Decker said, "I wasn't thinking about New Orleans, captain. I was thinking about Bobby Clinch and Ott Pickney and Dickie Lockhart. In relation to Gault, I mean."
"And Catherine."
"Yes. Catherine too."
"True," Skink said, "Mr. Gault is not a very nice man."
Decker took a short breath and said, "I was seriously thinking about killing him."
"Now that you got the hang of it, right?"
Decker was stung by Skink's sarcasm. And a sterling example you are, he thought. "I don't know what I'll do when I see him. Could be I won't be able to stop myself."
"Don't give me that cuckoo's-nest routine," Skink said. "Do you really want to do it? Or do you want yourself to want to? Think about it. Tom Curl was a different story—your girl was involved. That was rescue; this is revenge. Even a one-eyed basket case like me can see you don't have the stomach for it, and I'm glad."
Decker turned away.
"But the best reason not to kill the bastard," Skink added, "is that it's simply not necessary."
"Maybe you're right."
"I don't think you understand."
"Doesn't matter." Decker hopped off the hood. He spotted Catherine on her way back with a couple of chili dogs. "I think it's best if we take off before the festivities," he said wearily.
Skink shook his head. "It's best if you stay," he said. "Besides, I need a favor."
"Naturally."
"You know how to work one of these damn TV cameras?"
Later, when The Wall Street Journal and others would reconstruct the collapse of the Outdoor Christian Network, some of Charlie Weeb's colleagues and competitors would say he was a fool not to pull the plug on the Lunker Lakes show the instant Skink French-kissed the Minicam. However, such a judgment failed to take into account the pressure from Weeb's corporate sponsors, who had paid extraordinary sums to finance the bass tournament and definitely expected to see it (and their fishing products) on national television. To these businessmen, the attempted faith-healing was merely a gross and irritating preamble to the main event. The weigh-in itself was attended by no less than the entire board of directors of the Happy Gland fish-scent company, who had flown down from Elijay, Georgia, with the expectation that Eddie Spurling, their new spokesman, would win the Lockhart Memorial hands down. Charlie Weeb had assured them of this in the most positive terms.
So, even after Skink's performance, little thought was given to aborting the program. In fact, there was no time between the church show and the tournament for Weeb to contemplate the scope of the catastrophe, broadcast-wise. He knew it was bad; very bad. Before his eyes the sea of faithful Christian faces had dissipated; the first ten rows in front of the stage now were empty, with some of the chairs overturned by hasty departures. A few people milled around the boat docks while others hovered at the free buffet. Most apparently had retreated to the charter buses, where they huddled in their seats and recited appropriate Bible tracts. They couldn't wait to get out of Lunker Lakes.
As soon as Skink had leapt off the stage in pursuit of his eyeball, Charlie Weeb had cut to a commercial and gone searching for Deacon Johnson, who had presciently commandeered the limousine and struck out for parts unknown. Weeb's principal inquiry—as enunciated in a gaseous torrent of obscenities—concerned the selection of Mr. Jeremiah Skink as a subject worthy of healing. It was Reverend Weeb's opinion that Skink was more demented than disabled, and that his schizoid tendency toward self-mutilation should have been evident to Deacon Johnson (who, after all, was being paid two hundred thou a year to prevent such embarrassments).
Failing to locate Deacon Johnson, Charlie Weeb returned to the stage and tried to make the best of things. His image as a faith-healer was damaged, perhaps irreparably, but that concerned him less than the mounting specter of financial ruin. Word had filtered back to Weeb that many of the pilgrims who had signed new contracts for Lunker Lakes homesites were having second thoughts—a half-dozen had even demanded their deposits back. Weeb's stomach had churned sourly at the news.
What he now needed—in fact, the only thing that would save the project—was a big warm Southern finish. Specifically: a beaming, tanned, lovable, good ole boy in the person of Eddie Spurling, with a string of lunker bass. That would put the mood right.
So Charlie Weeb seized the microphone and talked a blue streak as the boats roared in. He talked about sunshine, balmy climate, calm waters, central air, adjustable mortgages, bike paths, rec rooms, low maintenance fees, the Olympic-size swimming pool, everything but fish.
Because there weren't any.
Every boat was coming back empty. The OCN sports reporter would stick a mike in front of the angler and the angler would straighten his cap and spit some chaw and grumble about it being one of those days, and then the sports reporter would smile lamely and say better luck next time.
Those gathered dockside—primarily the sponsors and tackle reps and devoted relatives of the contestants—could not recall such a dismal day of bass fishing, even in the weeks after Hurricane Camille had torn up the South.
Skink himself was worried by what he saw, but there was nothing to do but wait. Surely somebody had caught some fish.
As the pattern became clear to Charlie Weeb, he found it increasingly difficult to put a positive spin on the day's events. A weigh-in with nothing to weigh was extremely dull television, even by cable standards. To fill air time until Fast Eddie Spurling arrived, Weeb ordered the director to run some how-to fishing videos supplied by the big tackle companies.
