Double Whammy

by Carl Hiaasen

  Gault was ironing a Bass Blasters patch onto the crown of his cap when the phone rang. It was Lanie, calling from a truck stop halfway between Harney and Fort Lauderdale.

  “Ellen O’Leary is gone,” she said. “Decker came to the condo and got her.”

  “Nice work,” her brother said snidely.

  “What’d you expect me to do? He had that big black guy with him, the trooper.”

  Gault was determined not to let anything spoil the tournament for him.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  “What about New Orleans?” Lanie asked.

  “Forget about it,” Gault said, “and forget about Decker. Tom Curl is taking care of it.”

  Lanie knew what that meant, but she swept the thought from her mind. She pretended it meant nothing. “Dennis, I told them about the affidavit, about how I lied.”

  She thought he would be furious, but instead he said: “It doesn’t really matter.”

  Lanie wanted Dennis to say something more, but he didn’t. She wanted to hear all about the tournament, what tackle he planned to use, where he’d be staying. She wanted him at least to sound pleased that she’d called, but he sounded only bored. With Dennis, everything was business.

  “I’ve got to pack,” he said.

  “For the tournament?”

  “Right.”

  “Could I come along?”

  “Not a good idea, Elaine. Lots of tension, you know.”

  “But I have a surprise.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Not much, big brother. Just a tip that’ll guarantee you win the Lockhart Memorial.”

  “Realty, Elaine.” But she had him hooked.

  Lanie said, “You know of a man they call Skink?”

  “Yes. He’s crazy as a bedbug.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  There was an edgy pause on the other end of the line. Dennis Gault was thinking sordid and unpleasant thoughts about his sister and the hermit. He wondered where his mother had gone wrong raising Elaine.

  “Dennis, he’s got a huge fish.”

  “Is that what he calls it? His fish?”

  Lanie said, “Be that way. Be an asshole.”

  “Finish your fairy tale.”

  “He’s raised this giant mutant bass, he’s very proud of it. He makes it sound like a world record or something.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  Lanie said, “Then later he mentions he’s got friends fishing in this tournament.”

  “Later? You mean after tea and crumpets?”

  “Drop it, Dennis. It wasn’t exactly easy getting this guy to open up. He’d make Charles Bronson seem like the life of the party.”

  “What else did he say?”

  That he and the fish were going on a trip this weekend.”

  Gault snorted. “He and the fish. You mean like a date?”

  Lanie let him think about it. Dennis Gault didn’t take a long time.

  “He’s going to plant the bass at Lunker Lakes,” he said, “so his friends can win the tournament.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “Not a bad day’s work, even if you’ve got to split the prize money three ways.”

  “Instead of just two,” Lanie said.

  “What?”

  “You and me, half and half,” she said, “if you win with Skin’s fish.”

  Dennis Gault had to laugh. She was something, his sister. If she were a man, she’d have steel ones.

  “Deal?” Lanie said.

  “Sure, fifty-fifty.” Gault really didn’t give a damn about the money anyway.

  “I’m not riding in it,” Al Garcίa said.

  “It’s all I could find, with a trailer hitch,” Jim Tile explained.

  Garcίa said, “It’s a fucking garbage truck, Jim. An eleven-ton diesel garbage truck!”

  “It’s perfect,” Skink said. “It’s you.”

  He had strapped the wooden skiff to the secondhand trailer; even with the outboard engine it was a light load. He one-handed the tongue of the trailer and snapped it down on the ball of the hitch.

  Garcίa stared in dismay. The peeling old boat was bad enough by itself, but hitched to the rump of a garbage truck it looked like a flea-market special. “Gypsies wouldn’t ride in this fucking caravan,” the detective said. “What happened to your cousin’s lawn truck?”

  “Axle broke,” said Jim Tile.

  “Then let’s rent a regular pickup.”

  “No time,” Skink said.

  “then let’s all ride with you,” Garcίa said.

  “No way,” Skink said. “We can’t be seen together down there. From this moment on, you don’t know me, I don’t know you. Bass is the name of the game, no socializing. It’s just you and Jim Tile, brothers. That’s all.”

  Garcίa said, “What if something happens—how do we reach you?”

