Orbital Decay by Allen Steele

If he was lucky, perhaps the storm would keep his ex at home tonight.
    The storm’s squall line hit the town just as Hooker opened the bar’s wooden front door. He pressed the door shut against the wind and rain as patrons nearby howled irritably, then turned and looked around the inside of the place.
    Mikey’s was having a big night. The place was nearly jammed to capacity with Cedar Key locals, half of whom had already departed from sobriety. It was a small and dimly lighted bar, with rough pine furniture, old fishing nets suspended from the ceiling, and boathooks fastened to the walls between plastic beer signs and framed sailing prints. A musky scent hung permanently in the air, beer and tobacco mixed with crusted salt and sand from the boots and sneakers of the fishermen who made this their hangout.
    Over the long bar and liquor case behind, next to a holograph of a tall ship, a video screen showed an old Pink Panther movie played on an ancient videodisc system beside the cash register. Peter Sellers’ voice was drowned out by rock and roll music from a decrepit Wurlitzer in the corner, John Fogarty belting out an old blues number he and Creedence Clearwater Revival had revamped many years ago. Mikey, an oldies fan, allowed nothing in his jukebox less than thirty years old, which suited most of his regulars just fine; besides, the oldies were back in style, since the New Wave of the last few years of the twentieth century had finally bankrupted itself into Hollywood schmaltz. Sidestepping his way through the crowd, Hooker glimpsed Sellers being attacked by a Chinese assassin while the Wurlitzer banged out “The Midnight Special.” Somehow, the combination made aesthetic sense.
    Then the screen was obscured by a figure: A short man with his shirt pulled open, exposing a flopping beer gut and extreme sunburn, had climbed up on the bar and commenced dancing to the Creedence song. He lip-synched the words as his dirty tennis shoes stomped along the polished wooden surface, sending an ashtray skittering off to crash on the floor. His performance brought yells and laughter. People sitting at the bar hastily grabbed their glasses and bottles from his path, and a plump young woman reached up to tuck a folded dollar bill into his waistband. He leered at her and pumped his fat thighs suggestively, and was rewarded with a high-pitched giggle from her and a dark glare from the man sitting next to her.
    An elbow bumped Hooker’s. “Kinda looks like Mikey’s is in good form tonight, huh, Hook?”
    Hooker looked around, saw Whitey Cuzak standing next to him. Hooker shrugged and grinned. “Place hasn’t changed much since the last time I stopped by,” he murmured under the music. “Hey, Cooz. Who is that fat fool anyway?”
    “I dunno his name, but I hear he’s in from New Orleans. It figures it would have to be some ragin’ Cajun.”
    “New Orleans? Don’t they keep those tourists over at the Belle la Vista Lounge?”
    Whitey shrugged and took a sip from his schooner. “I don’t think he’s a tourist. Somebody told me he’s a fishing guide. Takes the Okies out on the water to show ’em swordfishing ain’t the same as fishing for cat on the Big Muddy.”
    “The Mississippi doesn’t run through Oklahoma, Cooz.”
    “It doesn’t? Well, what the hell do I know. I grew up in this state.”
    The Creedence single ended just as the bartender grabbed the arm of the New Orleans fishing guide and tried to drag him off the bar. Then a J. Geils Band song—Hooker recognized the synthesizer and percussion intra to “Freeze-Frame”—segued in, and the guide howled in delight and recommenced his erratic hopping on the bar top.
    Whitey sniggered from behind the lip of his beer mug. “I also hear he wrestles sharks.”
    “What?” Hooker wasn’t sure he had heard his fellow fisherman correctly.
    “Yup. Someone was telling me that he takes people out at night to go fishing for shark.” He leaned closer to make himself