two, handing down another full gas can and some other gear from the dock. They seemed to be engaged in a serious discussion for a few minutes and finally Trapper shook hands with the one called Floyd and returned to his boat, where Cassidy was waiting.
    â€œAll set for a nice morning canter?” he said.
    * * *
    Trapper didn’t say much as they crossed the inlet. He just sat in the back tending his ancient Schnacke Mid-Jet outboard as the skiff bounced over the confused chop of the flooding inlet.
    â€œI thought my Evinrude was old,” said Cassidy, gesturing at the engine.
    â€œWouldn’t trade it,” said Trapper. “It’s like an Erector set. You can see how everything works just by looking at it. I actually stopped by to see Old Man Schnacke in Evansville one time.”
    â€œWhat’d he say?”
    â€œOh, not too much. It was on a weekend and he was in his workshop behind his house, working on a new impeller idea. Said he was tickled to see a satisfied customer. Wanted to know all about the fishing down our way. All he knew was crappies and dogfish.”
    Cassidy was squinting against the sun, enjoying the occasional spray of salty water coming over the gunnel. The money from his morning labors was tucked safely in his buttoned bathing suit pocket. The bouncing of the boat was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, and he caught himself starting to nod off.
    He snapped wide awake as they came up on a kind of whirlpool in the middle of the inlet, where the outflowing river struggled against the encroaching ocean, forming a treacherous bowl of confused water. It looked scary, but Trapper skillfully skirted around the upper lip on the seaward side of the bowl, and they were quickly on the other side of the inlet skimming along in placid water by the white sand of Jupiter Beach Park.
    â€œListen, Quenton,” said Trapper, “I want to tell you something, okay?”
    Cassidy looked back, surprised to see Trapper Nelson looking unusually serious.
    â€œOkay,” he said.
    â€œThose two guys you were talking to back there, their names are Floyd Holzapfel—they call him Lucky—and Bobby Lincoln. I don’t personally know for a fact what kinds of shenanigans they’re up to, but nothing I heard would surprise me.”
    Cassidy nodded, not exactly sure what this was all about.
    Trapper saw his confusion.
    â€œI do know that they can be lively company, but they’re both bad to go to the bottle, and they’re not too particular how they make a dollar.”
    â€œOkay,” Cassidy said.
    â€œLook,” Trapper said, “when I first came down here years ago with my brother Charlie and a friend named John Dykas, we had some trouble at our camp. Serious trouble. The law was involved. Maybe you heard something about it?”
    Cassidy shrugged. He remembered what his father said but had finally concluded that the Trapper Nelson he knew just could not have been