Double Whammy

by Carl Hiaasen

  Decker was astounded. “They got actual pictures?”

  “That’s what the DA says. Very sharp black-and-whites of Dickie doing the deed.”

  “But who took ’em?”

  “The DA says you did. They traced an empty box of film to a wholesale shipment of Kodak that went to the photo lab at the newspaper. The newspaper says it was part of the batch you swiped on your way out the door.”

  “I see.” Skink was right: it was almost a thing of beauty.

  Skink said, “Are you missing any film?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The junk we shot in Louisiana, where’s that?”

  “Still in my camera bag,” Decker said, “I guess.”

  “You guess.” Skink laughed harshly. “You better damn well find out, Miami. You’re not the only wizard with a darkroom.”

  Decker felt tired; he wanted to close his eyes, cap the lens. Skink told him they should take U.S. 27 up to Alligator Alley and go west.

  “We’d be safer in the city,” Decker said. He didn’t feel like driving the entire width of the state; the drumbeat pain on his brainstem was unbearable. The Alley would be crawling with state troopers, too; they had an eye for sporty rental cars. “Where exactly did you want to go?” he asked Skink.

  “The Big Cypress is a good place to hide.” Skink gave him a sideways glance.

  “Not the swamp-rat routine,” Decker said, “not tonight. Let’s stay in town.”

  “You got somewhere that’s safe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No hotels,” Skink hissed.

  “No hotels.”

  Decker parked at the curb and studied the house silently for several moments. It seemed impressively large, even for Miami Shores. There were two cars, a Firebird and a Jaguar sedan, parked in a half-circle gravel driveway. The sabal palms and seagrape trees were bathed by soft orange spotlights mounted discreetly around the Bermuda lawn. A Spanish archway framed the front door, which was made of a coffee-colored wood. There were no iron bars across the front window, but Decker could see a bold red sticker advertising the burglar alarm.

  “You gonna sit here and moon all night?” Skink said.

  They got out and walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching noisily under their feet. Skink had nothing to say about the big house; he’d seen plenty, and most were owned by wealthy and respectable thieves.

  Indelicately Decker asked him to stand back a few steps from the door.

  “So they don’t die of fright, is that it?” Skink said.

  Catherine answered the bell. “Rage,” she said, looking more than a little surprised.

  She wore tight cutoff jeans and a sleeveless lavender top, with no brassiere. Decker was ticked off that James the doctor had let her answer the door in the middle of the night—they could have been any variety of nocturnal Dade County creep: killers, kidnappers, witch doctors looking for a sacrificial goat. What kind of a lazy jerk would send his wife to the door alone, with no bra on, at eleven-thirty?

  “I would’ve called,” R. J. Decker said, “but it’s kind of an emergency.”

  Catherine glanced at Skink and seemed to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

  “Come on in, guys,” she said in a friendly den-mother tone. Then she leaned close and whispered to Decker: “James is here.”

  “I know.” The Jag was the giveaway.

  A snow-white miniature poodle raced full speed into the foyer, its toenails clacking on the tile. The moment it saw Skink, the dog began to snarl and drool deliriously. It chomped the cuff of his orange rainsuit and began tearing at the plastic. Wordlessly Skink kicked the animal once, sharply, skidding it back down the hall.

  “Sorry,” Decker said wanly.

  “It’s okay,” Catherine said, leading them into the kitchen. “I hate the little bastard—he pees in my shoes, did I tell you that?”

  Out of nowhere Skink said: “We need a place for the night.”

  Catherine nodded. “There’s plenty of room.” An emergency is right, she thought; that would be the only thing to get Decker to stay under the same roof.

  Skink said: “Decker’s hurt, too.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “What is it?” Catherine asked.

  “I almost broke his neck,” Skink said, “accidentally.”

  “It’s just a sprain,” Decker said.

  Then James the doctor—Catherine’s husband—walked into the kitchen. He wore a navy Ralph Lauren bathrobe that stopped at his pale hairless knees; he also wore matching blue slippers. Decker was seized by an urge to repeatedly slap the man in the face; instead he just froze.

  James studied the two visitors and said, “Catherine?” He wanted an explanation.

