Raising Rufus Read Free

the richest man in Menominee Springs. He got that way by being the owner of the Trout Palace, a sprawling house of amusements that attracted vacationers from hundreds of miles around. Set on thirty acres of prime wooded parkland, the Trout Palace had, as Mr. Fairfield loved to boast, something for everyone.
    Martin rode up and parked his bike next to the big wooden sign at the front gate that said it all:

    Martin went through the gate and walked past the outdoor rides, which hadn’t really interested him much since he was about eight—a mini train, a merry-go-round, a slow-speed coaster, pony rides, and a few other unchallenging distractions—and stepped up to the front entrance of the main building.
    The Trout Palace was a big half cylinder of corrugated steel that reminded Martin of a hangar for a jumbo jet, if there were a way to get a jumbo jet into the middle of the woods. The inside was laid out so that anywhere you looked, something would draw you in. Everything promised on the sign was there, and more, though none of it was as modern and thrilling as you might expect. Most of the attractions had been there, unchanged, for more than thirty years.
    There were a lot of reasons to visit Menominee Springs in the summer—fishing, camping, hiking, waterskiing, or just soaking in the relaxing, woodsy atmosphere—but it was the Trout Palace that really brought people in. There was just something about catching your own lunch in a man-made pond or watching a dancing beaver in a tutu that made folks want to pile their families into the SUV and head across the state. And they kept coming year after year, defying all logic—never mind the video games, the Internet, the big-screen TVs, and all the other modern gadgets that usually occupied people’s leisure time.
    All of which made Ben Fairfield a very happy man. Or so you might think if you were one of the visitors he would personally greet just inside the entrance with a big smile and a firm handshake, his bald dome glistening under the tube fluorescents.
    “Hi there! Welcome to the Trout Palace!” he’d say. “Where’re you folks from?”
    “La Crosse.”
    “Oh, yeah. My favorite town.” Then he would lean down to the kids. “You ready to have some fun, partners?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Well, don’t spend all your dad’s money. Ha ha ha ha ha!”
    Martin didn’t much care for Mr. Fairfield—partly because he always called him Murphy, and partly because of the way he treated the Trout Palace employees, which was nothing at all like the way he treated his customers. The people who worked there were mostly high schoolers on summer break, and Mr. Fairfield never missed a chance to throw off a nasty remark or make them feel stupid. Whenever Martin was in the place, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for them.
    There were a few Trout Palace employees, though, who were treated quite a bit better by Ben Fairfield. These were the ones with a lot of skills and experience, the ones Mr. Fairfield realized he needed as much as they needed him—like the technical supervisor, Mr. Gordon Tinker. Martin’s dad was the man who made sure all the electrical and mechanical contraptions were in top working order at all times. He was the best there was, and Mr. Fairfield knew it.
    Nobody was busier in the weeks before the Trout Palace opened than Mr. Tinker. So as Martin walked up to the building’s grand entryway, he was hoping it wouldn’t be too hard to find him. He still had that bizarre frozen fossil on his mind, and he just wanted to pass off the keys and get back home to the lab. Plus, a quick exchange would minimize the chances of running into Mr. Fairfield.
    Luckily, just as Martin came in the main door, he ran into his dad—or his dad’s legs, actually. He was standing on a ladder with the upper half of his body inside a giant fiberglass fish that hung from wires attached to the ceiling. The fish’s gaping mouth had some gear work connected to it, and Mr. Tinker was