SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4) Read Free

always caught fish. For the past several years I’ve rented the same two-room, spider-rich cabin in the most secluded part of the lake. There is nothing like rowing across a mist-covered lake in the early morning when there is still a chill in the air and there is the prospect of catching a lunker bass. The row back, sans fish, is not as much fun.
    The rental agent said she would leave the key under the mat. It was late on a Friday and I headed to Maloy’s. The kitchen closes at 10 P.M. and I made it just in time to order a burger. I washed it down with three bourbon Old-Fashioneds. I think I’m the only person to order Old-Fashioneds in Maloy’s. I’ve been working off the same bottle of bitters for a couple of years.
    I spent Saturday and early Sunday beating the water into a froth with every lure in my arsenal. Even the bluegills ignored me. Perhaps it wasn’t mating season. At night in Maloy’s, I seemed to be the only one without a fish story, true or not. You can’t lie about fish if you didn’t catch one. I couldn’t even brag about the one that got away when it was an old shoe that fell off my hook before I got it into the boat. I was beginning to wonder if a well-placed hand grenade could be considered an artificial lure.
    Then, late Sunday morning, I was working some structure near a large fallen tree. The tree and some of its submerged branches had already gobbled up two of my more expensive lures and I had decided to try a weed-less contraption that looked like a can opener. There weren’t any weeds, but I was hopeful that the wire guard around the single hook would prevent a snag on anything. Still, the casting was tricky. There was a small gap between the tree and the shore where the water was darker than elsewhere. I suspected there was a deep cleft or pool. My first four casts either hit the shore or the tree trunk, short of where I wanted to be. I created a lot of ripples, so I sat back and waited 15 minutes until the water calmed. If there was a fish in that pool, I didn’t want to spook it. If there wasn’t, I was going to feel pretty stupid. But feeling stupid went with the territory. After all, I was hoping for a fish that wanted to eat a can opener.
    I made a perfect cast into the gap. I let the lure sink and then started retrieving. I got stuck. It wouldn’t budge. I’d obviously caught on to some submerged branches. So much for a weed-less lure. The hell with it. I didn’t want the damn lure anyway. I pulled back hard on my rod, intending to break the line and call it a weekend. I’d head to Maloy’s Tavern and go into my fall-back spiel about the wonders of fresh air. 
    When the three-pound largemouth broke the water with my lure flashing in its mouth, I almost fell backwards off my seat. 
    Ten minutes later, after several magnificent jumps, the beautiful olive green fish, its dark horizontal stripe glistening along its flank, was flopping wildly in my boat. I usually practice catch-and-release, but I decided to eat my trophy. The fact that it was fooled by a can opener indicated that its loss would not endanger the lake’s gene pool. I rowed back to my cabin and cooked the bass on the shore next to the dock the way my friends and I had when we came up to the lake on a Red Line Bus in high school. Cut into chunks, soaked in beer, breaded and pan fried in butter over a fire made from broken branches. Ate it with my fingers, too, washed down with the rest of the beer. I’ve had neater meals, but none better. I felt like Natty Bumpo.
    I decided to call it a day. Things could only go downhill. I went back to the cabin and cleaned up, then stopped at Maloy’s on the way home for some coffee and homemade apple pie. I was hoping there would be other fisherman there. There were. By the time I left, my largemouth was the size of the Hindenburg. I got back to Staten Island late Sunday night. It had turned out to be a great weekend.
    ***
    Except for the dream. The one I had my first night