"You got your crew behind you, Squatbender?" Third-Eye asks setting the bottle down. The crusty fisherman nods not taking his eyes off the space before him, which now is filled with three stiff drinks. With one hand still clenching the bar, he takes one up deliberately and knocks it back in one gulp, bites down on his lip, and feels for the slow burn all the way down. Setting the empty glass down, he takes up the second and knocks it back in a gulp, to then feel for the slow burn down the pike.
He sets the second glass back down a little more gently, now, and takes up the third beveled whiskey glass and less frantically, but just as deliberately, throws back his head and knocks down the fire to the core.
Mad Jack chuckles heartily and says what he was about to say the moment before. "That looks like the drinkin' of a man been in the bone-chillin' wind too long. How's fishin,' there, Squatty?"
The grizzled head turns slowly to the remark and his determined features soften with memory in the amber light of Low Water Bar.
"Why, Mad Jack Hawkins, I'll be good and goddamned. I haven't seen you in years." smiles the man.
"Been in Alaska, Squatty, chased some fish, met some Orcas, made some money, spent a lot of that. Thought I'd haul some tuna for a change." Third-Eye ambles heavily down to the other end of the bar.
"Where's your boat?" the old aquantaince contiunues perplexed, "ain't seen her nor heard of the Shaggy Lady on the radio."
"On the bottom, Squatty."
"The devil, you say."
"It's true. The Shaggy Lady's history. Lookin' for a new boat."
"Any money?"
"Nope."
"The devil."
"Yeah, you said that," grins Mad Jack. "But let me buy your sorry ass a drink. Looks like you're trying to forget somethin.' Or remember somethin.' "
"Forget," nods Squatty. "I just saw the biggest whitey I could never've imagined. Was haulin' up my seine net just clear of the water and onto the deck when this monster rockets up from nowhere out of the water and clamps down on the big ball of fish with the
Mad
Jack and the Great White
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