“Yeah, Ben… Uh huh… That’s right… Outta here,” said Sally as she made her way across the parking lot at Raker’s Marine. She was not stopping to bid farewell to Rod and Minnie Gills, she was not collecting two-hundred-dollars, but she was going to get past GO.
Her departure from the island took less than five minutes. Of which most seconds were spent hugging Link and scratching him behind his ears. She recalled the trip to Great Britain. She and Rusty—together—purchased the British Labrador as a sign of unity. Their Link to the future.
Beyond that… She and Tawny shared a moment… flipping each other off. This was somewhat in jest—somewhat in truth. Regardless, there was equal respect.
Then Sally went in search of Celine and Nev. They were in the back storage room of the kitchen with the door halfway open. She approached with caution.
Within earshot it sounded like some adult version of tag was being played. She put her hand on the knob—knocked twice—no response—swung the door open.
Alarmed, Minister Nev shouted out, “She maketh me lie down in green pastures!”
It took a hot second for his words to register. His dog collar was swinging from the ceiling. Celine had labels—food labels—taken from canned goods in the pantry—covering private parts of her body. And what Sally thought was a game of tag appeared to be some altered version of twister.
With bulging eyes—Sally gasped—stepped out of the room—slammed the door closed. She would never unsee that colossal entanglement of body parts.
From behind the door she could hear Celine say, “Guess she’s not a fan of floor games. I’m hungry. Hey Nevvy, my pasture’s not green. Want a goose pâté sandwich, with extra sweet and spicy pickles?”
And then the only one left was Rusty. He was sitting on a bench over at the boathouse. Hunched over—elbows and forearms resting on his thighs—head hung low refusing to make eye contact as she boarded Hooked on Poutine for the trip to mainland.
Link had now joined him—wearing his weathered aviator cap—also sitting with his muzzle aimed down. He was either parroting Rusty’s posture or peering through the slats in the dock watching his friends the crayfish chase sand flies along the edge of the shore.
Even her conversation with Cosmoid on the ride over had been less than audible. Matter of fact, after unloading her gear, “I won’t miss this place,” was her cold, castoff response to Cos after he had said safe travels. Then without so much as a parting nod, she unhitched the line from the dock cleat, tossed it over the length of the bow, and marched away.
“There’s No Place Like Home,” she said. Then continued her conversation with agent Ben T. Hook. “Right now, my plan is to go to the nearest airport, get upstate to my parents’ cottage—finish planning this KITFT. I’ll call you back once I cross the border.”
“How’d you leave things with Rusty?” quizzed Ben. “Did he…”
“I gotta GO,” she responded, tossing her bags into the back of the JEEP CJ-7 hardtop. It was a little beat up on the sides. So was she.
The motor growled when the engine fired. She skipped first gear—popped the clutch—spun gravel under the posi-traction wheels.
Cos remained in the captain’s chair of the passenger boat watching her create separation from Lac des Bois. The rocks had long since settled in the parking lot, but the dust of Sally Squatsnfishes hung in the air. It was a cloud of doom and gloom, along with a fair amount of anger.
Meanwhile, the cedar-built lodge at the Gold Rope Ranch in Montana was abuzz. “Yes, Ben, right away… No, Ben, of course… Wire the money, got it… Yes, he’s available… Ok, thanks, my best to Sally… Goodbye, Ben,” were Ron Heimburg’s words as he returned the phone to its receiver on his desk.
Jackie Loonsuckle was the first to take the call from Sally’s agent Ben T. Hook, but as the proverbial bankroll for the fishing tournament was being discussed, it became prudent for Ron Heimburg to handle the financial details. Something Jackie never had to deal with or contributed two cents toward.
Ron on the other hand was a Jewish financier. High finance to be exact. The man could rub two wooden nickels together and make a dollar. That and the fact that his wife Michelle was a Cardiothoracic Surgeon at the prestigious Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. Her position included an endowed chair with a research portfolio. Just what the doctor ordered when it came to rounding up a cool million for an entry fee to a fishing tournament in Africa.
Rounding up the money was the right away portion of Ron’s phone conversation. This, and the of course, meant there would be total discretion per whom was actually putting up the fee for Sally’s team. No need for the press-world to second-guess her financial portfolio.
Wire the money would be a bit tougher—logistically speaking. The Gold Rope Ranch was more than off the beaten path. It was a euphoric hunting and flyfishing destination that could only be located by GPS, and one would also need the ability to travel a two-track dirt path for thirty-eight miles from the nearest gravel road.
Yes, he’s available was a two-fold response to Ben. First, Ron had decided quickly over the phone to take Jackie with him to this tournament detail. He was tremendous with a fishing rod… Could hold his own in most any back alley or tavern… And God knows the kid had the spare time.
Second, he trusted his godson to travel to town with 10 neat bricks of banded hundreds. The one million dollars would come from the slush in Ron’s vault. He just needed to crack the safe—phone his friends at Glacier Bank with a heads up the kid is coming in—they would wire the money.
Could Jackie make it down the thirty-eight-mile two-track getting him near Twin Rivers, then another one hundred thirty-two miles to Kalispell, all without complication? Yes, without doubt.
Jackie Loonsuckle by nature was a world-traveling flyfishing bum—sponsored by his beloved father Geoff—railroad transportation mogul and co-owner of The Gold Rope Ranch with Heimburg. The Loonsuckle lineage ran deep through the historic valleys of Montana. Their five generations had traversed every square inch of the state with good looks, athleticism, business intellect, and generational wealth.
Was Jackie dominating by nature? YES.
Was he capable of not offending people with his brashness? NO.
Did he stick an arrow through the hand of Rusty Flathers and pin him to a bison? YES.
Had a week gone by that he had not thought about Sally Squatsnfishes and her adventure to the ranch two years ago? NO.
With a million dollars’ worth of bricks stuffed into a Simms wet bag, Jackie climbed into his K10 Stepside four-wheel drive and slammed the door. The sun was blazing in the Montana sky, casting vibrant rays off the two-tone Apache gold and white truck, and his generously handsome shoulder-length blonde hair.
He turned the key and the straight pipes barked. Just like he had heard Ben telling him about Sally’s growl with Rusty. Sounded like their days of playing house were over.
“Guy might be able to land two trophies in one trip,” he thought. Then dumped the clutch and toasted the tires.
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 