“Hey, boss… get dried off… we have a fish fry to orchestrate,” Celine said to Rusty as she pulled him from the lake onto the dock. “And don’t get sidetracked in your bunkhouse,” she winked.
Rusty was dripping from head to toe. Not only that… when he fell in the lake, he lost his favorite pair of Costa blue-mirrored sunglasses off the brim of his cap… along with most of his pride. “Celine, tell me… how did I not see that the bow of that boat wasn’t secured?” asked Rusty.
“I’m not the head wharf attendant, sir. I flip flapjacks—toss salads—make a mean French silk pie… have you ever mixed wild mushrooms in homemade gravy? Nev mentioned something about…”
“Ok, Celine,” Rusty interrupted, “let’s get ready for the camp fish fry.”
“Yeah… about that, Rust-Agustus… seems as though there’s been some wagering taking place betwixt the guests as to who and or whom might be the better fish fryer on this island. No serious money from what I gather. Basically, a fun little cook-off.”
“And that would involve who?” questioned Rusty.
“Oh… just you and me, boss… with Nev as the judge. But of course, now that Ellie’s here maybe we should expand the panel just to keep things fair among friends and lovers.”
“Celine, she’s here strictly as a friend.”
“Oh? Weird… because Minister Neville, on more than one occasion, has told me I can go to hell for lying. And those noises I heard coming from your bunkhouse earlier today? Sure didn’t sound like two friends playing Canasta.”
Back into the lake. That is where Rusty went next. Headfirst with a brightly colored face. Although this time it was by choice. Too many words from Celine forced him to: A) cool off before the cook-off. B) find his damn Costa’s on the bottom of the lake. C) determine if Ellie was just a friend.
Speaking of cooling off… the crowd on the tarmac was NOT. Matter of fact everyone’s heart skipped a beat as Sally Squatsnfishes’ right leg buckled from Sage Golden’s left hook.
It was Hazel Brown’s trigger finger that twitched first as Sally went to the deck. And Hazel wasn’t waiting for an eight count.
Her first shot was a warning… straight into the air… which may have proven to be more dangerous because bullets eventually come down. But it was enough to scatter the herd of would-be thugs, as she screamed, “OK—everyone take a breath!”
And then oddly… No one sounded off without so much as a peep. For sure not Sally. She was lying on her back—out cold. Possibly this stupefied the protectors of Sage Golden. It certainly dropped jaws on Team Eagle.
Then Ron Heimburg intervened. Money talks, or so he thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen… Ladies and gentlemen…” he began. “Might I question as to how this fracas started and to what means we can sort this out? If it’s something regarding financial matters, I’m certainly afforded the luxury to discuss…”
And before he could say the word “possibilities”, Sally sat upright… attempting to shake the cobwebs from her cage and asked, “What the hell, Sage?”
Tremendous question. One that produced a bitter response from her peer.
“You know damn well, Sally!” expressed Sage. “You show up outta nowhere… your fancy-ass chartered jet… then bounce across the landing strip with MY fishing guide for the Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament!”
“Whoa—whoa—whoa,” Sally replied as she lifted herself off the canvas. “First, everyone put your testosterone filled guns away. Second, what guide? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you,” replied Sage with a pointed index finger. “You, taking my guide Win Dixie away from me for this tournament.”
“Wow—so that’s it—you punched my lights out because you think I’ve undercut you on a fishing guide. HA!” Sally laughed. “I’ve known Win Dixie for a hot sec, as a flight attendant, on this plane that Ron Heimburg rented. That’s what I know about Win Dixie.”
“Ms. Sage,” began Jackie Loonsuckle, “if you’re lookin’ for a guide ma’am… I’d be more than obliged to…”
“Shut up, Jackie,” said Sally with a snap. “You’re on Team Eagle; you drool covered cow-chip.”
Then, from Hazel’s peripheral she caught Win Dixie’s face in the headlights. She could not interpret the tear on her cheek as one of anger for Sage Golden—or one of disappointment in Sally’s lack of trust.
“You two fashion-elites can both go fly a kite,” declared Win, and then she stormed back to the plane.
Sitting in the cabin lounge she glared out the window at both Sage and Sally. Then she pulled a hidden burner phone from under the cuff of her pant leg and pressed the #2 key on the speed dial.
On the opposite end a gravelly voice said, “I’m out of Africa.”
Win replied, “The Eagle has landed. She’s with the Riptide. Over…”
Meanwhile, back at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters… still no luck on the sunglass dilemma after multiple dive attempts. The first trip to the bottom produced a pair of women’s camo panties with the initials CMC embroidered on the left butt cheek in blaze orange.
“Are those yours, Flathers!” chirped Tawny Bishop while looking on from the cheap seats in her guide boat. “You looking to smuggle some grapes!” They belonged to Celine—thank goodness no skid marks.
The second plunge was more of the same… no glasses… but a True Temper fishing rod circa 1950s. Rusty tossed it onto the dock with rabid frustration.
“Flathers, are you jigging for Jesus down there! Bring up a fish next time!” Tawny roared.
His encore dive produced a carpenter’s level. Same one he dropped in the lake earlier this spring. A sign from above that he needed to level with Ellie, but there was so much water soaking into his ears—loon muck in his eyes—crayfish clasping to his forearms that he just wanted to abandon the salvage diving.
Then Tawny blasted, “What sort of underwater construction project you got going over there, Blathers? Or is there a Canadian Tire store having a sale under the docks!”
Within the hour a crowd of camp guests gathered, and Rusty made it to the fire pit for the official fish fry cook-off betwixt he and Celine. Ms. Ellie Waylayer was in tow… participating as a judge.
“Rules are rules,” informed Celine as Rusty attempted to connect a propane tank to a nearby fish cooker. “No gas… we’re going old school. Right, Nev? Open flame campfire.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Flathers,” said Neville, reaching his fist to the sky, “and God said Let There Be Fire.”
“I’m pretty sure it was something about feeding a man with one fish—feeding masses,” murmured Rusty. “Either way, let’s light a match, I’m up for this challenge.”
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 