Iron Lake (43 page)

“Means good ice fishing,” Cork considered.

“Yah,” the Finn said, nodding. With a look of envy, he eyed the nearest fisherman on the lake. “Been a busy year. Ain’t had near enough time in my boat. Like to be on the lake right now, fishin’ like dat son of a gun out dere.” He watched a few moments more. “Well,” he decided, “maybe not like him.”

Cork glanced at the fisherman on Iron Lake. “Why not?”

“Hell, look at ‘im. Don’t know squat about fishin’. Usin’ a surface lure, looks like. You know, a topwater plug. Supposed to hop the dang thing across the surface, fool them Northerns into believin’ it’s a frog or somethin’. Dat guy’s lettin’ it sink like it was live bait. Ain’t no fish dumb enough to hit on that.” He shook his head in misery. “God save us from city folk.”

“Come to think of it,” Cork said, “he’s been out there the whole day and I’ll be damned if I’ve seen him pull anything in.”

Charlie handed Cork a pen and a receipt to sign for the chips. “Now you tell me why any fisherman, even a goddamn dumb one, would stay in the same place the whole day if the fish ain’t bitin’.”

Another scream burst from Sam’s Place.

“Dat Annie?” Charlie asked.

“She’s listening to the Notre Dame game. They must’ve scored again.”

“Still plannin’ on bein’ a nun?”

“Either that,” Cork said, signing for the boxes of chips before Charlie took off, “or the first female quarterback for the Fighting Irish.”

Sam’s Place stood on the outskirts of Aurora, hard on the shore of Iron Lake. Sam Winter Moon had built a simple, sturdy dock where the pleasure boats that supplied most of his business tied up. Directly north was the Bearpaw Brewery, separated from Cork’s property by a tall chain-link fence. Cork didn’t much like the brewery, but, in fact, it had been there longer than Sam’s Place, and in the hard economic times before the Iron Lake Ojibwe built the Chippewa Grand Casino, it had sustained lots of households in Aurora. So what could he say?

Cork eyed the nearly empty lake as he passed the chip boxes through the window to Annie. “What do you say we call it a day,” he suggested.

“What about Jenny?”

“She knows the way home.”

“We’re supposed to stay open another hour,” she reminded him. “What if someone comes expecting to eat and we’re not here?”

“What’s the use of being the boss if you can’t break the rules once in a while?” Cork told her. “Let’s shut ‘er down.”

Annie didn’t move. She nodded toward a car pulling into the place vacated by Charlie Aalto’s chip truck. “See? A customer.”

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