Tears in the Fabric of the Universe (Science Fiction Thriller Anthology)

Author

Gone Fishin'

I love afternoons like this: Hot Mexican sun, tempered by the waters of Cabo San Lucas—feels great. I'm lying in the hammock, strung between cabin stanchions on the deck of the Reel Fine. I open one eye and see them approaching down the dock toward me. I know they've come to see me. They don't look and linger around like tourists. These two guys know where they want to go.

They're coming for me. I can just tell. The first guy is big, about six four with the kind of solid bulk associated with NFL linebackers. He trails behind the other man. That one has the beefy look of a weightlifter that hadn't touched the iron in many years and building a big belly instead. Both men wore open shirts, hairy chests, and enough gold chains to open a Diamonds International. The shorter, heavier guy led the way with the gait of one in charge, the boss. His features were hard, with a slightly squashed nose as if he'd done a few bouts in his younger days. They looked to be around early fifties with faces that reflected all the pampered grooming money could buy. But there wasn't a facial treatment that could hide the rough nature of these two.

They stopped at the back deck of the Reel Fine, and looked at me.

What can I do you for, gentlemen? I said.

You Captain Rodgers? the shorter one asked. His voice sounded like the rumble of a worn cement mixer.

That's me, Jolly Rodgers, I said. Nobody cracked a smile. My little pun had gone so far over their heads it probably got a nosebleed. I jumped from the hammock, looked at them and said nothing.

I'm Ben, the 'boss' said, and this is my associate, Alfredo. He likes to be called Al.

I looked at Ben and Al. Whatever these two guys did for a living, I'd bet it wasn't selling insurance. Not the traditional kind anyway.

We want to go fishing, the big guy, Al said. His voice was soft, kind of high-pitched for coming out of such a behemoth.

Well, that's what we do, I replied. What are you guys after, how long you want to stay out?

Overnight, we got two days left here, Ben said. I want big game, marlin, sword, sail, big tuna. I usually go out of Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn, New York, got my own boat, but there ain't no fish like that in New York waters. You got to go all the way to Montauk for that.

I didn't want to correct him and say that last I'd heard, Montauk was still part of New York. I'd guessed their accent correctly, anyway: Brooklyn all the way, John Gotti country.

Sure, I can do that for you, I said. It'll cost you five hundred, plus a two hundred bucks fuel surcharge and a hundred for the mate. Eight hundred US in all, cash or charge.

That's kind of pricey.

A bit. But if you got here and know my name, you been asking around, so you already know I'm the best and can deliver. Up to you. Don't matter that much to me.

Nervy bastard, ain't you? Ben said.

Not more than you, I replied, nervy bastard that I am.

He grinned at me. He reminded me of something that should be caged. Nevertheless he held his hand out. I took it and we shook. He turned to Al and nodded toward me. Pay the man, he told Al.

The big guy reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll that could have funded a third world country. He peeled off eight one-hundreds and handed them to me.

How long till we get going?

Come back in an hour and a half and we'll roll.

I called Lupe on his cell phone. I try to use Lupe exclusively. He's the best mate I've ever worked with. His voice barely carried over the background racket of screaming kids and Spanish rock music. Lupe's house is right outside town. He lives there with his wife and about a hundred kids. I know for a fact there's only six, but it always sounds like a hundred.

Got work, overnight. You ready?

"Madre de Dio, I thought you'd never call. Si, I'm ready. I don't know which I need more, the money or the silencio."

"We got two customers, big hombres. So pick up enough food, a case of Coronas and bait."

When?

Right now.

"See you in a half hour, pandejo."

I keep Reel Fine's fuel and water tanks filled. It didn't take me long to make final preparations. I put on a light sweatshirt that reached below my waist. I wondered about that choice. I mean, I knew it was a bit chilly at night, but that wasn't the reason why I chose that particular garment: It would conceal the snub-nosed thirty-eight I'd carry.

Lupe showed up right on time, and I helped him load the boat. We'd barely finished when Ben and Al walked up. I introduced them to Lupe as we cast off the lines and got underway.

We motored through the harbor, passed approximately a couple of billion dollars worth of luxury sports fishing yachts, all of them US, in sharp contrast to the decrepit local crafts–contrast, that's Cabo San Lucas all the way. Outside the harbor I weaved through a fleet of small boats and tenders from the four huge, anchored cruise ships and moments later we were in the open ocean as I cranked the throttles to cruising speed.

Reel Fine is an old, thirty-six foot lap strake Chris-Craft. I restored her myself with new power systems and electronics. I'm real proud of her—me and the other owner, the Bank of New York.

I ran her from the flying bridge for about two hours. Someone came up the ladder and I saw it was Ben. He took the seat next to me. I had the front covers opened so the wind blew through the bridge.

Mind if I smoke? Ben said, in the manner of someone who didn't give a shit what you minded.

Go ahead, I replied.

He took a fat, expensive looking cigar from his jacket and one of those little tools they use to cut the ends. He turned to pitch the piece out. I grabbed his arm.

We don't throw shit overboard, I said, and pointed to a bucket. He grinned and tossed it in the bucket. It took a few tries until he finally lit the cigar.

So what'd you do before you started fishing for money? he asked.

Back in the day I was on the job. NYPD.

Ben leaned back and gazed toward the weakening sun. Evening would come pretty fast now. He looked back at me, grinned and pointed with his cigar.

Now I know who you are. Captain Jim Rodgers, Fort Apache, the Bronx, until that little mix-up.

You know your NYPD history, Ben. What do you do?

I'm a businessman.

Uh uh. How about your pal back there, big Al?

He's my associate. Businessman too.

Well ain't that nice.

Sure is, and speaking of being nice, when we gonna go fishing?

I'm looking now. Time's not right.

How come?

Good question. I have a tough time answering it because I'm not sure myself. I look at current patterns, the way a chop develops against the wind, depths and soundings from the electronics and I just kind of know where the big game fish lurks.

I've got a feeling for it, Ben.

Oh yeah? Well I got a feeling like I don't want to tool around here all day. Let's drop the lines and try right here.

It's your dime. Don't blame me if it don't work.

I came down to the deck and helped Lupe prepare the outriggers. We placed four big white poppers on wire lines and set the engines at trolling speed. I knew we wouldn't get anything here. Ben would probably get bored and we'd move on.

I was wrong. Suddenly one of the outriggers tensed and line whistled out like we snagged a nuclear sub. Ben let out a whooping holler as we strapped him in the fighting chair, anchored the rod in the cup and handed it to him. Lupe climbed the bridge and took the controls while I'd help and coach Ben. Al sat on the bench and looked bored.

I could tell Ben was experienced in big game fishing. He handled the rod like a pro. Over a hundred yards of line had gone out and over the next hour he brought back half of it.

The sun dropped, and darkness came fast as it does in tropical latitudes. I turned on the deck floodlights and watched Ben fight this big fish.

Something wasn't right.

It took me a while to figure it out because I'd never seen anything like it. Normally fish will fight with erratic bursts. They will pull to right, left, head for the boat. Some species like swordfish and sharks have even been known to attack ships. That's why a skilled person to control the boat from the bridge is so important.

Nothing like that happened.

The wire stayed straight as the longitude lines on my charts. Ben would reel in yards, pause, and the line would go right out again and stop.

A quarter moon rose and we closed in on ten o'clock. Weak moonbeams silvered the top of distant waves while Reel Fine's deck lights rendered the azure waters to black and white. I felt