Rusty Flathers

“What are we looking at ladies?” inquired Win.

          “The woman on the tarmac,” replied Sally. “But not so much her, it’s the guys lined up around her.”

 “Are you talking about Sage Golden? That woman is Sicily’s version of you,” said Win.

          “Wait a hot sec… No, you’re right. Her hair’s different… noticeably shorter. But now I see the rumored battle scar on the side of her neck.”

“What’s happening right now?” chimed Hazel.

          “Win’s positively ID’d the chic on the runway parked next to us. It is Sage Golden. Two years ago, she took a dorsal fin to the neck—missed her jugular by four inches—at an offshore photo gig in Panama. Left her with a scar, but the yellowfin tuna took the worse of it and bled out on the deck after she slit its throat from gill to gill.”

“So, she’s a friendly?” asked Hazel.

          “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” replied Sally. “But as peers go, in the outdoor fashion modeling biz, we’re cordial.”

“Scar or no scar,” chimed Jackie Loonsuckle from the cheap seats with his head now bopping between the trio of peepers, “She’s Got Legs.”

          “OK… that’s enough—everyone off the plane—we get refueled—in thirty minutes we’re wheels up again,” ordered Sally. “I’ll assume Sage, traveling with this armed entourage surrounding her, is a Sicilian thing.”

“I wonder where she’s headed?” queried Hazel.

          “Most likely the Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament,” answered Winifred. “She’s always a top contender.”

“And how did you garner this piece of intel?” questioned Sally.

          “Well, for one—I’m from the Lake Kariba area—small lakeside town called Binga. It’s on the south shore. And for two—other than fishing my whole life—I guided Sage’s team during the KITFT the past four years.”

“What is happening right now?” said Hazel… again.

          “We’re getting off this damn plane!” stormed Sally.

Winifred raised her eyebrows questioning if she had said or done something wrong. Hazel winced for what she felt was about to happen outside the plane. Jackie drooled in anticipation of meeting this Sicilian with jet-black hair, a Mediterranean tan, legs up to her shoulders, and a battle scar from a deep-sea fishing excursion.

Sally was last to deplane… allowing Team Eagle to break trail. There was no way of getting to the private terminal for passenger arrivals without passing through Sage and company. Weirdly, or not… Jackie was the first to march into the lion’s den. Nary a zag or a zig.

Fifteen paces away he reached out a welcoming hand to a total stranger. It took less than a second to have five unholstered pistols leveled, three short-barreled submachine guns raised, and two stiletto knives pointed in his direction.

And although he had done nothing wrong but encroach on the space of an ultra-popular European modeling star, his hands instinctively went above his head and the drool on his chin quickly dried. This was two seconds before Winifred could get to the head of the pack in attempt to allow cooler heads to prevail.

Speaking of prevailing… our main man Rusty Flathers was finally able to escape the loveable grasp of Ms. Ellie Waylayer and make his way to the harbor exactly three minutes before the fleet of guide boats and rentals returned from their day on the lake. Having been kissed so many times… he was now sure how a smallmouth bass felt after it has attempted to eat an above normal number of Berkley Flicker Shads with razor-sharp hooks. In the biz you say, this one has sore lips!

If Rusty could do anything right, it was being a cordial host. His five-o’clock hour on the docks was one of his favorite moments of the day. His lines with the customers varied, because he had quickly learned to read the crowd.

First and foremost, never ask the loaded question: How was fishing? This could backfire on a camp owner quicker than the exhaust on a burnt-out Honda three-wheeler.

The key was to start slowly: Good afternoon, everyone. Now came his chance to read the boat. If there was a Frowning Frank on board… Rusty dare not ask about the success of fishing.

But if the good afternoon, everyone triggers a Bragging Bart… Then he knows it is safe to cut loose with a plethora of camp owner one liners: Did you fill the boat—catch a thousand—wear ‘em out… or ultimately, go with who caught a trophy today?!

Tawny Bishop’s boat was all high-fives as their feet hit the dock. Not uncommon when your guide puts you on walleyes—musky—bass—northern pike… all in a single day.

“Wednesday night, boss. You frying fish tonight?” asked Tawny.

          “Yep, that’s the plan. I won’t bother asking if you have enough fish,” replied Rusty.

“Plenty. Even kept a couple of rock bass for Celine. Something about Nev and aphrodisiacs. You know anything about that?”

Before Rusty could respond… he felt a swat on his behind. Oh hell, he thought… trying to quickly come up with some way of telling Tawny why Ellie was at the island. The plane had to have been a dead giveaway.

Fortunately, the slap on the butt came from Celine. “You just get your ashes hauled, boss?” she smirked.

Now, eighteen shades of red… Rusty spun a one-eighty to face Celine… placing one foot on the gunnel of Tawny’s boat and one on the dock. A perfectly fine scenario… if the bow of the boat had been secured to a dock cleat. Of which in this instance it was not.

Never being good at doing the splits, Rusty’s frantic arm motions allowed little assistance for balance. His water entrance, albeit with a half-twist, was given a very low diving score of two by Tawny.

And then… with the entirety of his camp guests now spectating… Rusty spit a stream of water and a line of expletives from his mouth. Ever the opportunist Celine was kind enough to reach out a paw, saying, “Here, take my hand Mr. Afternoon Delight!”

Speaking of being delighted… This was NOT Sage Golden when she saw Winifred Dixie bounce between her and Jackie Loonsuckle.

“Hi Sage,” said Win… with as much of a fake, plastered on smile as she could manage.

          “Well, look gang, if it isn’t my former fishing guide,” replied Sage.

“Can you please have your security stand down?” asked Win. “This is Jackie Loonsuckle—just an excited fan—overly excited to meet you.”

Then, between moments of conversation, Sally Squatsnfishes made it to the forefront of the activity. “Hi, Sage. How nice to see you. What brings you to Dakar?” she asked while extending a formal hand and biting down on the right side of her lower lip.

          “Oh, well hello, Sally. I could say the same for you,” replied Sage… while reaching for Sally’s hand and then securing it with a vise-grip.

Hazel was right… about something happening. She had seen that look in Sally’s eyes before. But had never seen anyone brave enough to return the look with teeth gritted—while continuing to clamp down on Eagle One’s hand.  

“Been in the gym lately, Sage?” chirped Sally. “Your handshake is feeling a bit limp.”

Then came a left hook from Sage’s waist to Sally’s chin. Instantly there were more triggers cocking than a farmyard full of roosters. Hazel, already having drawn her weapon, watched in disbelief as Sally’s head reverberated from the blow. Her finger twitched on the trigger just as…  

–To Be Continued—