  “I’ll be aware. You got the map?”

  “Yep.” To demonstrate, Garcίa patted a trouser pocket.

  “Good. Now, remember, get one of those big Igloos.”

  “I know, the sixty-gallon job.”

  “Right. And an aquarium pump.”

  Jim Tile said, “We’ve got it all written down.”

  Skink smiled tiredly. “So you do.” He tucked his ropy gray braid down the back of his weather jacket. The trooper had advised him to do this to reduce his chances of getting pulled over for no reason on the Tumpike; long hair was a magnet for cops.

  As Skink climbed into the truck, he said, “Decker make his phone call?”

  “Yeah,” Jim Tile said, “he’s already gone.”

  “God, that’s the one thing I’m worried about,” Skink said. “I really like that boy.” He pulled the raincap tight on his skull. He lifted the sunglasses just enough to fit a finger underneath, working the owl eye back into its socket.

  “How you feeling?” Jim Tile asked.

  “Better and better. Thanks for asking. And you, Señor Smartass Cuban, remember—”

  “I’ll be gentle with her, governor, don’t worry.”

  “—because if she dies, I’ll have to kill somebody.”

  With that Skink started the ignition, and the truck jostled down the dirt cattle path toward the Mormon Trail.

  Tied upright in the flatbed was the big plastic garbage pail, crisscrossed with ropes and elastic bungy cords. Fastened crudely to the top of the pail was a battery-powered pump, obviously rebuilt, from which sprouted clear life-giving tubes. Inside the plastic container was precisely thirty gallons of Lake Jesup’s purest, and in that agitated but freshly oxygenated water was the fish called Queenie, flaring her fins, jawing silent fulminations. The hugest largemouth bass in all the world.

  After they checked in at the motel, Thomas Curl told Catherine to take off her clothes. She got as far as her bra and panties and said that was it.

  “I want you nekked,” Curl said, brandishing the pistol. “That way you won’t run off.”

  Catherine said, “It’s too cold.”

  Curl got a thin woolen blanket from the closet and threw it at her. “Now,” he said.

  Catherine fingered the blanket. “Awfully scratchy,” she complained.

  Thomas Curl cocked the pistol. He didn’t aim it directly at her, but pointed it up, drawn back over his left shoulder, gunslinger-style. “Strip,” he said.

  Reluctantly she did as she was told. The fact that Thomas Curl’s minimal brain was racked by infection weighed heavily in Catherine’s decision. Anyone else she would have tried to talk out of it, but this was not a well person; he had become febrile, rambling, alternately manic and torpid. He had given up all attempts to prize the dead dog head from his arm. It was his friend now.

  Thomas Curl watched intently as Catherine wrapped herself twice around in the blanket and sat down at the head of her bed.

  “You got the nicest tits,” he said.

  “Bet you say that to all your kidnap victims.”

  “
I think I might like to poke you.”

  “Some other night,” said Catherine.

  Slowly, like a sleepy chameleon, Thomas Curl dosed his puffy eyes by degrees. His head drooped to one side, and would have drooped even more except that his temple came to rest on the muzzle of the pistol. For a moment Catherine was sure she’d be rinsing brains out of her hair, but abruptly Thomas Curl woke up. He uncocked the gun and slid it into his belt. With his dog arm he motioned to the telephone on the nightstand. “Call your doctor husband,” he said. “Tell him everything’s peachy.”

  Catherine dialed the number of the hotel in Montreal, but James was not in his room. She hung up.

  “I’ll try later,” she said.

  Unsteadily Thomas Curl made his way to the bed. The stench from the dead dog head was overpowering.

  “Can we open a window?” Catherine asked.

  “Lie down.”

  “What for?”

  With his good arm he flattened her on the bed. Using torn strips of bed linen, he tied her to the mattress. Catherine was impressed by the strength of the knots, considering his limited dexterity.

  Thomas Curl unplugged the phone and tucked it under his right arm. “Don’t try nuthin’ funny,” he said to Catherine.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Lucas has to go for a walk.”

  Catherine nodded.

  “I’m taking the phone,” said Curl.

  “Could you pick up some food?” she asked. “I’m starving.”

