by Carl Hiaasen
“I got a favor to ask,” the lap dancer said, whispering into his chest hair. “And I wanna pay for it.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I want you to heal my poppa.” She looked up shyly. “He’s got the gout, my poppa does.”
“No, child—”
“Some days he can’t barely get himself out of bed.”
Weeb shifted restlessly, glanced at his wristwatch.
“I’ll give you two hundred dollars,” the girl declared.
“You’re serious?”
“Just one little prayer, please.”
“Two hundred bucks?”
“And a hum job, if you want it, Father.”
Charlie Weeb stared at her, thinking: It’s true what they say about the power of television.
“Come, child,” he said softly, “let’s pray.”
Later, when he was alone, the Reverend Charles Weeb thought about the girl and what she’d wanted. Maybe it was the answer he’d been looking for. It had worked before, in the early years; perhaps it would work again.
Charlie Weeb drank a Scotch and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t. In recent nights he had been kept awake by the chilling realization that Lunker Lakes, his dream city, was in deep trouble. The first blow had come from the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, whose auditors had swept into the offices of First Standard Eurobank of Ohio and discovered that the whole damn thing was on the verge of insolvency. The problem was bad loans, huge ones, which First Standard Eurobank apparently handed out as freely as desk calendars. The Outdoor Christian Network, doing business as Lunker Lakes Ltd., had been the beneficiary of just such unbridled generosity—twenty-four million dollars for site planning and construction. On paper there was nothing unusual about the loan or the terms of repayment (eleven percent over ten years), but in reality not much money ever got repaid. About six thousand dollars, to be exact. Wanton disorganization ruled First Standard Eurobank’s collections department—as patient and amiable a bunch of Christian soldiers as Charlie Weeb had ever met. He kept missing the bimonthly payments and they kept saying don’t worry and Charlie Weeb didn’t worry, because this was a fucking bank, for God’s sake, and banks don’t go under anymore. Then the FDIC swooped in and discovered that First Standard Eurobank had been just as patient and flexible with all its commercial customers, to the extent that virtually nobody except farmers were being made to repay their loans on time. Suddenly the president of the bank and three top assistants all moved to Barbados, leaving Uncle Sam to sort out the mess. Pretty soon the bad news trickled out: First Standard Eurobank was calling in its bad loans. All over the country big-time land developers headed for the tall grass. Charlie Weeb himself had been dodging some twit from The Wall Street Journal for five days.
What aggravated Weeb was that he had intended all along to pay back the money, but at a pace commensurate with advance sales at Lunker Lakes. Unfortunately, sales were going very slowly. Charlie Weeb couldn’t figure it out. He fired his marketing people, fired his advertising people, fired his sales people—yet nothing improved. It was maddening. The lakefront models were simply beautiful. Three bedrooms, sunken bath and sauna, cathedral ceilings, solar heating, microwave kitchens—“Christian town-home living at its finest!” Charlie Weeb was fanatical about using the term “town home,” which was a fancy way of saying two-story condo. The problem with using the word “condo” was, as every idiot in Florida knew, you couldn’t charge a hundred and fifty thousand for a “condo” fourteen miles away from the ocean. For this reason any Lunker Lakes salesman who spoke the word was immediately terminated. Condos carried a hideous connotation, Charlie Weeb had lectured—this wasn’t a cheesy high-rise full of nasty old farts, this was a wholesome family community. With fucking bike paths!
And still the dumb shits couldn’t sell it. A hundred-sixty units in the first four months. A hundred-sixty! Weeb was beside himself. Phase One of the project called for eight thousand units. Without Phase One there would be no Phase Two, and without Phase Two you could scrap the build-out projections of twenty-nine thousand. While you’re at it, scrap the loans, the equity, even the zoning permits. The longer the project lagged, the greater the chances that all the county commissioners who had so graciously accepted Charlie Weeb’s bribes would die or be voted out of office, and a whole new set would have to be paid off. One white knight could gum up the works.
The Reverend Charles Weeb had even deeper concerns. He had been so confident of Lunker Lakes that he had broken a cardinal rule and sunk three million dollars of his own personal, Bahamian-sheltered money into the project. The thought of losing it made him sick as a dog. Lying in bed, juggling the ghastly numbers in his head, Weeb also realized that the Outdoor Christian Network itself was probably not strong enough to survive if Lunker Lakes were to go under.