With only ten minutes until deadline, and the winter sun nearly gone, forty-seven bass boats had checked in at the ramp. The empty scoreboard mocked Charlie Weeb. He could no longer summon the courage to look at the Happy Gland entourage.
Where were Eddie Spurling and his ringers?
Backstage the young hydrologist approached Reverend Weeb and said, "Bad news—the water's worse today than ever."
"Get out of my sight," Weeb said. He didn't give a damn anymore about the water—Eddie's fish would be fine, since they were coming out of the Everglades.
With a grave look, the hydrologist said, "You're about to have a major problem."
"And you're about to get a size-ten Florsheim up your ass, so get lost."
Weeb's earpiece crackled and the TV director said: "How much longer?"
"We got three boats out," the preacher said. "Sit tight, it'll be worth it."
It was.
Naturally Skink was first to hear them. He hopped off Decker's car and ambled down to the dock. The other onlookers gave way, recognizing him instantly as the deranged Cyclops whom Reverend Weeb had tried to cure. Skink stood alone until Decker and Catherine came down, holding hands.
"Listen," Skink said.
Decker heard the boat. Whoever it was, he was approaching very slowly-a behavior virtually unknown in professional bass-fishing circles.
"Engine trouble?" Decker said.
Skink shook his head. A mischievous grin split his face.
Catherine said, "This ought to be good."
Suddenly the dock was washed in hot light as the kliegs came on. An OCN cameraman, a wiry young man with curly red hair, hustled across the boat ramp with the Minicam balanced on one shoulder. Without explanation he handed the camera and battery pack to R. J. Decker, and bounded away.
"Prior engagement," Skink explained. Catherine couldn't be sure, but she thought he winked his good eye behind the sunglasses.
Decker got the Minicam focused while Catherine fitted the headset over his ears. In the earphone he could hear the director hollering for Camera Two to get steady.
"This is a breeze," Decker said. A four-year-old could work the zoom.
Skink rubbed his leathery hands together. "Lights! Camera!"
Decker aimed down the lake and waited. Before long a bass boat chugged into view. It was Fast Eddie Spurting, going slow. The reason was obvious.
He was towing two other boats.
"Is it Spurling?"
the TV director barked at Camera Two.
"Yep," Decker said.
The word was relayed to Reverend Weeb, who got on the PA system and beckoned all within earshot to return at once to the dock area. Even those who had fled to the buses emerged to see what was going on.
"Go tight, Rudy," the director instructed Decker, and Decker obliged, as Rudy would have.
As the procession of boats tediously made its way up Lunker Lake Number One, a few people in the crowd (specifically, those with binoculars) began to react alarmingly. Curious, Charlie Weeb stepped down from the stage to join his congregation at water's edge.
R. J. Decker was doing quite well with the TV camera. Through the viewfinder everything was in perfect focus.
There was Eddie Spurling half-turned in the driver's seat as he checked the crippled boats on his towline.
The first was the wooden skiff—there were Jim Tile and Al Garcia, sitting aft and stern. They toasted the TV lights with cans of Budweiser.
Charlie Weeb let out a whimper. "Mother of God, it's the Tile Brothers." He had completely forgotten about the spic and the spade. "Get the camera offa them!" the preacher screamed.
Slowly R. J. Decker panned to the second boat, and when he did his knees nearly crimped.
It was the Starcraft, and it wasn't the way Decker had left it.
Catherine said, "Oh no," and moved behind Skink. She leaned her head against his back, and closed her eyes.
The boat was full of buzzards.
There was a ragged cluster of at least a dozen—burly fearless birds; oily brown, stoop-shouldered, with raw pink heads and sharp ruthless eyes. They belched and shifted and blinked in the bright light, but they didn't fly. They were too full.
"Tough customers," Skink whispered to Decker.
Numbly Decker let the TV camera peer into the boat. He ignored the disembodied voice shrieking from his earpiece.
The buzzards stood in a litter of human bones. The bones were clean, but occasionally one of the rancid birds would bend down and pick savagely, as a possessive gesture to the others. The biggest buzzard, a disheveled male with a stained crooked beak, palmed a bare yellow skull in its talons.
"Looks like a dog," Skink said, puzzled.
"It's Lucas," Catherine sighed. "Rage, I want to go home."
As soon as Eddie Spurling tied off the boats, Charlie Weeb barged forward and said, "Why'd you tow those fuckers in?"
"Because they ast me to."
"So where's the fish?"
"No fish," Eddie Spurling reported. "I got skunked."
Weeb sucked on his upper lip. He had to be careful what he said. There was a decent-sized crowd now; the other contestants had hung around just to see how the famous TV fisherman had fared.
"What do you mean, no fish—how is that possible?" Weeb spoke in a low strained voice. He used his eyes to grill Eddie about the ringers—where the fuck were they!
"Damn rascals just weren't bitin'."
"You're in big trouble, Eddie."
"Naw, I don't think so."
