Fish Nets: The Second Guppy Anthology Read online

  Rocky and S.H. emerged from the Dark Zone and abruptly stopped while Rocky’s eyes adjusted to the light. They were breathing hard and couldn’t talk. Exhausted, they slowly made their way back to their home and friends.

  “We didn’t think we’d ever see you again,” the anthias said.

  The convict tang added, “We heard the fire fight.”

  Maria nuzzled Rocky. “You’re my hero.”

  “Rocky must have dove under the sand a number of times to stay safe,” Flasher sneered.

  Ignoring Flasher, Rocky gently explained to the damsel that they didn’t find her mate. She sobbed but thanked them for looking.

  Then he and S.H. shared slightly exaggerated stories about their adventures. All agreed that even though there was a killer mantis shrimp in their world that he wasn’t the one eating reef people because they would have heard its club thunder. However, if they ever ran out of food they would need to watch out for the deadly mantis shrimp and the serpent star.

  Rocky left the chattering group to think. If neither the mantis shrimp nor any of the other inhabitants of the Dark Zone was responsible for the disappearance of the fish, then who or what was?

  Maria swam over. “What’s troubling you?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  Fin in fin, Rocky and Maria swam up to the water marker. Rocky explained his scientific observations of the decreasing water level. He pointed out that they hadn’t had new water poured into their home since they stopped seeing the five fingered appendage with the net.

  Maria frowned and used her fin to wipe the glass clean. She peered out to the vast dry-world filled with strange formations and shakily pointed. “There are water drops on the ground leading from our home to that water and sand filled cube way over there.”

  Rocky froze then slowly bubbled. “The cube appeared a week ago, just before the water level began to decrease and our tank mates started disappearing. I think the predator lives in that cube.”

  Rocky and Maria dove down to tell the others of their discovery. They, along with S.H. and Flasher, agreed to stay awake and sound an alarm if there was an attack. As the light faded, the rest of the reef people hid themselves for the night.

  After an uneventful evening, Rocky, Maria, S.H., and Flasher nodded off with their eyes open.

  “Slurp, slurp, scrape.”

  Awakened by the muffled sounds, Rocky shook his head and nudged the other three awake. “Listen.”

  They tilted their heads and listened intently but all was quiet. “You’re being paranoid, Rocky,” Flasher said.

  “Look,” Maria yelled and pointed to a large rubbery body with eight suction cupped arms crawling up an outside corner of their home. The octopus moved the lid aside, tipped its large head down and stared at them.

  Without warning, one arm quickly unfurled and dropped down into their home reaching for Maria. Chaos erupted. S.H. repeatedly sounded his pistol alarm. Flasher bubbled, “Devil fish,” let out excrement and dove under the sand. Rocky lunged and pushed Maria into a hole in the rock, away from the searching octopus arm. She cowered inside as the tip crept closer to her.

  Rocky flared his bottom, top and side fins. He shimmied, wiggled and slapped his tail against the suction cupped arm again and again. It drew away from Maria and with a swinging action threw Rocky against a jagged rock. He dropped to the bottom, lay still and began to bleed. The devil fish arm moved toward his motionless body.

  Fearing he would be eaten, he yelled, “I love you, Maria.” Then a blinding light shone. “I see the light, Maria. I’m on my way to the Big Reef.”

  Instead, the heavens parted and the fish net swooped in and scooped up the invading octopus.

  * * * *

  A few days later, Rocky, his body healing from his near fatal fight, and Maria swam together enjoying the clean atmosphere and algae-free walls. The lighting and water flow were back to normal and all the inhabitants were healthy and happy.

  The net had once again appeared—this time bringing new residents to Reef Town. They saw S.H. digging a burrow to share with a new goby fish who would take care of the almost blind S.H. The only unhappy inhabitant was Flasher, who now spent most of his time under the sand because of the embarrassing excrement incident.

  In the evening, Rocky and Maria stopped and looked out at the infinite world beyond and the distant water cube. They noticed its top now had a large rock sitting on it, no doubt intended to keep the octopus confined.

  “It’s good to have a safe environment to raise kids,” Maria said with a sidelong glance at Rocky.

