I said, “At least let me help you with your makeup. It looks like you’ve been crying coal dust.”
FIFTEEN
When the door to the church bus hissed shut, I headed for the dock but stopped halfway. The black catamaran skiff was drifting just off the channel, while the driver leered at me over his Yosemite Sam mustache. When he was sure I saw him, he thrust out his arms, as if inviting a tango partner, and yelled something about cold weather, then, “Wanna dance instead?”
His name was Larry Luckheim, according to my deputy friend Birdy, who had shared the information over a glass of wine. He’d moved to the area from Canada via Okeechobee, where the Bass Pro circuit had dumped him for cheating. Quaaludes might have also played a role. Now he was fishing light tackle out of Placida and trying to rebuild his reputation as Buddy Luck, Native Guide.
Birdy had told me some other details as well. Twice, women had filed restraining orders against him. There’d been several assault charges related to bar fights, and a court order had mandated two weeks of psychological evaluation. It was three months before Luckheim was released. Bipolar disorder, was the vague diagnosis.
Equally as disturbing, Birdy’s background check turned up zero information prior to the man’s twenty-fifth birthday. No driver’s license or voter’s registration, and no arrests.
On the bright side, it was illegal for Luckheim to buy, own, or possess a firearm.
What Birdy didn’t have to tell me was, the man was a bully. I strode toward him, determined to establish the boundaries of my personal world-the dock, my skiff, and the boat that was beginning to feel like home.
“I bet you’re more of the clogger type, aren’t you?” he hollered. “You’ve got the look of hillbillies and whiskey in those legs of yours. Oh… and catfish. I bet you’re death itself on saltwater cats.”
I ignored him, while battling to keep my skirt down and my demeanor aloof despite the fact I was barefoot.
“Hey, I found my copy of Florida Sportsman. Those pictures don’t do you justice, but at least you were wearing shoes. Hell… I’ll buy you shoes-if you give me your autograph, and let me take you dancing.”
He twirled an invisible partner and attempted a sultry looked as “they” dipped. The effect was grotesque.
This was not the first man I’d dealt with who was jealous of magazine pieces written about me, a woman guide who taught fly casting and whose clients had won tournaments. Thanks to good photography-and, for all I know, Photoshop-the stories had gotten a lot of attention, most of it pleasant, some not. But this, by far, was the craziest man to take offense.
I went into my cabin, locked the door, drew the curtains, and changed clothes. When I came out, I was wearing khaki shorts and a navy blue sweatshirt. The man was still there, within casting distance of the dock, separated only by the cleaning board and a gooseneck lamp. I took out my phone, let him see me do it. As I dialed Birdy, he grabbed a bait-casting rod and freed a fishing lure that rattled with treble hooks. “Who’re you calling? You’re not the only one who’s got cops as pals. You’ve been checking on me, girl. That’s not right, us being in the same profession and all.”
We were close enough now, he didn’t have to yell. Instead, he spoke in a cheery, conversational way-then suddenly snapped a sidearm cast. The lure, with its silver gang hooks, came at me like a bullet, threading the space between the lamp and the cleaning board. Before I could flinch, he thumbed the spool and stopped the lure inches from my face. The lure plopped into the water at my feet while I finally did react in a lurching, clumsy way. Embarrassing-which is what he wanted.
“Why’d that scare you? Hell, I’d choose a Shimano over any sniper rifle in the world. You’ve never seen an expert fisherman cast before, have you? Here, honey, watch this.”
He did it again. Again, I ducked away from the lure. It was a reflexive reaction I couldn’t control, yet I kept the phone to my ear while Birdy’s recorded voice said, “You know the drill.”
I straightened to my full height and pretended as if she had answered. “Deputy, yes, it’s me again. You were right about that restraining order. Yeah… same guy, but on my own property this time. Threatening me, he sure is… Hang on.” I covered the phone. “Your name’s Larry Luckheim, right? Or would you prefer to be arrested as Buddy Luck? Give it some thought-your picture might finally make the magazines after all.”
The insult took some air out of his swagger. To compensate, he deployed his fake Cracker accent. “You got a mouth on you, girl, but ain’t your lips a tad too round for jokes? Here’s what’s funny-take a guess how many clients you lost to me this week. Two. An old married couple who wanted to pick oranges, not fish. Like I said, it’s all about marketing. I told them, ‘The only reason you prefer fruit to snook is because you never fished with a real guide.’” He aimed a hairy, bulldog grin at my stunned reaction. “Don’t ask their names. Us pros don’t give out shit like that.”
Underhand, this time, he flicked the lure. Something in me snapped. I threw my arm out and caught the line as treble hooks whistled past my ear. I stepped back and yanked. There is no stretch to Dacron fishing line, and that’s what Larry had spooled. The rod flew into the water while steel hooks pierced the back of my wrist. I pretended not to notice. Hand over hand, I towed the rod to the dock, then picked it up, with all the cool I could muster, and began cranking up slack.
“The magnetic spools on these Shimanos,” I said, “they’re okay for beginners, but don’t you lose distance when you cast? I can teach you how to avoid backlash, if that’s the problem. You know how to reach me, don’t you, Larry? What with stealing my clients, I assume you looked me up.”
The man recoiled with benumbed expression. “Goddamn, lady… you’re nuts, that’s what you are. I could’ve ripped your arm off, if I wanted to-”
I talked over him. “Not out of kindness, you didn’t. You could’ve blinded me, you idiot!”
“Damn right, that too. Next time, maybe I will. Any fool who grabs a MirrOlure bare-handed deserves whatever they get. Don’t make me come up there and get my fishing rod. More than just your hand will be bleeding if you cross me.”
My wrist, not my hand, was dripping blood, but the hooks weren’t barbed, and only one had bit deeply. Good-let the man believe I was crazy. Much depended on the question I asked next. “Larry, answer me. Did you look me up on the Internet? If you did, you know I don’t tolerate bullying. Not from the likes of you-or anyone else. There were plenty of articles a couple years back that prove it.”
He’d seen the news stories. What he’d read was in the nervous pretense of his denials.
“If you ever threaten me again,” I said, “I’ll do whatever it takes. That’s your choice.”
He puffed up his ego enough to answer back, “You’re saying that story about you shooting some criminal down in the Glades is true? I don’t believe it. Never read a newspaper yet I believed. He wasn’t much of a man if he stood still for your nonsense.”
“If my aim was better,” I replied, “he’d be less of a man now. Ask his friends about it your next trip to Raiford prison.” I clipped the lure free of the line and stepped aboard the Marlow as if in a hurry to fetch something.
I heard the cat’s twin engines fire up, the clank of gears, and felt the rolling wake when Larry sped away. The whole time, I sat shaking in the hollow privacy of my cabin, where I battled the urge to scream, or cry, or telephone for help. But I did neither, save for a few traitorous tears.
No one can save you from a bully but yourself. I’d been through it enough in high school to know.
On the other hand… it couldn’t hurt to enlist the opinions of a few trusted friends. How would they handle the situation?