The sports reporter from OCN poked his microphone into Spurling's face and asked the star of Fish Fever what had happened.
"Just one of those days," Fast Eddie mused, "when you feel like a spit-valve on the trombone of life."
Al Garcia and Jim Tile climbed out of the skiff with the Igloo cooler. Skink was waiting for them.
"We didn't get Queenie," Garcia said.
"I know."
Garcia looked at Jim Tile, then at Skink.
Skink said, "Bet you boys had some engine trouble."
"I don't believe this," Garcia said. He realized what had happened, but he didn't know why.
"What's going on, jungle man?"
"Change of plans," Skink said. "Late-breaking brainstorm."
Jim Tile was thinking about it. "The Starcraft isn't one of the tournament boats."
"No," Skink said, "it's not. Ask Decker about that one."
Garcia said, That means there's another guy still out on the water."
"Right," said Jim Tile. "Dennis Gault."
Skink looked pleased. "You boys are pretty sharp, even for cops."
Al Garcia remembered what Skink had taught him about the huge fish. "Just what the hell have you done?" he asked.
"It's not me, senor. I just arranged things." Skink flipped open the lid of the Igloo and saw Garcia's little bass, darting in the clean water. "I'll be damned, Sergeant, I'm proud of you."
Jim Tile said, "Sir, there's something you ought to know."
"In a minute, Trooper Jim. First let's get this little scupper to the weigh station." By himself Skink hoisted the heavy cooler and elbowed his way through the crowd. "You won't believe this," he was saying over his shoulder to Tile and Garcia, "but I believe you're the only boat that caught fish."
"That's what we're trying to tell you," Garcia said, huffing behind.
Skink climbed the stage and carried the cooler to the scale. He took out the little bass and carefully set him in the basket. Behind them onstage the digital scale lighted up with glowing six-foot numerals: "14 oz."
"Ha-ha!" Skink cawed. He found the stage mike and boomed into the PA system: "Attention, K-Mart shoppers! We've got a winner."
"Shitfire," Charlie Weeb muttered. The voice on the PA sounded just like the blind man. First a boatload of buzzards, and now what?
As the queasy preacher followed the OCN camerman to the weigh station, it occurred to him it wasn't red-haired Rudy, but someone else with the Minicam, someone Weeb didn't recognize. It made little sense, but in the unremitting chaos of the day it seemed a negligible mystery.
The blind man was not onstage when Charlie Weeb got there, but another nightmare awaited him.
The Tile Brothers.
"Hola," Jim Tile said to Charlie Weeb. "muy grande fish, no?"
"Check it out, bro," Al Garcia said.
Charlie Weeb got a bilious taste in his throat. "It appears that you are indeed the winner," he said. The Minicam was right in his face—all America was watching. Somehow Weeb composed himself and raised the puny bass for the camera. Two girls in orange bikinis rolled out the immense trophy, and two more carried out a giant cardboard facsimile of the check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
"That's righteous," Al Garcia said, causing Jim Tile to wince, "but where be the real thing?"
"Ah," Weeb said. How could he go on TV and say that, after all this, the check was missing? That he and Deacon Johnson were the only two human beings with the combination to the safe, and now Deacon Johnson was gone?
Sensing trouble, Jim Tile asked, "Donde esta el cheque?"
"I'm sorry," Reverend Weeb said, "but I don't speak Cubish."
By way of translation, Al Garcia said: "Where's the fucking bread, por favor?"
Weeb attempted several explanations, none persuasive and none contradicting the fact that he had promised to present the check to the winners on national television on the day of the tournament. The crowd, especially the other bass anglers, became unruly and insistent; as much as they resented the Tile Brothers, they resented even more the idea of any fisherman getting stiffed. Even the sulking Happy Gland contingent joined the fracas.
"I'm sorry," Weeb said finally, raising his palms, "there's been a slight problem."
Al Garcia and Jim Tile looked at one another irritably.
"You do the honors," Garcia said.
Jim Tile dug a badge and some handcuffs out of his jacket.
Charlie Weeb's lushly forested eyebrows seemed to wilt. A buzz went through the audience.
"Cut, Rudy, cut!" the director was hollering into R. J. Decker's ear, but Decker let it roll.
In perfect English, Jim Tile said, "Mr. Weeb, you're under arrest for fraud—"
"And grand larceny," Garcia interjected. "And any other damn thing I can think of."
"And grand larceny," Jim Tile continued. "You have the right to remain silent—"
Just then a sorrowful cry sheared the dusk.
It rose up from the water in a guttural animal pitch that made Garcia flinch and shiver.
Jim Tile bowed his head. He'd tried to tell him.
Decker dropped the Minicam and ran toward the boat ramp.
Skink was on his knees in the shallow water. All around him fish were rising in convulsions, finning belly-up, cutting the glassy surface in jerky zigzag vectors.
Skink scooped up one of the addled bass as it swam by and held it up, dripping, for Decker and the others to see.
Carl Hiaasen - Double Whammy Page 37
