999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [127]
The next day Hop didn’t even bother casting his line into the river. He knew what was drawing the thing in the river to the dock, and it sure as hell wasn’t the shiners he was using for bait.
He made his way to the very end of the landing, careful to avoid the loose and missing planks, and sat so his legs dangled over the edge. After a moment of deliberation, he decided “They Call Me Muddy Waters” would be an appropriate choice.
Just like before, the thing surfaced halfway through the song. Hop’s heart was racing so fast it was hard to breathe, but he forced himself to keep playing. He didn’t want to scare it off, so he kept playing, switching to “Pony Blues” once he’d finished with his first song.
While he played, Hop kept his head down, ignoring his audience as best he could. As he launched into “Circle Round the Moon” he risked glancing in the thing’s direction, only to discover it was almost directly underneath his dangling feet, staring at him with big, dark eyes that seemed to be all pupil.
Hop was surprised at how human the catfish gal looked. From what Sammy had said, he’d pictured a fish in a fright wig, but that wasn’t the case. Hell, he’d seen worse-looking women in church.
Her upper lip was extremely wide, with the familiar whiskers growing out of them, and she had slits instead of a nose, but outside of that she wasn’t too ugly. Her hair was a real mess, though, with everything from twigs to what looked like live minnows caught in the tangled locks. He couldn’t see much of what she looked like below the waterline, although he did glimpse vertical slits opening and closing down the sides of her neck.
Hop couldn’t help but smile to himself when he saw how the catfish gal looked at him. Half fish or not, he knew what that look meant on a woman’s face. He had her hooked but good and now was as good a time as any to reel her in.
Hop looked the catfish gal right in the eye and smiled. “Hello, lit’l fishie. You come to hear me play?”
The catfish gal’s dreamy look was replaced by one of surprise. She glanced around, as if confused by her surroundings, then shot backwards like a dolphin walking on its tail.
“Please! Don’t go!” he shouted, stretching out one hand to stay her retreat.
To his surprise, the catfish gal came to a sudden halt, regarding him curiously, bobbing up and down in the Mississippi as easily as a young girl treading water in a swimming pool.
“You ain’t got nothin’ to be scared of, lit’l fishie,” Hop said, smiling reassuringly. “I ain’t gonna hurt you none. Do you want me to play some more for you?” he asked, holding up his guitar.
The catfish gal nodded and lifted a dripping arm and pointed at the guitar with a webbed forefinger. Hop smiled and obliged her by picking up where he had left off on “Goin’ Down Slow.”
By the time the sun was starting to go down, Hop’s hands were cramping and his fingertips bloody. He’d played a little bit of almost everything—blues, bluegrass, honky-tonk, camp songs, even a couple of nursery songs—trying to figure out what the catfish gal liked and didn’t like: turned out she was partial to the blues—which made sense, seeing how the blues was born on the banks of the Mississippi.
When he finally put aside his guitar, the catfish gal disappeared beneath the river’s muddy surface. A few seconds later a large catfish came flying out of the water as if shot from a sling and landed on the dock beside him. Hop picked up the floundering fish and shook his head.
“I appreciate the thought,” he said loudly. “But this ain’t what I’m lookin’ for.” After he tossed the fish back into the water, Hop reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar, which he held up between his thumb and forefinger, so that it caught the sun’s fading rays. “If you want me to keep playing, you got to feed th’ kitty. And this here is what the kitty eats.”
The catfish gal popped