This was not a good sign.īud Schwartz clutched at the damp towel. After a while, he noticed that the two other fishermen were doing the same. Every few minutes a pair of headlights would appear down Card Sound Road, and Joe Winder would check to see if the car stopped at the foot of the bridge. Both wore baseball caps and light jackets, which was odd, considering the heat. The other was short and wiry, and as dark as coffee. One of the men was a husky no-neck in long canvas pants. By eleven most of them had packed up their buckets and rods and gone home, leaving the jetty deserted except for Joe Winder and two other diehards.ĭanny Pogue angrily pounded the floor with one of his crutches.For someone who don't like to lie, you sure do make a sport of it. The other fishermen were using dead shrimp with similar unexciting results. In this fashion he picked up a couple of blue runners and a large spiny pinfish, which he tossed back. He let it sink into the fringe of the sea grass, then reeled in slowly, bouncing the lure with the tip of his rod. Effortlessly Winder cast the same pink wiggle-jig he'd been using on the bonefish flats. Oh, don't worry, Molly said.I wouldn't dream of saying anything to the authorities. Have you ever heard of the Mothers of Wilderness? asked Molly McNamara. The bay was shallow and provided no cover if the goons had guns, they could simply shoot him like a turtle. The most obvious means of escape would be jumping into Card Sound while exceptionally dramatic, such a dive would prove both stupid and futile. Worse, they stood squarely between Winder and the relative safety of the island. Joe Winder realized that he was stranded on the jetty with two goons who probably were waiting to ambush him. Somehow we must redeem ourselves.īud Schwartz stretched out on the sofa, closed his eyes and smiled in resignation.You're a piece a work, he said to Molly McNamara.I gotta admit.Īs midnight approached, the other men stopped pretending to fish and concentrated on the road. Most likely the goons would be expecting him at twelve sharp, some dumb shmuck hollering Koocher's name under the bridge. It was a gray overcast night, and he was doing a creditable impersonation of a preoccupied angler. Joe Winder's only hope was that they wouldn't recognize him in the dark with his hair hacked off. Once in a while they'd pull in the lines and cast out again, usually without even checking the hooks. They were using Cuban yo-yo rigs, twirling the lines overhead and launching the baits with a loud plop into the water. As Joe Winder watched them more closely, it seemed that the men were doing more serious talking than fishing. The other men stood side by side, conversing quietly in Spanish. How nice, said Bud Schwartz, his voice cold. Kingsbury is offering a reward to anyone who turns in the vole robbers? I'm coming to that, said Molly McNamara.By the way, did I mention that Mr.
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