  Thomas Curl threw R. J. Decker’s coat over his shoulders. “Burger King’ll have to do,” he said.

  “Wendy’s has a salad bar,” Catherine suggested.

  “All right,” Curl said, “Wendy’s.”

  He wasn’t very hungry. He picked at some french fries while Catherine ate her salad and sipped a Diet Coke. Curl had had so much trouble untying her that he’d just cut the linen with a pocketknife.

  “Did Lucas enjoy his walk?” she said.

  “He was a good boy,” Curl said, patting the dog head. “A good boy for daddy.”

  He put the phone back in the wall and told Catherine to try Montreal again. This time James answered.

  “How’s the convention?” Catherine said. “Lots of laughs?”

  Thomas Curl moved dose to her on the bed and took out the gun, as a reminder.

  Catherine said to James: “Just so you won’t worry, I’m going up to my sister’s in Boca for a few days. In case you called home and I wasn’t there.” They talked for a few minutes about the weather and the encouraging advance orders for the electric vibrating chiropractic couch, and then Catherine said good-bye.

  “That was good,” Thomas Curl said, munching a cold french fry. “You like him as much as Decker?”

  “James is a sweetheart,” Catherine said. “If it’s money you’re after, he’d pay anything to get me back.”

  “It’s not money I’m after.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “So now he won’t be worried, your doctor won’t? When you’re not home?”

  “No, he’s having a ball,” Catherine said. “He got interviewed for Vertebrae Today.”

  Curl burped.

  “A chiropractic magazine,” Catherine explained. She herself was not overwhelmed with excitement.

  The phone rang. Catherine started to reach for it, but Curl thwacked her arm with the butt of the gun. When he answered, a man’s voice said: “It’s me. Decker.”

  “You here yet?”

  “On the way,” Decker said. He was at a service plaza in Fort Pierce, gassing up Al Garcίa’s car.

  “You ready to trade?”

  “Absolutely,” Decker said. “How’s Mrs. Gómez?”

  Curl put the receiver to Catherine’s cheek. “Tell him you’re fine,” he said.

  “R.J., I’m fine.”

  “Catherine, I’m sorry about this.”

  “It’s okay—”

  Curl snatched the phone back and said: “This is the way we’re going to do it: a straight-up trade.”

  “Fair enough, but I choose the place.”

  “Fuck you, bubba.”

  “It’s the only way, Tom. It’s the only way I can make sure the lady walks free.”

  Curl rubbed his brow. He wanted to stand firm, but his mind could not assemble an argument. Every thought that entered his head seemed to sizzle and burn up in the fever. As Decker instructed him when and where to go, Thomas Curl repeated everything aloud in a thick, disconnected voice. Luckily Catherine jotted the directions on a Holiday Inn notepad, because Curl forgot everything the instant he hung up.

  “Hungry, Lucas?” He opened the brown grocery bag. He had stopped at the store and bought the dog a little treat.

  Catherine eyed the package. “Gaines Burgers?”

  “His favorite,” Curl said. He unwrapped one of the patties and mashed it between the dog’s jaws, still fixed obdurately to his own arm. The red meat stuck to the animal’s dried yellow fangs. “You like that, dontcha, boy?”

  Catherine said, “He’s not hungry, Tom. I can tell.”

  “Guess you’re right,” Curl said. “Must be all the traveling.”

  28

  Deacon Johnson tapped lightly on the door. For once, Reverend Weeb was alone.

  “Charles, you’d better come see.”

  “What now?” the preacher said irritably.

  He followed Deacon Johnson out of the townhouse office, through the courtyard, down a sloping walk to a boat ramp on the newly sodded shore of Lunker Lake Number One. Many of the anglers had begun to arrive, so the ramp was crowded with needle-shaped bass boats, each attached to a big candy-colored Blazer, Jeep, or Bronco. In the midst of the gleaming congregation was an immense army-green garbage truck with a warped old skiff hitched to its bumper.

  Two men leaned impassively against the truck; one was tall and muscular and black, the other roundish and Latin-looking. The rest of the bass fishermen studied the unusual newcomers from a distance, and chuckled in low tones.

