Tropical Depression by Laurence Shames Read Free Book Online Page A

God there's just the Seminoles and Miccosukkees."
    "Who got a right—" Bert started.
    "Forget right," said LaRue. "How d'you make up what's lost on untaxed gaming? You wanna see a state income tax go in?"
    Doc and Irv blanched deathly white beneath their winter tans.
    "While the Indians per capita get richer than Kuwaitis," the proctologist groused. "Call your half and raise a quarter."
    "And in your face wit' another half," said Bert. "The Indians deserve to make a livin'."
    Irv said, "Plus you have, you know, the element that comes in when there's casinos."
    "Shut up about the element," said Bert the Shirt, "we're playin' poker heah. It's fifty cents. If I was you, Doc, I'd go out."
    The doctor threw in half a buck.
    Murray drained his second daiquiri, tongued the last drop of froth from the lip of his plastic glass. He wasn't thinking about poker anymore. He was sitting in the spaceship of a gazebo, staring at the green felt table that seemed now to lean and lurch a little, and he was wondering about this retirement thing, the abruptness of it. Despair? Old overnight? Hey, he was still a doer, a restless spirit, a hyper guy with ants in his pants. For him, there were still accomplishments ahead, projects, deals; just don't ask him what they were.
    Irv dealt. A third queen fell to Bert the Shirt.
    "Shoulda gone out when I tol' ya, Doc," said the former mafioso.
    The other man threw in his cards.

8
    The next morning Murray did not have a hangover, exactly, but things felt stale and grainy inside his head. The brain juices that had been flowing freely the past two days seemed to have sludged up, he imagined smeared rainbows on the backs of his eyes as in a puddle of oil. If he'd had aspirin he would have taken some. But he didn't, so he popped an extra Prozac.
    After that the day passed pleasantly enough, though he was out of sync with it, felt like he was on a moving walkway while the rest of the world was not. At ten-thirty it seemed it should have been noon; at three o'clock he was faced with a dense wad of time before sunset. As ever, he needed an activity. He thought about fishing, imagined the ancient thrill of seeing a fish pulled from the water.
    He remembered the elegant uncoiling of Tommy Tarpon as he cast for bait. He got in the scratched-up Lexus where his gear was stowed, and headed for Big Bubba's to buy a net.
    It was a little early for fishing when he arrived at White Street Pier; the regulars had yet to arrive. Still, Murray was careful not to occupy the spot belonging to the Indian. He stopped maybe twenty-five feet shy of it and leaned his pole against the railing.
    Then he unwrapped his net. It was white and crisp as a virgin's underpants, its obvious newness embarrassed him. He was eager to get it in the water, get some slime and seaweed on it.
    He put the retrieving cord in his teeth, the way the Indian had done. He spread the mesh across his fists like pizza dough. He tried to curl up like a discus thrower but looked more like a tormented bonsai tree. He took a breath then attempted to uncoil smoothly; the motion was more like a man ridding himself of poisoned food. The net didn't spin, didn't flatten. It hit the water like a sack of trash about three feet from the pier and scared away the fish for many yards around.
    Nonchalantly, with the cord still in his mouth, Murray glanced over his shoulder. No one but a couple of herons and a pelican had seen the abortive toss; it hadn't really happened.
    On the second throw he did a little better; by the sixth or seventh try the mesh was spreading; by the tenth the net was landing softly. On around the twelfth toss it all came together: The fabric sprang like a flight of doves from the Bra King's hands; it opened and twirled against the flaming yellow backdrop of the sun; it hovered like a whirlybird, preparing to settle quiet as a cloud on the green surface of the sea.
    Murray watched serenely as the perfect small event unfolded. He felt neither modesty nor