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57 Span­ ish Fly Call me Pedro.” The words ­ seemed in­ no­ cent ­ enough at the time, ­ merely the lat­ est of his harm­ less ­ quirks, like his taste for fla­ menco music and the oc­ ca­ sional ­ pitcher of san­ gria. But they loom now, look­ ing back, as Pete­ Smith’s pri­ vate Ni­ ag­ ara—the mo­ ment he went over the edge. When I ­ fished with him next, a month later, he was work­ ing an eve­ ning midge hatch on the Mad­ i­ son. He’d ­ pulled his hair back into a tight po­ ny­ tail. A new pair of black neo­ prenes ­ stretched over his raw­ bone frame, sheath­ ing it like a body con­ dom. And the ­ dinged can­ teen that had ­ bounced ­ against his lean ­ flanks for years had been re­ placed by a goat­ skin bota. “What the ­ hell’s got into him?” Clyde ­ croaked that night as we sat­ hunched over our tying vises in his den. “The bas­ tard looks like he just got off a bus from Ju­ a­ rez.” I ­ didn’t re­ spond, in­ tent on pal­ mer­ ing a webby ­ length of ­ hackle over a dyed tuft of fur from a road­ killed ­ coyote. “Beats me,” I fi­ nally mum­ bled, still ­ locked in on the ­ streamer emerg­ ing under my jit­ tery fin­ gers. The shape and color of a stick of dy­ na­ mite, it was des­ tined to hit the water as the Big Wile E. “A ­ shrink would have a field day with that guy,” I added, snip­ ping off a way­ ward guard hair. “He’s get­ ting ­ weirder all the time.” Wally nod­ ded and slid off his stool. “I need an­ other brew,” he said, head­ ing for the ­ kitchen. 58 Spanish Fly Clyde ­ squinted at his dis­ ap­ pear­ ing back. “Cer­ veza,” he ­ growled, his ar­ thritic dig­ its bent ­ around a ­ hot-pink ­ swatch of wood­ chuck ear hair. “Bring me one of ’em too.” “Serve you what?” Wally said, turn­ ing back. His oval face fur­ rowed in the blue light of the re­ frig­ er­ a­ tor door. “An­ other beer,” I said. “Dis­ re­ gard the Cly­ dester. What­ ever bug bit Pete must have got a piece of him too.” “Are you nuts?” Clyde shot back. “I was just ­ repeatin’ the only word I’ve heard from him ­ lately where I had some idea what he was ­ sayin’. What the ­ hell’s a taco bar, any­ way?” The old electri­ cian shook his head in dis­ gust. Hanks of fur ­ sprouted like centi­ pede legs from under his thumb, fring­ ing the hook he’d­ wrapped with elas­ tic from one of his ­ ex-wife’s gar­ ter belts. Over the years I’d seen him tie the gaudy fly by the box­ ful, swear­ ing he’d quit tying them the day he ex­ tracted one from a ­ fish’s lip. The bib­ u­ lous night of his di­ vorce, when he’d ­ created it, he’d chris­ tened it the Over ’n Dun. “Tapas bar,” I cor­ rected him. “It’s a bar that ­ serves ­ appetizer-type food. He told me ­ they’re big in Spain, like all the other stuff he’s got­ ten into since he came back from that va­ ca­ tion. ­ You’ve heard him. Hu­ evos ran­ che­ ros. ­ Paella. Clas­ si­ cal gui­ tar.”­ Clyde’s baggy eyes ­ rolled to­ ward the ceil­ ing as the tying ­ thread­ snapped under his thumb­ nail. “Far as I’m con­ cerned, it’s all a bunch of bull,” he ­ groaned. “That too,” Wally said, hand­ ing him his beer. A few weeks later the four of us were out again, on ­ bigger water, and the sea­ son had ­ changed. The as­ pens had ­ turned ­ golden and the cot­ ton­ woods had begun to drop their ­ leaves in the gun­ me­ tal runs and the rif­ fles that shim­ mered like sil­ ver in the au­ tumn ­ breeze. Pete ­ leaped out of the van be­ fore the motor died and scut­ tled off into the pines, a ­ leather sad­ dle­ bag slung over his rod case. The raven hair he ­ hadn’t cut for­ months fell in long raf­ fish ­ strands down his shoul­ ders. His nos­ trils ­ flared like a rut­ ting ­ deer’s. When he ­ strode out of the trees ten min­ utes later...

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