68 Rage They had come off the water an hour ear lier still fum ing. “Those god damned son sa bitches,” the re al tor swore. “I’d have cold cocked that mo ther fucker driv ing if we could have chased him down.” The doc tor said noth ing, bit back the re mains of his own anger with an other salty sip from his mar ga rita. It was wa tery and di luted, as warm and non de script as the seedy Texas bar where the two of them sat. “It’s not often con di tions are that per fect,” he an swered fi nally. “Tide com ing in. Ner vous water. Gulls div ing every where and fish feed ing less than twenty yards away. I’d dropped my fly just off the nose of one of the two or three biggest I’ve ever seen when that first wake-wave washed in.” “Those god damned mo ther fuck ers.” The doc tor lived in San An to nio, fished the coastal salt wa ter flats half a dozen times every sea son. The re al tor, from San Fran cisco, had never fished for red fish be fore. “We’ll try them again to mor row,” the doc tor said, un con vinc ingly. His brother-in-law was sched uled to fly home later in the after noon and the morn ing tide wasn’t prom is ing. But that fact he didn’t men tion. Best not to make him any an grier than he al ready was. “You never know, on pub lic water,” he said in stead. “I’ve al ways hated those fuckin’ things,” the re al tor spat, un mol lified. “Boats are bad enough, but at least they need a couple of feet of water. Those damned Jet Skis can go any where.” 69 Rage “I’ve never seen one be fore on that flat.” “Well, you’ve seen one now. And five’ll get you ten you’re gonna see the bas tards there again.” Nei ther of the fish er men said any thing more for some time— pushed what re mained of the stale drinks aside as the re al tor or dered an other round. The cowboy-booted wait ress si lently de livered the fresh ones and carted the re jects away on a metal tray. “I ac tu ally did cold cock a guy once on the De schutes,” the re al tor said, his eyes lin ger ing on her body as the young woman walked out of the bar into the at tached res tau rant. “I was on a kick ass steel head pool, one of the best on the river. Cock sucker moved in on me so tight I’d have hooked him with a back cast if he hadn’t called me a selfish ass hole, got up in my face, and made me nail him first with my fist.” The doc tor stared across the table at him, ex pres sion less. “It hap pens,” he said softly, sip ping his fresh drink. The first time the two men had met, the day be fore his wed ding six years be fore, the phy si cian had re al ized within five min utes that they had and would al most cer tainly never have any thing in com mon but fly fish ing. Up to now, it had been enough. He’d dis creetly tried for sev eral min utes to steer the con ver sa tion away from the in ci dent on the water, had the same suc cess he’d had try ing to fathom the realtor’s red neck pol i tics. “So does shit.” He looked at his brother-in-law again, thought what the hell. If they weren’t going to let go of it, so be it. At least the story was rel e vant. The guy was his wife’s brother, after all, hard as that was at the mo ment to take. “The one I re mem ber hap pened about ten years ago, on the Big horn,” he began. “I know you’ve never fished it. But you know all about drift boats. And in the fif teen miles or so below Yel low tail Dam it’s how most guys out there are fish ing, the ma jor ity with a guide...