So he had to do something to raise money, lots of it. And fast. This was the urgency behind scheduling the new Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic on such short notice. Lunker Lakes was starving for publicity, and the TV coverage of the tournament was bound to boost sales—provided they could paint some of the buildings and get a few palm trees planted in time.
Trucking in two thousand young bass had been, Weeb thought, dastardly clever. For authenticity he had also planned to salt the lakes with a dozen big Florida hawgs a few days before the tournament. And, of course, he fully intended for Eddie Spurting to win the whole shebang with the fattest stringer of monster bass conceivable. Charlie Weeb had yet to discuss the importance of this matter with Eddie, but he was sure Eddie would understand. Certain details had to be arranged. Nothing could be left to chance—not on live cable television.
Charlie Weeb was feeling downright optimistic until he learned about the fish kill. He never imagined that all the bass would die, but he really didn’t care to hear some elaborate scientific explanation. He knew this: Under no circumstances would the fishing tournament be canceled. If necessary he would simply purchase another truckload of bass, and somehow slip them into the lake the day of the tournament. Maybe the pinhead hydrologist could work a few miracles, buy him a few extra hours. It could be done, Charlie Weeb was sure.
As a long-term sales gimmick, the big bass tournament held much promise. However, the short-term fiscal crisis demanded immediate attention.
To this end the lap dancer from Louie’s had given Charlie Weeb new spiritual inspiration.
He sat up in bed and reached for the phone.
“Deacon Johnson, please.”
A sleepy voice came on the line.
Weeb said, “Izzy, wake up. It’s me.”
“It’s three in the morning, man.”
“Tough shit. Are you listening?”
“Yeah,” said Deacon Johnson.
“Izzy, I want to do a healing on Sunday’s show.”
Deacon Johnson coughed up something in his throat.
“You sure?” he said.
“Positive. Unless you got any other brilliant ideas to solve the cash-flow problem.”
Deacon Johnson said, “Healings are tricky, Charles.”
“Hell, you don’t have to tell me! That’s why I quit doing ’em. But these are desperate times, Izzy. I figure we tape a couple fifteen-second promos tomorrow, start pushing the thing hard. Goose the ratings by the weekend—I bet we’ll do a million-two.”
“A million-two?” Deacon Johnson said. “For a sheep?”
“Screw the sheep. I’m talking about a real person.”
Deacon Johnson didn’t respond right away. The Reverend Weeb said, “Well?”
“We’ve never done a human being before, Charles.”
“We’ve never dropped twenty-four mill before, Izzy. Look, I want you to set it up the same as we did with the animals. Find me a good one.”
Deacon Johnson was not enthusiastic, but he knew better than to balk.
“Get me a little kid if you can,” Charlie Weeb was saying, “or a teenager. No geezers and no housewives.”
“I’ll try,” said Deacon Johnson. The logistics of the feat would be formidable.
“Blond, if possible,” Weeb went on. Every heartbreaking detail spelled more money—he knew this from his experience promoting the tragic tale of June-Lee and Melissa, the two mythical Weeb sisters sold into Chinese slavery. “No redheads,” Weeb instructed Deacon Johnson. “You get me a little blond kid to heal, Izzy, and I swear we’ll do a million-two.”
Deacon Johnson said, “I guess you wouldn’t consider a practice run. Say, with a goat.”
22
An hour out of Fort Lauderdale, Skink started to pluck the dead seagull in the back seat. Every so often he threw a handful of gray-white feathers out the window. Garcίa adjusted the rearview and watched, disbelieving. After R. J. Decker explained the custom, Garcίa decided to pull off the Turnpike for a dinner break. They dropped Skink near the Delray Beach overpass to let him roast the bird in private. Garcίa offered some matches, but as he got out of the car Skink mumbled, “Don’t need any.”
Decker said, “We’re driving into town for some burgers. Meet you back here in about an hour.”
“Fine,” Skink said.
“You’ll be waiting, right?”
“Most likely.”
A hunching ursine shape in the darkness, Skink gathered kindling as they drove away.
Waiting in a line of cars at the Burger King drive-through, Garcίa said to Decker, “So the bottom line is, these Gomers are murdering each other over fish.”