  Rocky bubbled with joy. Together they dove under the sand with their fins and tails kicking up sand dust, shining silver under the now functioning moonlight LEDs.

  THE GIRLS IN THE FISHNET STOCKINGS, by Judith klerman Smith

  Fish nets hang from the ceiling, walls and bar of the Calais Club, a speakeasy in mid-town Manhattan. Lorraine, the girl with a new flash bulb camera talking the customers into having a picture taken, continues the pattern. She wears fishnet stockings which make her long legs look extra sexy under a French-maid tutu-length costume. She balances herself on shoes with three inch heels. I wear an outfit like hers but instead of a camera, I carry a tray of cigarettes and cigars suspended from a ribbon around my neck.

  Business is booming like it is every night, and both Lorraine and me are kept busy. Lou, the bartender, once explained how come there are no problems with the cops. The right Feds have been greased, and the local bulls are on the weekly payroll. And Lou should know. He’s related to the boss, Johnny Remo. He’s like a nephew or something. But he doesn’t act like it. Not the way his cousin Eddy who also works at the club. Lou’s a good guy. He kinda looks out for us girls, like when a customer mouths off or can’t keep his hands off me or Lorraine. Lou sets the creep straight, pronto.

  I sell my last pack of Lucky Strikes and I’m resting my tootsies in the dressing room when Lorraine shows me the glossy. She’s going over the pics she snapped, matching them to the couples. Eddy develops the negatives for the joint. He has a dark room at the club so he can do it right away. That way the customers don’t have to wait—not like Joe Public whose got a Brownie camera and has to take his film to the pharmacy.

  “Look at this, Gwen,” Lorraine says.

  I look but I don’t recognize the couple and say so.

  “No, not the people in front. Look at the next table. In back of them.”

  Then I see it. “Holy, moley. That gunsel’s got a rod on the guy next to him. It looks like he’s making him get up and they’re leaving. We better tell someone,” I say.

  “Are you nuts?” Lorraine says. “You want to get us killed? I’m not delivering this pic. I’ll tell the customer it got spoiled.” Then she takes the picture and puts it on the bottom of her pile of snaps.

  I don’t feel right about that. But what can I do? I don’t know who the people in the picture are or who the gunsel is. Maybe he works for Johnny Remo. Maybe not. And Lorraine’s probably right. Asking the boss would be suicide. As it is she’s gonna have a tough time figuring what to tell Eddy when she doesn’t show up with money for the photo. But I don’t want to argue. My shift is over, and I’m in a hurry to get home so I can soak my aching feet. I change into my street clothes and go home.

  I pick up the Times on my way to work the next afternoon. Then I know who the guy in the snap with the gun in his ribs is ’cause his dead body is on the front page: It’s Henry Harrison Blakely, III, the banking guy’s son. Now what am I going to do?

  Lorraine is in the dressing room when I get to the club. I show her the front page and she turns white as the club’s table clothes.

  “What do we do?” I ask.

  “I’ve got to think on it,” Lorraine says.

  We change into our costumes and get to work.

  It’s tough keeping my smile on and making small talk, and I can tell whenever I spot Lorraine that she’s having a hard time, too.

  We both take a lu
nch break about midnight and meet back in the dressing room. By then I’ve come up with sort of a plan.

  “What did you tell Eddy about the pic?” I ask.

  “I told him I spilled a drink on it, and it’s spoiled. I can’t sell it, and they didn’t want to wait for another one. ”

  “Do you still have the glossy?”

  Lorraine nods.

  “You need to show it to Lou. He’ll know what you should do.”

  “That’s screwy,” she says. “I’m not sticking my neck out. I like to keep on living.”

  The next few hours are tense, but we make it to closing. I try talking Lorraine into asking Lou what he thinks, but nothing I say works. Lorraine is sure it’s dangerous to ask. I tell her she has to do something. She wants no part of it.

  So it’s up to me. She can stay nice and safe. I got to take the chance ’cause if I don’t my cop-dad’s ghost is gonna haunt me. It’s like this. Even though Dad wouldn’t like my working in a speak, he’d let it go—he liked a drink now and then himself—but he’d draw the line at letting someone get away with murder. And I do too.