  Both Catherine and Decker looked fairly helpless, so Skink stepped forward and said, “This is your wife’s ex-husband, and I’m his friend.”

  “Oh?” In his lifetime James had never seen anything like Skink up close, but he was doing his best to maintain a man-of-the-house authority. To Decker he extended his hand and said, “R.J., isn’t it? Funny we haven’t met before.”

  “Uproarious,” Decker said, giving the doctor’s hand an exceedingly firm shake.

  “They’re spending the night,” Catherine told her husband. “R.J.’s trailer flooded.”

  “There’s been no rain,” James remarked.

  “A pipe broke,” Catherine said impatiently.

  Good girl, Decker thought; still quick on her feet.

  “I’m going to fix these fellows some tea,” she said. “Everybody into the living room, now, scat.”

  The living room had been designed around one of those giant seven-foot televisions of the type Decker had seen at Dennis Gault’s condominium. Every chair, every sofa, every bar stool had a view of the screen. James the chiropractor had been watching a videocassette of one of the “Star Wars” movies. “I’ve got all three on tape,” he volunteered.

  Decker was calming down. He had no reason to hate the guy, except maybe for the robe; anyway, it was Catherine who had made the choice.

  James was slender and somewhat tall—taller than Decker had expected. He had a fine chin, high cheekbones, and quick aggressive-looking eyes. His hair was reddish-brown, his skin fair. His long delicate hands were probably a competitive advantage in the world of chiropractic. On the whole he was slightly better-looking than Decker had hoped he would be.

  “I’ve seen some of your photographs, and they’re quite good,” James said, adding: “Catherine has an old album.”

  A double beat on the word old. In a way Decker felt a little sorry for him, having two surly strangers in the house, and a wife expecting him to be civil. The man was nervous, and who wouldn’t be?

  Bravely James smiled over at Skink, a dominating presence in his fluorescent rainsuit. James said, “And you must be a crossing guard!”

  Catherine brought cinnamon tea on a plain tray. Skink took a cup and drank it down hot. Afterward his dark green eyes seemed to glow.

  As Catherine poured him another cup, Skink said: “You’re quite a beautiful girl.”

  Decker was dumbstruck. James the doctor was plainly mortified. Skink smiled luminously and said, “My friend was an idiot to let you go.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said. She didn’t act put out at all, and she certainly didn’t act threatened. The look on her face was charmed and knowing. It was, Decker thought irritably, as if she and Skink were sharing a secret, and the secret was about him.

  “Catherine,” James said sternly, changing the subject, “have you seen Bambi?”

  “He was playing in the hall a few minutes ago.”

  “He looked a little tired,” Decker offered.

  “Bambi?” Skink made a face. “You mean that goddamn yappy dog?”

  James stiffened. “He’s a pedigreed.”

  “He’s a fucking rodent,” Skink said, “with a perm.”

  Catherine started to laugh, caught herself. Even in his jealous snit, Decker had to
admit they made a comical foursome. He was glad to see that Skink’s momentary charm had evaporated; he was much more likable as a heathen.

  James glared at him and said, “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Ichabod,” Skink said. “Icky for short.”

  Decker suspected, and fervently hoped, that Ichabod was not Skink’s real name. He hoped that Skink had not chosen this particular moment, in front of these particular people, to bare the murky secrets of his soul. Catherine was known to have that effect on a man.

  Inanely Decker said to James, “This is quite a place. Your practice must be going great guns.”

  “Actually,” James said, “I picked up this house before I became a doctor.” He seemed relieved not to be talking about the poodle or his wife’s good looks. “Back when I was in real estate,” he said, “that’s when I lucked into the place.”

  “What kinda real estate?” Skink asked.

  “Interval-ownership units,” James replied, without looking at him.

  “Timeshares,” Catherine added helpfully.

  On the sofa Skink shifted with an audible crinkle. “Timeshares,” he said. “Wherebouts?”

  Catherine pointed to several small plaques hanging on one of the walls. “James was the top salesman three years in a row,” she said. It didn’t sound like she was bragging; it sounded like she said it to get it out of the way, knowing James would have mentioned it anyway.

  “And where was this?” Skink pressed.

