Ron blushed. John had not seen that very often.

“What can I getcha tonight?” the bartender asked, wiping her hands on a white towel. “It’s a bit late for finger food, but I can whip something up if need be.”

“Two Heinekens,” Ron said. He placed ten dollars on the polished wooden bar and told her to keep the change. She swooped the money away without hesitating, her hair fanning over half her face.

John whispered. “You know her?”

Ron nodded. “Angie. Best bartender in the Yooper.”

Angie snorted with her back to them, tossed a sidelong glance, then plunked two green-tinted beer bottles onto the bar.

The men twisted in their seats, turning their backs to the island bar. As they sipped the delicious beer, they studied all the crap on the walls. Credence Clearwater Revival blared from the jukebox, and John thought it almost eerie, the loud music, the few people in the huge bar, and the dead animals everywhere. An empty space within an empty space. He couldn’t help but be reminded of one of those old Twilight Zone episodes.

Hanging on the north wall was a fifty-pound northern pike, all teeth and jaws. The bronze plaque indicated the monster had been caught in Huron Bay. Next to it, mounted on another piece of driftwood was a lake trout of similar poundage, also taken from Huron Bay.

“Place is a freaking museum,” Ron said. “Can you imagine hooking into that pike?”

John shook his head and drank his beer.

“Maybe we ought to get off these rivers, get a boat and get our asses out to the big lake,” Ron said.

John laughed. “Too much work. Trailer maintenance. Boat maintenance. Blah blah. It becomes a money pit and it ends up taking all your time. I like the rivers. Simple, easy.”

“You had me at maintenance,” Ron said.

John laughed and set his empty beer down. “Angie, two more please?”

Angie took a drag from her well-hidden cigarette and changed him out. “What are you two FIBS doing up here this time of night?” She said FIB in a way that made fun of the local usage, not actual Illinois residents.

Ron played along, feigning outrage. “Who you calling a FIB? I own land up here.”

Angie laughed.

A V8 engine rumbled outside the tavern, and a harsh spotlight shone through the two picture windows facing the highway. It was some jackass with a monster truck, and the spotlights were meant for poaching, something John had seen way too often up here.

A moment later the door whipped open and a man hobbled inside, waving his finger in the air. He was dressed in knee-high hunter’s boots, jeans, and a red-checkered flannel with suspenders.

“Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear, eh?” the drunken man said.

“Oh God,” Angie said. “It’s Sanders. I’m hiding behind you two.”

Ron and John laughed and sipped their beers.