  I borrow the picture from her, fold it and slip it into my purse. Then I go talk to Lou. He’s still at the bar polishing glasses.

  “Lou, got a minute?”

  “What you want, kid? I’m ready to call it a night. I’m bushed.”

  “It’s about this picture,” I say, showing him the glossy. “Lorraine and I don’t know what to do.”

  Lou studies it. He’s quicker than me. He whistles. “Now, that’s interesting. I suggest you rip it up and go about your business.”

  “But, Lou, the guy is dead. It’s in today’s Times,” I say.

  Lou shakes his head. “My advice is the same. Rip it up and forget about it.” He hands back the picture, and I put it in my purse. So much for taking a chance.

  I go back to the dressing room and tell Lorraine.

  “Lou’s right, Gwen. Rip up the picture.”

  “I can’t, Lorraine. Not yet. I need to figure if I can do something.” I turn, leaving her with her mouth hanging open, and go home.

  The next afternoon as I head into work I’ve made up my mind. I don’t think I can trust the police, and what good would it do to go to the dead guy’s family? Lou and Lorraine are right. The guy’s dead. Why risk our lives?

  I knock on the club door like everyone has to do to get in, and Lou looks through the peephole. He opens the door right away, and instead of letting me in, he slips out, holding the door so it doesn’t close all the way. I’m surprised. One of Johnny Remo’s gunsels usually mans the door into the speakeasy, and he doesn’t step out to talk.

  “You’re not dead,” Lou mumbles just loud enough for me to hear him.

  “What’s going on, Lou?” I ask.

  “Lorraine’s dead. Shot. Some bum found her in the alley this morning, still in costume, and called the police.”

  I gasp. I feel the tears brimming over and rushing down my cheeks.

  “That picture,” Lou says. I can hear anger in his words.

  “But Lorraine wouldn’t have told. She wanted to rip it up, like you said.”

  “Don’t matter,” Lou says. “She knew.”

  “Who did you tell, Lou?” My voice trembles.

  “I didn’t say nothing. It was Eddy. Eddy suspected something when Lorraine said the glossy got ruined. He printed up another one from the negative and took a closer look. He squealed to the boss, and the boss told one of his guys to take care of it. The cold bastard took her outside and shot her.” Lou’s next words were whispered. “Don’t stick around, kid.”

  “Why?” I whisper back.

  “Because Johnny Remo wants you dead, too. Eddy said how you and Lorraine are close. What she knows, you know. So Johnny’s muscle is looking for the other French maid in the fishnet stockings.”

  I turn around and go home, not even taking time to tell Lou thanks for the warning. When I’m back in my room I take the picture that got Lorraine killed and put me on the run out of my purse . The snap is the only thing I got that connects me to Lorraine. I let my tears fall, splashing on the glossy. I’m crying for Lorraine, but for me too. Then, angry, I rip the picture until only tiny pieces are left. That evening I grab a Greyhound for the West Coast. I take my memories with me, but you can be damn sure I don’t take my French maid costume or fishnet stockings.

  KEEPING UP APPEARANCES, by Julie Tollefson

  Nick wiped a ring of condensation from the bar and restacked a handful of cardboard coasters. He glanced at Ray, the bar’s only patron, nursing his bottle of cheap beer and staring expressionlessly at the muted television replaying highlights of last night’s ball game. He dragged his attention back to the papers spread behind the bar, but the buzz of his phone promised to rescue him from the distasteful task. Then he saw the caller’s ID. Larissa, his soon-to-be ex-wife.

  He considered letting the call roll to voice mail, but he knew from experience that Larissa would call non-stop until he answered.

  “Yeah?” He didn’t attempt to hide his irritation.

  Larissa sighed heavily. “You don’t have to act like it’s such a chore to speak to me. I’m still your wife.”

  Nick bit back his response and counted to five before allowing himself to speak. “What do you need, Larissa?”

  “I have had the worst day, and I just need to talk. Can you come over, just for a little while?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I’m working.”