  “Up the coast north of Smyrna,” James said. “We did very well for a stretch in the late seventies. Then Tallahassee cracked down, the media went sour on us, and the interval market dried up. Same old tune. I figured it was time to move along to something else.”

  “Boom and bust,” Decker played along. “That’s the story of Florida.” Was it purely the money, he wondered, that had attracted Catherine to this lanky twit? In a way he hoped it was that simple, that it was nothing more.

  Skink got up and crunched over to examine the plaques. Catherine and James couldn’t take their eyes off him; they had never had such a wild-looking person roaming their house.

  “What was the name of your project?” Skink asked, toying with his silvery braid.

  “Sparrow Beach,” James said. “The Sparrow Beach Club. Seems Like ancient history now.”

  Skink gave no reply, but let out a soft and surprising noise. It sounded to R. J. Decker like a sigh.

  “Is your friend all right?” Catherine asked later.

  “Sure,” Decker said. “He prefers to sleep outdoors, really.”

  In the middle of James’s monologue about his sales triumphs at Sparrow Beach, Skink had turned to Catherine and asked if he could spend the night in the backyard. Decker could tell he was brooding, but had no private moment to ask what was wrong. Catherine had loaned Skink an old blanket and in a flat voice Skink had thanked her for the hospitality and lumbered out the back door. He had ignored James completely.

  Skink settled in under a tall avocado tree, and from the window Decker could see him sitting upright against the trunk, facing the narrow waterway that ran behind Catherine’s house. Decker had an urge to join him there, under the stars.

  “Let James have a look at your neck,” Catherine said.

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “Lie down here,” James instructed, making room on the sofa. “Lie down on your stomach.”

  The next thing Decker knew, James was hunched over him with one knee propped on the sofa for leverage. Intently he kneaded and probed the back of Decker’s neck, while Catherine watched cross-legged on an ottoman.

  “That hurt?” James asked.

  Decker grunted. It did hurt, but the rubbing helped; James seemed to know what he was doing.

  “Brother, you’re really out of alignment,” he said.

  “That’s a medical term?”

  “Full traction is what you need. Slings and weights. Thermal therapy. Ultrasound. You’re too young for Medicare, otherwise I’d fix you right up with a twelve-week program.” James worked his fingers along Decker’s spine. He seemed at ease now, enjoying the role of expert. “Have you got any insurance?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Decker said.

  “Workmen’s comp? Maybe you’re in an HMO.”

  “Nope.” The guy was unbelievable; the pitchman’s spark was probably left over from his days of peddling condos.

  “I must caution you,” James went on, “that injuries such as this should never go untreated. Your neck has been wrenched badly.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Decker said, wincing under the chiropractor’s explorations. “Tell me, what’s the difference between this and a massage?”

  “I’m a doctor, that’s the difference. Don’t move now, I think I’ve got an extra brace in the trunk of the car.”

  After James had left the room, Catherine came over and knelt down on the floor next to Decker. “Tell me what’s happened, Rage.”

  “Somebody’s trying to frame me for a murder.”

  “Who? Not the Fish People!”

  “Afraid so,” Decker said. He was ready for a trenchant scolding—this was Catherine’s specialty—but for some reason (probably pity) she refrained.

  “The guy out back, Grizzly Adams—”

  “He’s all right,” Decker said.

  “James is scared of him.”

  “So am I, but he’s all I’ve got.”

  Catherine kissed him lightly on the ear. “Is there anything I can do?”

  For one flushed moment Decker felt his heart stop. Bump, bump—then dead air. All from a whiff of perfume and a silly peck on the earlobe. It was so wonderful that Decker almost forgot she’d dumped him for a guy who wore ninety-dollar bathrobes.

  Catherine said, “I want to help.”

  “Does James have a broker?” Decker asked.

  “Yes. Hutton, Shearson, somebody big like that. It’s a VIP account, that much I know. They sent us a magnum of champagne last Christmas.”

  Decker said, “This is what I need. Tell James you got a tip at the beauty parlor—”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Or wherever, Catherine, just tell him you got a tip on a stock. It’s traded as OCN, I think. The Outdoor Christian Network. See if your husband’s broker can send over a prospectus. I need a copy as soon as possible.”

  She said, “He’ll think it’s odd. We never talk about his investments.”