  Charlie Weeb approached the men and said, “If you’re looking for the dump, it’s out Road 84.” He pointed west, toward the dike. “That way.”

  Jim Tile said, “We’re here for the bass tournament.”

  “Is that right?” Weeb eyed the rowboat disdainfully. “Sorry, son, but this event’s not open to the general public.”

  Al Garcίa said, “We’re not the general public, son. We’re the Tile Brothers.” Coolly he handed Charlie Weeb the receipt for the registration fee. Without a glance, Weeb passed it to Deacon Johnson.

  “It’s them, all right,” Deacon Johnson reported. “Boat number fifty, all paid up.”

  “You don’t look like brothers,” Reverend Weeb said accusingly.

  “Sί, es verdad,” Jim Tile said.

  “Fo sho,” added Al Garcίa. “We true be bros.”

  They had practiced the routine on the long ride down. Jim Tile had done much better learning Spanish than Al Garcίa had done learning jive. Still, it achieved the desired effect.

  Charlie Weeb puckered his cheeks and anxiously ran a manicured hand through his perfect blond hair. “Gentlemen, excuse me for a sec,” he said, and took Deacon Johnson aside.

  “This is some fucking joke.”

  “It’s no joke, Charles.”

  “Spic and spade brothers? I’d call that a joke.” Weeb was spitting, he was so exasperated. “Izzy, tonight we’re flying in one thousand loyal Christian prospective homesite buyers. I promised them to do a healing, I promised them to have some world-class bass fishing, and I promised to get their shining faces on national cable TV. All this, Izzy, in order to sell some fucking lots.”

  “Keep your voice down, Charles.” Even at a whisper, Reverend Weeb could rattle the china.

  Deacon Johnson took him by the arm and edged away from the newcomers. Standing in the rank shadow of the garbage truck, Deacon Johnson said, “We’ve taken their money, Charles, we’ve got to let them fish.”

  �
��Screw the entry fee. Give it back.”

  “Oh fine,” Deacon Johnson said, “and when the newspapers call, you explain why you did it.”

  The thought of bad publicity sent a cold razor down Charlie Weeb’s spine.

  Almost plaintively he said: “These folks I’m bringing down, Izzy, they don’t want to see a spic and a spade in this family-oriented development. The folks at home who watch my show, they don’t want to see ’em either. I’m not here to pass judgment, Izzy, I’m here for the demographics. Fact is, my people are the whitest of the white. Soon as they spot those two guys, that’s the ball game. They’ll think everything they heard about South Florida is true, niggers and Cubans everywhere. Even on the bass lakes.”

  Deacon Johnson said, “There’s forty-nine other boats in this tournament, Charles. Just tell your camermen to stay off the little wooden one. As for the garbage truck, we’ll park it out back in the construction lot. Loan these guys a decent rental car to get around the property. Anyone asks, tell ’em they work here.”

  “Good idea,” Weeb said. “Say they pour asphalt or something. Excellent.” Sometimes he didn’t know what he’d do without Izzy.

  Deacon Johnson said, “Don’t worry, Charles, just look at them—they don’t have a chance. It’ll be a holy miracle if that termite bucket doesn’t sink at the dock.”

  All Charlie Weeb could say was: “Whoever heard of a spic and a spade in a pro bass tournament?”

  But the mysterious Tile Brothers were already putting their boat in the water.

  The next day was practice day, and in keeping with tradition the anglers gathered early at the boat ramp to exchange theories and cultivate possible excuses. Because no one had fished Lunker Lakes before, the talk was basically bullshit and idle speculation. The bass would be schooled by the culverts. No, they’d be holding deep. No, they’d be bedded in the shallows.

  Only Charlie Weeb and his men knew the truth: there were no bass except dead ones. The new ones were on the way.

  Eddie Spurling realized that something was terribly wrong, but he didn’t say a word. Instead of mingling with his pals over coffee and biscuits, he strolled the shore alone in the predawn pitch. A couple of the other pros sidled up to make conversation, but Eddie was unresponsive and gloomy. He didn’t show the least interest in Duke Puffin’s deep-sonic crankbait or Tom Jericho’s new weedless trolling motor.