counting them, crossing the room. "Oh, these are pretty. Aren't these pretty," she says to the customer. She picks up one of Sam's big flies and offers him the money, but Sam doesn't take the bills. She puts them on the counter.
"Tell you what, Moley," Sam says. "I'm going to make you a deal on these flies. I've got five hundred dollars' worth here. I'll give you all of them for three hundred, plus I'll make another twenty-five for the wide-mouths." He pushes the bags back across the counter.
Molina clicks his tongue and shakes his head. He pushes the bags back. "You know the story. No storage and not much ready cash. Just write me out a receipt for seventy-five dollars."
Sam folds his arms. He doesn't touch the bags. He's nodding and feels cold in the sticky room. He eyes Molina, and Molina's eyes shift down. Moley's got cash in a safe in his hurricane shelter, lots of it. Sam has seen it. Moley knows that. They got drunk together in that shelter once, and Moley showed him the safe.
"Okay, I guess I'll have the ballyhoo," the customer says, picking up a bag of bait. He puts it in front of Molina on the counter, pushing one of Sam's bags out of the way. The man steps in front of Sam, looking into the glass display case, tapping his finger on the glass. "So that's a Marlin II reel? Can I see it?"
"You know the score, Sam," Molina says. "Your flies sell good. I want to sell them for you. I got no storage space." His eyes shift away.
"Three fifty," Sam says. "You just missed out on my good deal. Still, it's a savings, Mole. Three hundred and fifty right now today. If you want to see me again."
"What do you mean by that?"
Sam nods. "Known you a good while, Jorge."
Molina closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You haven't been coming around regular, Samuelito. You bring me some in a couple of weeks, I'll be ready."
"Now that's a dual-mode, isn't it? Can I just take a look at that?" the customer says, and Sam turns around, walks out of the room, leaving the flies and the money behind.
He crosses the parking lot quickly, pulling his flask from his back pocket, taking a drink, then another. He opens the truck door and gets behind the wheel, slams the door, turns the key, puts the truck in gear, starts to back up, then stops. He stares at the open door. He says, "No sirree, no sirree," just under his breath. He turns the key off and folds his arms. After a few minutes, Mary steps out on the porch and looks at him. She's holding the cash and a bag. She starts to step down but stops when Sam shakes his head, a precise back and forth. He says, "No sirree." He takes a drink. Mary shrugs, hesitates, then turns and steps back in.
Cars and trucks come and go in the parking lot. The day is sweltering, and the air in the pickup is rank, a little like rotting meat. A mosquito plays in and out of the window, buzzing around Sam's right ear, but he pays it no attention. He opens his glove compartment, where he keeps a receipt book and pen. He takes the book and writes Jorge's name and the date at the top of a receipt, and below that $350, and below that Cash. He tears the receipt out, lays it on the dash, opens the glove compartment, puts the book and pen back in. He takes a drink.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt comes out carrying his bait bag. He glances at Sam and quickly away. Sam can see Mary through the open door, standing in the shadow where she probably thinks he can't see her. Other customers come and go.
Forty-five minutes later, Jorge comes out. He stands on the porch, glowering at Sam, shaking his head. He steps off the porch and starts toward Sam's truck. Halfway across the parking lot, he stops. He shakes his head slowly. Sam nods. Molina's cheeks fill with air, then deflate. Finally he turns and walks around the store toward the backyard, where the hurricane shelter is. Sam nods, keeping his right foot pressed hard on the brake. When Molina comes back around the corner, his hands are stuffed in his pockets. He walks to the
"Tell you what, Moley," Sam says. "I'm going to make you a deal on these flies. I've got five hundred dollars' worth here. I'll give you all of them for three hundred, plus I'll make another twenty-five for the wide-mouths." He pushes the bags back across the counter.
Molina clicks his tongue and shakes his head. He pushes the bags back. "You know the story. No storage and not much ready cash. Just write me out a receipt for seventy-five dollars."
Sam folds his arms. He doesn't touch the bags. He's nodding and feels cold in the sticky room. He eyes Molina, and Molina's eyes shift down. Moley's got cash in a safe in his hurricane shelter, lots of it. Sam has seen it. Moley knows that. They got drunk together in that shelter once, and Moley showed him the safe.
"Okay, I guess I'll have the ballyhoo," the customer says, picking up a bag of bait. He puts it in front of Molina on the counter, pushing one of Sam's bags out of the way. The man steps in front of Sam, looking into the glass display case, tapping his finger on the glass. "So that's a Marlin II reel? Can I see it?"
"You know the score, Sam," Molina says. "Your flies sell good. I want to sell them for you. I got no storage space." His eyes shift away.
"Three fifty," Sam says. "You just missed out on my good deal. Still, it's a savings, Mole. Three hundred and fifty right now today. If you want to see me again."
"What do you mean by that?"
Sam nods. "Known you a good while, Jorge."
Molina closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You haven't been coming around regular, Samuelito. You bring me some in a couple of weeks, I'll be ready."
"Now that's a dual-mode, isn't it? Can I just take a look at that?" the customer says, and Sam turns around, walks out of the room, leaving the flies and the money behind.
He crosses the parking lot quickly, pulling his flask from his back pocket, taking a drink, then another. He opens the truck door and gets behind the wheel, slams the door, turns the key, puts the truck in gear, starts to back up, then stops. He stares at the open door. He says, "No sirree, no sirree," just under his breath. He turns the key off and folds his arms. After a few minutes, Mary steps out on the porch and looks at him. She's holding the cash and a bag. She starts to step down but stops when Sam shakes his head, a precise back and forth. He says, "No sirree." He takes a drink. Mary shrugs, hesitates, then turns and steps back in.
Cars and trucks come and go in the parking lot. The day is sweltering, and the air in the pickup is rank, a little like rotting meat. A mosquito plays in and out of the window, buzzing around Sam's right ear, but he pays it no attention. He opens his glove compartment, where he keeps a receipt book and pen. He takes the book and writes Jorge's name and the date at the top of a receipt, and below that $350, and below that Cash. He tears the receipt out, lays it on the dash, opens the glove compartment, puts the book and pen back in. He takes a drink.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt comes out carrying his bait bag. He glances at Sam and quickly away. Sam can see Mary through the open door, standing in the shadow where she probably thinks he can't see her. Other customers come and go.
Forty-five minutes later, Jorge comes out. He stands on the porch, glowering at Sam, shaking his head. He steps off the porch and starts toward Sam's truck. Halfway across the parking lot, he stops. He shakes his head slowly. Sam nods. Molina's cheeks fill with air, then deflate. Finally he turns and walks around the store toward the backyard, where the hurricane shelter is. Sam nods, keeping his right foot pressed hard on the brake. When Molina comes back around the corner, his hands are stuffed in his pockets. He walks to the
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