  “Try it,” Decker said. “Play dumb and sweet and just-trying-to-help. You can do it.”

  “You’re still an asshole, Rage.”

  “And you’re still a vision, Catherine. Would your husband get too terribly upset if you and I took off our clothes and hopped in the shower? We can tell him it’s part of my medical treatment. Hotwater traction, they call it.”

  At that moment James walked in, too preoccupied to notice his wife scooting back to the ottoman. James was carrying a foam-padded brace, the kind that fastens around the neck like a collar.

  “That man,” he said indignantly, “has built a bonfire in our backyard!”

  Catherine went to the window. “For heaven’s sake it’s not a bonfire,” she said. “It’s just a barbecue, honey, no worse than you and your hibachi.”

  “But the hibachi is gas,” James protested.

  R. J. Decker pushed himself off the sofa and went to see for himself. Skink huddled in a familar pose beneath the avocado tree; crouched on his haunches, tending a small campfire.

  “He looks like a damn hobo,” James said.

  “That’s enough,” Catherine snapped. “He’s not hurting anybody.”

  Decker observed that Skink had fashioned a rotisserie spit out of dead branches. He was cooking a chunk of gray meat over the fire, rotating it slowly by hand.

  “What do you suppose he’s got there?” Catherine said.

  “Probably something gross he scrounged from the garbage,” James said. “Or maybe a duck out of that filthy canal.”

  In the flickering sh
adows Decker couldn’t be sure, but he had a pretty good idea what his friend was fixing for dinner. It was Bambi, of course. Skink was serenely roasting the doctor’s pet poodle.

  18

  R. J. Decker took a bed in one of the guestrooms, but he couldn’t sleep. Dancing on the walls were cartoon sheep in red tuxedos—wallpaper for a baby’s room, obviously, but Catherine had never been too wild about kids. On this matter the chiropractor had failed to change her mind. Still, Decker admired his optimism for leaving the nursery wallpaper up.

  When Decker closed his eyes, the tuxedoed sheep were replaced by the face of Dennis Gault: the seething visage of a man trying to strangle him. Decker wondered if the fistfight at Gault’s condominium had been an act like everything else; he wondered if Gault were really that clever or ballsy, or if things had just fallen right. Decker couldn’t wait to meet up with Gault and ask him. Afterward it would be nice to choke the sonofabitch so decisively that his eyeballs would pop out of his skull and roll across his fancy glass desk like a couple of aggies.

  At about three o’clock Decker gave up on sleep and got out of bed. From the window there was no sign of Skink’s campfire, or of Skink himself. Decker assumed—hoped, at least—that he was curled up in the bushes somewhere.

  For Decker, being in the same house with Catherine was unnerving. Though it was also the house of James, Catherine’s tastes predominated—smart and elegant, and so expensive that Decker marveled how such a destitute mongrel as himself had managed to keep her as long as he had. If only he could steal a few moments alone with her now, but how? Skink wanted to be on the road before dawn—there was little time.

  Barefoot, and wearing only his underwear, Decker made his way through the long hallways, which smelled of Catherine’s hair and perfume. A couple of times, near doorways, Decker had to step carefully over the white beams of photosensitive alarm units, which were mounted at knee-level throughout the house.

  Photoelearonic burglar alarms were the latest rage among the rich in Miami, thanks to a widely publicized case in which a whole gang of notorious cat burglars was captured inside a Star Island mansion after tripping the silent alarm. The gang had comprised bold Mariel refugees relatively new to the country and unschooled in the basic skills and technology of modern burglary. While looting the den of the mansion, one of the Cuban intruders had spotted a wall-mounted photoelectronic unit and naturally assumed it was a laser beam that would incinerate them all if they dared cross it. Consequently, they did not. They sat there all night and, the next morning, surrendered sheepishly to police. The incident made all the TV news. Photoelectronic burglar alarms became so popular that burglars soon began to specialize in stealing the alarms themselves. In many of the houses where such devices were installed, the alarm itself was more valuable than anything else on the premises. For a while, all the fences in Hialeah were paying twice as much for stolen burglar alarms as they were for Sony VCRs, but even at five hundred a pop it was virtually impossible for thieves to keep up with the demand.