Part Three – Swamp Tour

by Pat Laster

From the sandbank where Timothy jumped off with his crawfishing gear, Doke guided the boat back into the center of the bayou. It skimmed over the green water hyacinths. Suddenly, he idled the motor, moved over to one side, reached down and plucked a pink blossom. “Smell this,” he said, and passed the tall, narrow flower among the three passengers.
“Nothing,” Rhoda said.
“Nothing,” the Suit echoed.
Bryan shrugged.
Major Doke reached over again and dragged the bloom through the water. “Now smell it.” And they went through the same ritual.
“Smells like watermelon!” Rhoda exclaimed.
“What . . . ? How . . . ? Henry asked.
This time, Bryan smiled.
“Something about the chemistry between the flower and the water. Amazing, isn’t it?” Doke handed the blossom to Rhoda with a bow. She shook the water off and laid it across the top of her bag.
Farther up the bayou, the major spotted a medium-sized alligator.
He pointed it out to the others. The Suit left his seat to stand by Doke. “This might be my shoes!” he said. “Shoot it.”
“You crazy? How would we get it aboard if I did kill it? Don’t think this crew”––he surveyed the three folks with a sweep of his arm––“is in any shape to wrangle an alligator onto this boat.”
Just then, the rich northerner seized Doke’s rifle, positioned himself beside the pilot deck with one foot on the railing. He raised the rifle to his shoulder.
“No! No! Stop it!” Doke grabbed the man from the side, but Henry was determined. Rhoda, quick as a flash, slipped up behind and karate chopped him just below the skull. He crumpled and Doke retrieved the rifle.
“One of my hobbies,” she explained to the surprised passengers. “He’ll be okay,” she said. “Except for a headache, he won’t remember anything.” Doke was amazed. He would never have thought of that.
“I read a Hemingway story once where someone did that to a man who menaced a visitor, only he used a blackjack. I’d advise you, sir”––she looked at Doke––“to put that rifle out of sight from now on.” Rhoda flashed a coy smile as they laid Mr. Brooks Brothers on a bench.
Bryan was shooting pictures all the while, gates or no gates.
“And while we’re at it, Major,” Rhoda said, “what do you think about us baptizing Mr. Photographer here? My nose tells me he needs a dunking. It won’t take much time away from his ‘work’. Maybe he’ll smell like that flower afterwards!” She grinned at Doke.
NEXT WEEK: THE CONCLUSION.

© 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press