to the fly bins and sees that the cubby where Molina keeps his fancy flies is empty. Two teenage girls crowd in, looking in the cubbies. He moves on to the frozen cases, reading labels on boxes he can barely see through the frosty glass: Mullet, Squid, Pilchards, Ballyhoo, Spanish Sardines, Cigar Minnows, Chum.
"My friend Sam might disagree with you,
verdad,
Sam?" Molina calls. "What'd you bring me?" Sam walks back to the door, picks up two bags, walks over to the counter, and puts them on top of it. "People around here have been having luck with Sam's ties.
Buenas dias, señor. Donde estabas
?" Molina says, stretching his hand out.
"Moley," Sam says, shaking it.
He returns to the door, picks up two more bags. Behind him, Molina clicks his tongue.
"
Hola,
Sam," Mary says.
"Mary." Mary could be her husband's twin, they look so much alike. They're nearly the same height, though Mary is fleshier. Her hair is a longer version of her husband's, thick and wavy, and both have mild brown eyes.
"What'd you bring me,
viejo?
" Molina says again. "
Pesces largos?
" He grins. Sam scoots a bag toward him, and he opens it, pulling out one of the fake mackerels. "We can't keep these in stock," Molina says to his customer. "Not this month, not next. Try one of these, my man. Test your luck."
"Wouldn't use artificial bait," the man says.
"Artificial's starting to take off," Molina says. "Works, and it's not so smelly."
"Live bait and a Carolina rig," the man says. "Can't miss. Did you ever try that?" the man asks Sam. He pulls a snapshot out of his shirt pocket and hands it to Sam. Molina smiles, ducks his head, and occupies himself with Sam's flies. Molina spends his weekends listening to the weekend fishermen tell their stories and show pictures of their catches. "People don't understand the Carolina rig," the man says. "They don't trust it. Pure ignorance."
Sam stares at a picture of this man standing in a boat, holding what looks like a good-sized bass attached to a hook and line that must be this Carolina rig. The man in the photo stares solemnly at the camera's eye. Sam nods and hands the photo back. He watches Molina count his flies by twos.
"Carolina rig with live ballyhoo."
"I count twenty-five,
verdad,
Sam?" Molina says.
"Twenty-five," Sam says.
"Fifty bucks," Molina says.
"Working's one thing," the man says. "Working better is another."
"What else you got?" Molina says, nodding at Sam's other bag.
Sam pushes it across the counter and reaches for two more bags on the floor. Molina opens the first and looks in.
"Yes, indeed, I was up on the Potomac with a friend of mine when this picture was taken. Have you ever fished up there?"
"What I'm going to do with these?" Molina says. He pulls out a handful of the white flies Sam tied last fall, getting ready for Alice before she didn't come. Sam has named these Florida Ghosts. When the mackerel start running, a little white fly on the top of the water will bring them in. He's seen Alice land twenty in an hour. Schools of mackerel start running in November and December. "How many you got here, Sam?" He drops the handful on the counter.
"Hundred."
"Hundred? What I'm going to do with them?" He shakes his head, gathers the flies up again, and drops them back in the bag. "Can't use them, Sam. In a month or two, yes." He pushes the bag toward Sam.
Sam pushes it back, and pushes another alongside it. "Wets," he says. "Blue Dun, Black Gnat, Coral Moth, Mirth. Red-winged Moth, Silver Speeder ... What you want, Moley? You don't see it here, I'll do it special."
Molina peers into the four bags on the counter. "Been busy, eh,
tÃo?
Well, I wish I could. The
pesces largos
are the ones that are moving right now, Sam. I could use maybe another twenty-five. As for these others..." He pushes the bags back across the counter. "Mary, give me seventy-five dollars. We'll advance you on the next batch."
Mary rings up a sale. Sam watches her take money from the register, shuffling bills,
"My friend Sam might disagree with you,
verdad,
Sam?" Molina calls. "What'd you bring me?" Sam walks back to the door, picks up two bags, walks over to the counter, and puts them on top of it. "People around here have been having luck with Sam's ties.
Buenas dias, señor. Donde estabas
?" Molina says, stretching his hand out.
"Moley," Sam says, shaking it.
He returns to the door, picks up two more bags. Behind him, Molina clicks his tongue.
"
Hola,
Sam," Mary says.
"Mary." Mary could be her husband's twin, they look so much alike. They're nearly the same height, though Mary is fleshier. Her hair is a longer version of her husband's, thick and wavy, and both have mild brown eyes.
"What'd you bring me,
viejo?
" Molina says again. "
Pesces largos?
" He grins. Sam scoots a bag toward him, and he opens it, pulling out one of the fake mackerels. "We can't keep these in stock," Molina says to his customer. "Not this month, not next. Try one of these, my man. Test your luck."
"Wouldn't use artificial bait," the man says.
"Artificial's starting to take off," Molina says. "Works, and it's not so smelly."
"Live bait and a Carolina rig," the man says. "Can't miss. Did you ever try that?" the man asks Sam. He pulls a snapshot out of his shirt pocket and hands it to Sam. Molina smiles, ducks his head, and occupies himself with Sam's flies. Molina spends his weekends listening to the weekend fishermen tell their stories and show pictures of their catches. "People don't understand the Carolina rig," the man says. "They don't trust it. Pure ignorance."
Sam stares at a picture of this man standing in a boat, holding what looks like a good-sized bass attached to a hook and line that must be this Carolina rig. The man in the photo stares solemnly at the camera's eye. Sam nods and hands the photo back. He watches Molina count his flies by twos.
"Carolina rig with live ballyhoo."
"I count twenty-five,
verdad,
Sam?" Molina says.
"Twenty-five," Sam says.
"Fifty bucks," Molina says.
"Working's one thing," the man says. "Working better is another."
"What else you got?" Molina says, nodding at Sam's other bag.
Sam pushes it across the counter and reaches for two more bags on the floor. Molina opens the first and looks in.
"Yes, indeed, I was up on the Potomac with a friend of mine when this picture was taken. Have you ever fished up there?"
"What I'm going to do with these?" Molina says. He pulls out a handful of the white flies Sam tied last fall, getting ready for Alice before she didn't come. Sam has named these Florida Ghosts. When the mackerel start running, a little white fly on the top of the water will bring them in. He's seen Alice land twenty in an hour. Schools of mackerel start running in November and December. "How many you got here, Sam?" He drops the handful on the counter.
"Hundred."
"Hundred? What I'm going to do with them?" He shakes his head, gathers the flies up again, and drops them back in the bag. "Can't use them, Sam. In a month or two, yes." He pushes the bag toward Sam.
Sam pushes it back, and pushes another alongside it. "Wets," he says. "Blue Dun, Black Gnat, Coral Moth, Mirth. Red-winged Moth, Silver Speeder ... What you want, Moley? You don't see it here, I'll do it special."
Molina peers into the four bags on the counter. "Been busy, eh,
tÃo?
Well, I wish I could. The
pesces largos
are the ones that are moving right now, Sam. I could use maybe another twenty-five. As for these others..." He pushes the bags back across the counter. "Mary, give me seventy-five dollars. We'll advance you on the next batch."
Mary rings up a sale. Sam watches her take money from the register, shuffling bills,
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