Sleep with the Fishes Read Online Free Page A

eels that Phennel dug out of the mucky bends in Pink Creek. Lampers were hot commodities, especially when she came into a bevy of blue lampers, considered the hottest summer walleye bait at any price.
    “So I hear.” The Reverend fidgeted on Russ’s forearm as they approached the sagging Victorian house.
    “And Reverend Jim is come too. Why, do ya remember the first time ya brought that bird ’roun’ here? That was a sorry sight.” Phennel shook her head, rocked a moment, then stopped and put bent, oversized spectacles on her face.
    “Yup.” Russ paused at the porch steps. “Found him with a mangled foot, brought him to you, and you fixed him up.” The crow was left with one good foot and one stump, and when he walked he limped like a peg-leg pirate.
    “Ya mean the Reverend Jim Chattanooga fixed him up. I only doctored him. It was the five dollars I sent to Reverend Jim for a TV prayer that put the Lord’s healing in that bird. What ya got there, Mr. Smonig?” She knew, or should have known. He brought fillets every week. Maybe she didn’t want it to seem like charity.
    “Shad and walleye. I had extra and thought maybe you could use some. Only seems right, what with you paying that five dollars for that prayer.” Russ ducked under the hanging sign and stepped up onto the porch. As he did so, the crow hopped onto Phennel’s shoulder and cawed in her bad ear.
    “Why, that’s very thoughtful, Mr. Smonig. No roe yet, I suppose?” She looked up at him through her glasses, her wet sloe eyes searching his. Phennel was a sensitive, spiritual woman, and she could see pain in a person’s eyes.
    “No, not yet. I’ll just put these in your icebox.” Russ made his way through the flimsy screen door, and Phennel nodded her thanks. He returned shortly, conscious both of the sport waiting at his trailer and of Phennel’s probing eyes. He tipped his hat, ready to mumble his good-bye. Miss Rowe interrupted.
    “Ya missin’ Sandra pretty bad lately? If ya like, Russell, come by this evening for some Postum, and we’ll talk.”
    The name Sandra stung. Russ nodded at the offer of instant mock coffee, smiled weakly, and moved off to his truck without a word.
    When he climbed in, he discovered that the Reverend had jimmied the glove box and flown off with his Pabst bottle opener.

Sid arose to the distant applause of the river and wandered into his knotty pine kitchen. In a dented saucepan he whipped up some instant coffee. Steaming mug in hand, he shuffled through the tackle-strewn living room and kicked open the door to the porch. Squirrels exploded out of the rafters and dove for a gnaw hole in the porch screen. They were gone. Sid casually examined the leafy nest they’d fled as he settled into a PVC lawn chair.
    The weather had been unsettled, overcast skies spotted with teasing peeks of blue and the stray ray of sun. It was frosty out and early in the season for any frog or insect to make much racket in the morning. Only the river, which was running a little high, kicked up a fuss. All in all it was about as quiet as it got at Ballard Cabin, which was just about perfect musical accompaniment for Sid’s first morning alone in seven years. Piquant and piney country air filled his nose, an aroma he hoped would soon vanquish the lingering whiff of prison stench.
    Everything had happened just as he’d mapped it out over the years. His lawyer, Endelpo, had hatched Sid’s various nest eggs, sent him real estate clippings, cinched the deal on the cabin, and gotten him an LTD to replace his long-gone Marquis. Acknowledging that keeping Sid in New Jersey during probation might be a death sentence, Warden Lachfurst had been instrumental in negotiating a parole that allowed Sid to relocate. Of course he had to keep in close contact with his probation officer, a man who by no coincidence was a “bronze back” enthusiast. His P.O. had accompanied him to his new digs, and after inspecting the river advised Sid that he