The case of the shrinking rainbows

My mother suggested to my father that during one of his weekend getaways he catch some trout to bring home for the dinner table.

That's all he had to tell his lifelong friend Connor, the wayward Chicago cop with an imagination as big as Soldier Field.

Connor was a beat cop who would often stop at my father's tavern to whet his whistle and wolf down a few hard-boiled eggs. He also fished and hunted with my father, Irv, on the Fox Chain, or near Crivitz, Wis., as well as Brainerd, Minn.

But on the weekends this lively pair would usually run to nearby Browns Lake near Burlington.

And since Irv was "ordered" to bring home some trout, he suggested he and Connor should head for some of Wisconsin's pristine trout streams in Waushara County.

"We don't have to go that far," Connor blurted. "I know a place we can get all the rainbows we need and easily keep the missus happy."

My father just shook his head in his typical manner, knowing full well Connor was up to something.

I have written numerous columns about Connor and his fish and game "safaris" over the past years. Every exploit had a twist to it.

Connor was from the old school of police work, in that he was more than willing to leave the heavy lifting for the detectives and keep his eye on traffic violators and street punks.

Because his Irish heritage made him a favorite son in the department, he wasn't beyond appreciating "uisce beatha" which translates as "water of life", or otherwise known as Irish whiskey, with the special Bushmills label.

With rods in hand Connor and Irv drove to a Chicago suburb where lo and behold a "trout farm" sat which was open to the public.

"Let me handle the proprietor," Connor declared as they parked Connor's jalopy and went inside the office.

They paid a small fee to enter the fishing grounds and Connor demanded the guy behind the counter give him two buckets. And off they went, out of sight of the office.

Irv immediately started catching fat rainbows. Connor followed suit.

"Here, give me all your fish, and be quick about it," Connor ordered.

When my father recounted the story to me he said he watched Connor expertly gut all the fish so the blood would drain into one bucket. He would then use a makeshift needle and thread to sew them back up. Trout farms and private ponds generally charge by the pound for the catches, and Connor was up to his usual schtick by reducing the weight of the fish.

They were there no longer than an hour and decided not push their luck. They hauled their buckets back to the scale and paid some ridiculously low price. As they were loading their fish into the trunk a police officer from the suburb walked up and told Irv and Connor he watched them bleed the fish. Connor looked up with a smile and slammed the trunk closed.

"I'm sure I know you, officer," Connor said. "Aren't you the guy I once stopped in my district driving all over the road? And didn't I give you a pass as a professional courtesy as well?"

Irv told me the suburban cop stuttered and stammered and then told the pair to go home and enjoy their day. And they did.

My mother became very suspicious when she spotted the makeshift sutures on each of the trout that wound up dumped in the kitchen sink.

Outside our apartment I overheard Irv telling Connor it was wrong to pull a fast one on the trout farm clerk.

"I know," Connor answered, "but I also stopped that guy in his car for running two stoplights, and I figured he owed me just the same."

All I knew was the rainbows tasted great with little red potatoes and fresh greens, and a set of wary eyes from my mother.