Tropical Depression by Laurence Shames Read Free Book Online Page B

pride, had the peculiar Asiatic sensation that the throw had nothing whatever to do with him. It was just a lovely thing.
    So lovely that a sense of wonder pried open his jaws. The retrieving cord flew out of his mouth and landed with a small splash in the ocean. He was no longer attached to the net that had spun so prettily and was now slowly but inexorably beginning to sink down toward the muck.
    Murray said, "Oh shit."
    The crisis instantly made him a Westerner, a Manhattanite again. Synapses fired. Serenity exploded. He grabbed his fishing pole, leaned far out over the railing. The rod tip fell an excruciating inch or two short of the subsiding fabric. Faster than the mind could talk things over with the body, he had a different idea. Below the railing was a knee-high concrete wall; between the wall and the rail was about a foot and a half of empty space. If Murray squeezed himself into that groove, he could reach farther out, maybe he could grab the sinking net.
    With the false agility of the desperate, the Bra King dove into the slot. His groin compressed against the hot concrete of the wall, his shoulder blades were pinned by the metal tubing of the rail. Head suspended above the green Atlantic, he flailed his rod at the disappearing net and managed to snag a strand of mesh. Pulse throbbing, he used the fishing pole like a knitting needle, poked and turned it till the fabric was attached securely. He grunted, he sweated, he savored the mindless effort.
    Finally he was ready to pull in the rescued net. That's when he realized he was stuck.
    He arched his back to rise; the railing pressed against his spine like a giant foot and kicked him down again. He hunkered low and tried to squirm along the wall; the concrete cinched his thigh and raked against his squashed testicles. He lifted his head; the back of it clanged softly against the metal rail. The arm that held the fishing pole soon went into a numbing cramp.
    Gulls laughed. Cormorants crapped down from the tops of lampposts. The Bra King writhed and sweated. He tried to shrink himself, tried like a half-crushed bug to slink away on whatever appendage still had life. But he was going nowhere, and at length he heard a clanking squeak, as of a rusted bicycle. He turned his neck with the pained slowness of a tortoise, glanced up with popping eyes like those of a caught fish, and saw the Indian.
    The Indian said, "Fuck you doin', man?"
    "Fishing," said the Bra King, weakly.
    "Got a funny waya doin' it."
    To this Murray said nothing.
    The Indian said blandly, "Want a hand?"
    "Tha'd be great."
    In no special hurry, Tommy Tarpon climbed off his bike. A practical man, he first took the rod from Murray and gathered in the sodden net. Then he grabbed the Bra King by the belt and an ankle, and set himself to yank. "Tuck your head," he advised.
    He didn't say it quite soon enough. He reared back and hauled. Murray came free with a scraping sound, then clunked his skull on the metal rail. There was a ringing, the Bra King couldn't tell which side of his brainpan it was on. But he stood and faced his rescuer, looked him in the eye. "Thanks," he said. "You're very kind."
    The word had an odd effect on Tommy Tarpon. It seemed to make him impatient, elusive, as though it was an accusation. He went to his bike without a word, rolled it to his spot.
    Murray leaned against the railing, a little unsure of his legs. His clothes were splotched with sweat, a soft breeze tickled the wet places. He watched the Indian go through his ritual: the telescoping rod, the six-pack, the milk crate, all taken from his cart of shells. He watched him make his one casually perfect throw of the net. He watched him gather in his bait.
    He was still leaning motionless against the rail when Tommy had filled his yellow bucket and made his first cast toward the lowering sun. The Indian glanced quickly over at him, said, "Didn't you say you were fishing?"
    Murray had sort of forgotten about fishing. His back ached