“Get down from there!” she said.
“We’re going to make money!” Charlie shouted into the night. He pounded his chest with one hand while the other arm, extended, helped him balance. “Tarzan make big bucks!” he shouted in Weissmuller-inspired pidgin English.
“You’re crazy!” Megan said. The Ozarks rang in her voice. “Your neighbors are going to—”
“Tarzan is Lord of Jungle!” Charlie yelled. “Tarzan swing big dick in world of finance!”
“You’re out of your mind, Charlie!” Megan yelled back.
He bent at the knees. He could feel a wide grin spreading across his face at the thought of what he was about to do.
“You’ll kill yourself!” Megan shouted, guessing what was on his mind.
“Tarzan live forever!” Charlie shouted, and leaned forward, toes digging into the wooden rail for one last push as his body sailed out into the night.
“Charlieeee…!” Megan called.
The wind flowed through Charlie’s hair as he flew, straight as an arrow, downward to the pool. The cool waters received him as their lord.
FIVE
Arrived in this place on Friday morning last. Mr. John Vettner and crew, from New Madrid, from whom we learn, that they were on shore five miles below the place on Friday morning the 7th instant, at the time of the hard shock, and that the water filled their barge and sunk it, with the whole of its contents, losing every thing but the clothes they had on. They offered, at New Madrid, half their loading for a boat to save it, but no price was sufficient for the hire of a boat. Mrs. Walker offered a likely negro fellow for the use of a boat a few hours, but could not get it. The town of New Madrid has sunk 12 feet below its former standing, but is not covered with water; the houses are all thrown down, and the inhabitants moved off, except the French, who live in camps close to the river side, and have their boats tied near them, in order to sail off, in case the earth should sink. It is said that a fall equal to that of the Ohio is near above New Madrid, and that several whirls are in the Mississippi river, some so strong as to sink every boat that comes within its suck; one boat was sunk with a family in it. The country from New Madrid to the Grand Prairie is very much torn to pieces, and the Little Prairie almost entirely deluged. It was reported when our informants left it, that some Indians who had been out in search of some other Indians that were lost had returned, and stated that they had discovered a volcano at the head of the Arkansas, by the light of which they traveled three days and nights. A vast number of sawyers have rissn in the Mississippi river.
“Damn. Look at that. River’s sure high.” Viondi paused at the top of the crumbling concrete ramp. Nick Ruford passed him and kept walking down the ramp. “There’s floods up north, you know.”
“Hadn’t heard,” Viondi said.
“Haven’t been watching the news, huh?”
“Been workin’ double shifts remodeling those old buildings down on Chouteau. Ain’t had time to watch the news.”
Nick paused at the water’s edge. The swift river rippled purposefully across the boat ramp, as if it resented the presence of the concrete. There was a splash as the wake of a towboat raised a wave that splattered Nick’s shoes. He stepped back.
Viondi Crowley walked down the worn ramp in his sandals, paused to put down his creel, then stepped into the water, washing the dust from his big, square toes.
“River’s a cold motherfucker today,” he said.
“Careful. Or you’ll fall on your ass.”
The towboat’s wake slopped water over Viondi’s ankles. He backed out of the river, shook the Mississippi off his feet.
“Hand me the soap,” he said.
The Mississippi ran blue here—thirty miles above where, at St. Louis, the Missouri dumped half the mud of the Midwest into the Father of Waters. Long wooded islands stretched down the river, though at the moment most of them were half submerged, willow branches trailing listless in the flood. Two towboats were in sight, both pushing long tows against the current. The sound of their powerful turbines whined distantly off the water.
Nick looked out at the sparkling waters, felt the sun on his face. A mild wind stirred the hairs on his neck. He took a breath, tried to relax. Tried to make himself relax. And then wondered why it was so hard. It’s not like he had a job to worry about. Or a home. Or a family.
Hell, relaxing should be easy. So why wasn’t it?
He looked down as Viondi held the bar of soap in one big hand and carved it into chunks with his pocket knife. He retained two of the soap chunks, put the rest in their original wrapper, then put the wrapper in his pocket.
He reached out a hand, and Nick mutely handed him the fishing rods. Viondi baited them both with chunks of soap, then handed one to Nick.
“Better cast off the ramp,” he said. “With the river this high, there’s bound to be snags everywhere else.” Viondi stepped away to give himself some casting room, then brought the rod back over his shoulder and let it fly out. The reel sang as the baited line flew out over the river. There was a splash as it struck the water.
Relax, Nick told himself. You should relax. Fishing is the most relaxing thing in the world. He cast into the water, his movement more awkward than Viondi’s. The hook and its chunk of soap landed about twenty feet from where Nick intended. He had come to fishing late in life—his father, as he was growing up, had always thought the son of a general had more important things to do. Nick’s sports had been wrestling and track, and he’d been expected to stay on the honor roll for academics as well. There’d been Scouting—if a general’s son couldn’t make Eagle Scout, there was obviously something wrong with them both. And afterward there had been more school, and family, and his job with McDonnell.
Where did fishing fit into all that?
He hadn’t gone fishing in his life until he met Viondi.
“Hey, Nick,” Viondi said, as he reeled in. “What do you call a woman who can suck a golf ball through a garden hose?”
Nick looked at Viondi’s grin. “What?” he said.
“‘Darling.’”
A reluctant laugh pushed itself up from Nick’s diaphragm. “Where you hear these?” he asked. Viondi retrieved his lure, cast again. “There’s this rich white lady, see, goes to the doctor. And the doctor sits her down and says, ‘You’re in good health. And in fact I want to compliment you on the fact that your pussy is the cleanest I’ve ever seen.’
“And the lady says, ‘It better be, I got this colored man comes in twice a week.’” Nick’s laugh bubbled up like a spring.
“Made you laugh twice in a row!” Viondi said. “Gold star for me.” Nick wished he knew some good jokes he could use to answer Viondi’s. But Viondi was the only person who ever told Nick jokes.
“Where do you get these from?” Nick asked weakly.
“Work. Niggas gotta keep themselves amused working eighteen hours a day.” Viondi’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the water. “Strike,” he advised.
Nick had reeled his lure close to the shore; he looked down to see a dark shadow in the clear water, an engulfing mouth that opened startlingly wide before closing on the slice of soap and darting away. Nick jerked the rod to set the hook, felt the fish resist, heard the whine of the reel as the fish took the line out. Viondi cranked his reel to get his own line out of the way.
“Big ol’ catfish,” Viondi said, after they landed the fish. He laid the gasping fish on the fresh-cut grass he’d put in his creel, then smiled up at Nick. “Soap gets ’em every time.” Viondi was a plumber. He ran his own plumbing company with about a dozen employees, and Nick had made his acquaintance when he’d hired Viondi to replumb his old house back in Pine Lawn. He and Viondi had hit it off. Manon hadn’t liked Viondi as much as Nick had. She thought Viondi was crude and irresponsible. “How can he be irresponsible,” Nick had pointed out, “when he’s running a successful company?”