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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...

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