“It’s money too, Al. Prizes, endorsements, TV contracts. Fishing’s just the sizzle. And not all these guys are dumb peckerwoods.”
The detective chuckled. “Guess not. They tricked your ass, didn’t they?”
“Nicely,” Decker said. On the trip he had told Garcίa about Dennis Gault, the photographs, Dickie Lockhart, and Lanie. The part about Lanie was not Decker’s favorite. “All I can figure,” he said, “is she remembered my name from that fashion shoot in Sanibel. Probably read about the Bennett case too—it made all the papers.” The Sun’s unsparing headline had read: “STAFF PHOTOG CONVICTED IN BEATING OF PREP FOOTBALL STAR.”
Garcίa said, “Gault must’ve creamed when his sister suggested you for the mark. Big ex-con photographer with a bad temper, down on his luck.”
“Made to order,” Decker agreed glumly.
“What about the pictures of Lockhart cheating? New Orleans sent Xerox copies, but still they look pretty good.”
Decker said, “They’ve got to be tricked up.”
“Just so you know, I served a warrant on your trailer. Took every single roll from your camera bag—had our lab soup the film.”
“And?”
“Garbage. Surveillance stuff for that insurance case, that’s all. No fish pictures, R.J.”
There you had it. Lanie had probably swiped the good stuff out of his bag at the motel in Hammond. Her brother would’ve had no trouble finding a good lab man to doctor the prints. Decker said, “Jesus, Al, what the hell do I do now?”
“Well, in my official capacity as a sworn law-enforcement officer of the state of Florida, I’d advise you to turn yourself in, agree to the extradition, and trust your fate to the justice system. As a friend, I’d advise you to stay the fuck out of Louisiana until we get you some alibi witnesses.”
“We?” Decker was surprised. “Al, you’ll get in all kinds of trouble if they find out you’re helping me. You’re probably already in the jackpot for taking a duty car out of Dade County.”
Garcia smiled. “Didn’t I tell you? I went on sick leave two days ago. Indefinite—doctor says my damn shoulder’s out of whack again. The lieutenant wasn’t thrilled, but what’s he gonna do? Half the guys retire they get a lousy hangnail. Me, I get popped point-blank with a sawed-off and I only miss twenty-three days. They can’t bitch about a week here and there for therapy.”
“Sick leave,” Decker mused. “That explains your unusually charming disposition.”
“Don’t be a smartass. Right now I’m the only friend you got.”
“Not quite,” Decker said.
According to Ozzie Rundell, Thomas Curl’s Uncle Shawn lived just outside of Orlando. He ran a moldy roadside tourist trap called Sheeba’s African Jungle Safari, located about four miles west of the Disney World entrance on U.S. 92. Ozzie had offered to draw a map, but Jim Tile said no thanks, he didn’t need directions.
The broken-down zoo wasn’t hard to find. In the six years since Shawn Curl had purchased the place from Leroy and Sheeba Bamwell, the once-exotic menagerie had shrunk to its current cheerless census of one emaciated lion, two balding llamas, three goats, a blind boa constrictor, and seventeen uncontrollably nasty raccoons. A big red billboard on U.S. 92 promised a “DELIGHTFUL CHILDREN’S PETTING zoo,” but in actuality there was nothing at Sheeba’s to pet; not safely, anyway. Shawn Curl’s insurance company had summarily canceled his policy after the ninth infectious raccoon bite, so Shawn Curl had put up a twelve-foot hurricane fence to keep the tourists away from the animals. The only consistent money-making enterprise at the African Jungle Safari was the booth with plastic palm trees where, for $3.75, tourists could be photographed draping the blind boa constrictor around their necks. Since snakes have no eyelids, the tourists didn’t know that the boa constrictor was blind. They were also unaware that, except for a tiny space where the feeding tube fit, the big snake’s mouth had been expertly stitched shut with a Singer sewing machine. In these litigious times, Shawn Curl wasn’t taking any more chances.
He didn’t know what to think when the musclebound black state trooper walked into the gift shop; Shawn Curl had never seen a black trooper in Orlando before. He noticed that the man walked with a slight limp, and thought probably he had been hired for just that reason—to fill some stupid minority handicap quota. Shawn Curl decided he’d better be civil, or else the big spade might snitch on him to the Fish and Game Department for the way the wild animals were being treated.