  Ray chose that moment to drain the last of his beer and heave himself off his barstool. Nick watched his only excuse to keep the bar open walk unsteadily out the door.

  “Nettie can’t sleep. She wants you to read her that story about the giraffe. She says I don’t do it right.”

  Nick closed his eyes. “It’s not fair to keep doing this, Larissa. She’s only with you one night a week. Surely that’s not too much to ask.”

  Even as he said it, he knew it was too much to ask. Larissa had made it clear to him when she moved out that she had no interest in being a wife or a mother. She had played both roles for five years, and now she had grown bored.

  “You’re not here, listening to her whine. It’s always the same. ‘Daddy doesn’t do it that way.’ Well, I’m tired of it, Nick. Be here in fifteen minutes.”

  * * * *

  Nick arrived at Larissa’s apartment planning to tuck Nettie in for the night and then leave. He had no intention of spending any more time with Larissa than necessary. He knocked lightly, unwilling to disturb Nettie if she had settled down on her own. No response. He knocked more insistently until he was sure he had roused everyone in the building. Finally, he let himself in with the key Larissa had foisted on him “just in case.” Until now, he hadn’t had reason or desire to use it.

  The disarray of Larissa’s living room stopped him just inside the door. Her coffee table lay on its side pushed against the too-big TV stand wedged between the door and the kitchen wall. One of the ugly crystal lamps he had always hated lay shattered against the far wall. A dark rusty-brown patch stained Larissa’s prized white rug.

  “Larissa?”

  No answer.

  “Nettie?”

  Nick’s heart contracted. Damn Larissa and her mind games. He edged farther into the apartment. Larissa’s bedroom and the spare room that doubled as Nettie’s bedroom when she stayed with her mother, and an art studio when she didn’t, appeared to be untouched. Larissa’s newest painting—a dark, swirling abstract done in shades of deepest blue, pierced by a sharp silver slash with tiny drops of red merging into a black pool—stood in the middle of the room. Its subtext of danger and deception deepened the feeling of unease growing in Nick’s gut. The scene was edgy and dark, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the underlying message. Was Larissa predicting the future or reflecting the past with her swirls of navy blue and red-black?

  Nick returned to survey the living room more closely. Years of painful personal experience told him Larissa was cap
able of staging the scene before him to gain sympathy. His wife had a melodramatic flair that had amused him when they were dating. In the intervening years, the constant drama of life with Larissa had worn him down. What had she done this time? He reached for his cell phone, picking through the magazines and toys littering the living room floor while he waited for Larissa to answer. He kicked aside a sofa cushion as the call went to voice mail.

  “Where are you? And where’s Nettie? Dammit, Larissa, this is …”

  A flash of blue under the coffee table caught his eye. He leaned down and drew out Nettie’s beloved blue Cat and his heart stopped. His daughter would not willingly leave Cat behind. If Larissa had gone somewhere with Nettie, she wouldn’t have left Cat either, and risk Nettie having a very public meltdown. Larissa hated scenes that didn’t cast her in the starring role.

  Nick opened his phone again, this time calling someone he knew he could count on.

  * * * *

  Nick paced the length of the living room a dozen times while he waited for Pete Marquardt, his best friend since junior high school, to arrive. He and Pete were inseparable throughout their teen years. They attended the same state college, and after graduation, they both returned to the town they grew up in. While Nick bounced from job to job, Pete became one of the town’s most reliable cops.

  “This better be good, Nick. The Royals actually have a chance to take the lead.…” Pete stopped abruptly when he saw the overturned furniture. His smile faded as he surveyed the chaos. “She never was a very good housekeeper, but this isn’t just her carelessness, is it?”

  Nick gave Pete a quick run down of Larissa’s phone call imploring him to help her put Nettie to bed, then showed him Cat. Pete, who had had spent enough time with Nick and Nettie in the last few months to realize the importance of the abandoned stuff animal, cut Nick off and led him out into the hallway.

  “Larissa didn’t sound under duress when she called?” he asked, taking the ragged toy from Nick and examining it closely.

  “Just self-centered. No different from half a dozen other times,” Nick said.