Rescue

barking orders.
    Thinking of a Legal Seafoods market case back in Boston, I said, “Those weakfish?“
    The knife worked on the skin of the fish he was filleting. “No. These are speckled trout. Mouths are the same, though.“
    “The mouths?“
    Again the look, the sunglasses blocking any reading of his eyes. “Why they’re called ‘weakfish’ back north. The mouth is like tissue paper, hook tears right through it, you’re not careful bringing them in.“
    Tossing some of the entrails from the fish to the big white bird, he made sure it had some before he scattered the rest for the pelicans, hopping and yapping as they shoveled stuff with their front-end-loader beaks. He gave the impression of a man who didn’t talk much but didn’t mind talking.
    I said, “Why’d you do that?“
    “Do what?“
    “Toss the food first to the heron?“
    “Egret. Great egret, technically.“
    “I thought it might be a heron.“
    “Herons have yellow bills and yellow legs. What’s that one got?“
    I looked at it. “Yellow beak—“
    “—bill—“
    “—and black legs. That makes it an egret, huh?“
    “Every time. You don’t give the egret its food first, he’ll go after the pelicans. And not just the food, either. I once saw an egret like that drive its bill clean into the skull of a pelican, most vicious thrust I’ve seen outside of... in a long time. Like a dart through a melon.“ Flinging some skin in slices to the birds in the same order as before, he seemed to decide he’d been a little pedantic with me. “Howard Greenspan, by the way.“
    “John Francis.“
    Half smile. “Sorry about not shaking.“
    “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.“
    “Best to clean them soon as possible.“ A visored look. “You a fisherman, John?“
    “Not really. I have the impression you are, though.“
    “All my life.“
    “From the Keys originally?“
    “No, but my wife and I have been down here twenty years now, and we go after them day and night.“
    “Where do you fish?“
    “Out back.“
    “I’m sorry?“
    Greenspan pointed with the knife toward where I thought the mainland would be. “ ‘Out back’ means the back country, the little mangrove islands north toward the Everglades.“ He pointed the knife the other way. “Between the main Keys and the reef, we call that the ‘patches,’ kind of reef fishing, still pretty calm. Beyond the reef and into the ocean proper, we call that ‘outside.’“
    “Bigger water.“
    “And bigger fish, that’s your preference. Don’t taste any better, though.“
    “You ever available for hire, Howard?“
    Again the visored look, with a little frown. “Don’t hire for anything, anymore.“
    I was losing him and didn’t want to. “What did you do before retiring?“
    “Some soldiering, some business things. You?“
    “The same.“
    Greenspan looked over again, but didn’t follow up.
    I said, “How much soldiering?“
    He started on the next fish. “Marines, twenty-four years’ worth.“
    “Beginning?“
    “Just after Pearl through early ‘sixty-six.“ A pause that might have been a hesitation, might have been my imagination. “You?“
    “Army, late sixties.“
    “Late, you say?“
    “Went in mid ‘sixty-six. Discharged a captain, ‘sixty-eight.“
    A nod, then nothing but, “Colonel, myself.“
    “Decide that trying for thirty just wasn’t worth it?“
    Another look, and I didn’t think he was going to say anything until, “Kind of.“
    I let that part drop and took a chance that his last name implied no connection to Wyeth’s church. “So, you fish the back country. That mean all around these Keys?“
    “More up north, like I said. The Bob Keys, Manatee.“
    “What kind of boat?“
    Greenspan gestured with his head this time. “That one there.“
    I looked past the black modular docking to a couple of boats about twenty feet long. They looked identical, same length, color, and tall bridge area amidships, even the same 150-horsepower engines. Except the near one had a blue bubble light on top of its bridge and the words FLORIDA MARINE PATROL stenciled on the hull.
    I said, “The police boat?“
    “No. The one next to her.“
    “They brother and sister?“
    A gruff, gravelly laugh, the kind you heard bucking up spirits in foxholes. “Kind of, actually. The Marine Patrol bought both of them—Aquasport 19s—then ran out of budget to run them. They’ve got money to put gasoline in their black-and-cream cars, but not their