“What ken we do you for, officer?”
Jim Tile stood at the counter eyeing a display of bootleg Mickey Mouse dolls. Each stuffed Mickey had a Confederate flag poking out of its paw. Jim Tile picked up one of the Mickeys and turned it over.
“‘Made in Thailand,’ ” he read aloud.
Shawn Curl coughed nervously.
“Nine-fifty for one of these?” the trooper asked.
Shawn Curl said, “Not for you. For you, half-price.”
“A discount,” Jim Tile said.
“For all peace officers, yessir. That’s our standard discount.”
Jim Tile put the mouse doll back on the counter and said, “Does Disney know you’re selling this crap?”
Shawn Curl worked his jaw sideways. “Far as I know it’s all legal, officer.”
Jim Tile looked around the gift shop. “They could sue you for everything,” he said, “such as it is.”
“Hey, I ain’t dune nuthin’ nobody else ain’t dune.”
After scanning the shelves—cluttered with painted coconut heads, rubber alligators, chipped conch shells, bathtub sharks, and other made-for-Florida rubbish—Jim Tile’s disapproving brown eyes settled again on the bogus Mickey Mouse doll. “The Disney people,” he said, “they won’t go for this. That rebel flag is enough to get their lawyers all excited.”
Exasperated, Shawn Curl puffed out his cheeks. “Who sent you here, anyway?”
“I’m looking for young Thomas.”
“He ain’t here.”
The trooper said, “Tell me where I can find him.”
“S’pose you got a warrant.”
“What I got,” said Jim Tile, “is his uncle. By the balls.”
A family of tourists walked in, the kids darting underfoot while the mother eyed the merchandise uneasily. The father peered tentatively at the zoo grounds through a window behind the cash register. Jim Tile guessed they wouldn’t stay long. They didn’t. “Raccoons, that’s all,” the father had reported back to his wife. “We’ve got zill
ions of raccoons back in Michigan.”
When they were alone again, Jim Tile said, “Shawn, give me your nephew’s address in New Orleans. Right now.”
“I’ll give it to you,” Shawn Curl said, scribbling on the back of a postcard, “but he ain’t there.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Last time he come through he was on his way to Miami.”
“When was that?”
“Few days ago,” said Shawn Curl.
“Where’s he staying?”
“Some big hotel.”
“You’re a big help, Shawn. I guess I’ll have to call Disney headquarters after all.”
Shawn Curl didn’t like that word. Headquarters. In a sulky voice he said, “The hotel is the Grand Biscayne Something. I don’t remember the whole name.”
“Why was Thomas going down to Miami?”
“Business, he said.”
“What business is he in?”
Shawn Curl shrugged. “Promotion is what he calls it.”
Jim Tile said, “I couldn’t help but notice that big Oldsmobile out front, the blue Niney-Eight. It looks brand-new.”
Warily Shawn Curl looked at the trooper. “No, I had it awhile.”
“Still got the sticker in the window,” Jim Tile remarked, “and the paper license tag from the dealer.”
“So?”
“Did Thomas give you that new car?”
Shawn Curl drew a deep breath. What was the world coming to, that a nigger could talk to him like this? “Maybe he did give it to me,” Shawn Curl said. “There’s no law ’ginst it.”
“No, there isn’t,” Jim Tile said. He thanked Shawn Curl for his time, and walked toward the door. “By the way,” the trooper said, “that lion’s humping one of your llamas.”
“Shit,” said Shawn Curl, scrambling to find his pitchfork.
The three boys went to the high-school basketball game but they didn’t stay long. Kyle, the one with the phony driver’s license, had three six-packs in the trunk, along with his stepfather’s .22-caliber rifle. Jeff and Cole, both of whom were on the verge of flunking out anyway, cared even less about high-school basketball than Kyle. The game was just their excuse to get out of the house, something to tell the parents. The teenagers left before the first half was over. Kyle drove to the usual spot, a county dumpsite miles west of the city, and there they gulped down the six-packs while plinking bottles, soda cans, and the occasional hapless rat. Once the beer and ammunition were used up, there was only one thing left to do. Jeff and Cole called it “bum-bashing,” though it was Kyle, the biggest one, who claimed to have invented both the phrase and the sport. That’s what everyone at the high school said, anyway: It must have been Kyle’s idea.
