Double Whammy (28 page)

“Then who killed him?” Jim Tile asked.

“I don't know.” Ozzie sniffed loudly, trying to get the snot off his upper lip. “I got no idea,” he said.

Jim Tile believed him. He said, “Tell me about Mr. Pickney.”

“Who? Help me out.”

“The guy who played Davey Dillo at the high school.”

“Oh, the reporter,” Ozzie said. “Sir, I didn't drown nobody.”

“Who did?”

Culver made a gurgling sound, opened his eyes—showing the whites—and shut them slowly again. Ozzie cried and said, “We gotta get the truck back to Momma.”

Then tell me about Morgan Slough.” Jim Tile held a teacup to Ozzie Rundell's lips. He took a loud sip, swallowed twice, and began to talk. Jim Tile sat back and listened, saving his questions for the end. He figured the least interruption would confuse Ozzie beyond redemption.

“Okay, a few days after Bobby Clinch died, Tom and Lemus came by the bait shop for coffee. They were saying how somebody was trying to make it look like Dickie done it, except it was an accident—Doc Pembroke even said so. But Tom and Lemus, they said how somebody went to the newspaper with a made-up story that Dickie kilt Bobby, and now this detective from Miami was goin' around asking about Bobby and what happened at the Coon Bog. Culver ast who would try to set Dickie Lockhart up like that, but Tom said there were about a million guys jealous of Dickie would do it in a flash. He said they'd try to make it look like Bobby caught Dickie cheating in some tournament.

“So Culver hears all this and gets worried because, right before the Curl boys come by, this reporter fella had been in asting about Bobby's boat and the funeral and such—see, they sawed up his Ranger into a coffin. Mr. Pinky, he seemed real interested so Culver told him Larkin's place had done the carpenter work. The man said thanks and went off.

“Jeez, when Tom and Lemus hear all this they say we've got to get over to Larkin's right away. Culver was busy with some customers so he told me to ride along in the truck, which I did. On the way over Tom and Lemus said if we don't do something fast, the newspaper's gonna do a big write-up about how Dickie murdered Bobby Clinch, which we all knew was a lie, but still it would ruin Dickie and make him lose the TV show. They said we better stop this guy and I said yeah, but that was before I knew what they meant. What they meant by stopping him. Sir, can I have some more tea?”

Jim Tile held the cup for Ozzie.

“The green truck, that was Tom and Lemus's,” Ozzie said.

“Oh,” said Jim Tile.

“Anyway, we get to Larkin's and there's the guy out back by the dumpster. Ott Pinky. I recognized him right off, and Lemus says: Is that the guy? And I say yeah, it is.” Ozzie paused. “I got in the back of the truck, the green truck.”

Jim Tile said, “And Mr. Pickney rode up front? Between the Curl boys.”

“Yes, sir. There's a deer camp on the Sumter property. Maybe sixteen miles out. We took him there for the rest of the day. See, I thought mainly they was just gonna ast him questions.”

Jim Tile said, “What did you see, Ozzie?”

“Mainly I stayed in the truck.”

“Then what did you hear?”

Ozzie looked down. “Jesus, I don't know. Mainly some yelling. . . .” The words tumbled slowly, trailed off. Jim Tile imagined Ozzie's fevered brain cells exploding like popcorn.

The trooper said, “What did Ott tell them?”

“We made a fire, drank some beer, fell asleep. About three hours before dawn we headed for the slough.”

“Was Mr. Pickney still alive?”

“He didn't tell them hardly nothing, according to Tom and Lemus.” Ozzie was untracked again, answering Jim Tile's questions in no particular sequence.

Jim Tile said, “You were the driver, that's all?”

“He was still alive when we got there. Banged up but still alive. See, I thought they was gonna let him go. I thought they was through with him. Tom and Lemus, they said to stay in the truck and I did. But it got cold and I couldn't figure what was takin' so long. Finally I got out to whizz and that's when I heard the splash.”

Jim Tile said, “You didn't see anything?”

“It was a damn big splash.” Ozzie sneezed, and more gunk came out of his nose. He said, “Truth is, I didn't really want to look.”

Jim Tile untied Ozzie's wrists and ankles and helped him to his feet. Together they carried Culver out to the pickup and laid him on the flatbed. Ozzie put the tailgate back up. Jim Tile got an extra pillow and a blanket from his apartment.

“Think you'd best get him over to the hospital in Melbourne,” Jim Tile said. “Nobody here in town can fix that jawbone.”

Ozzie nodded glumly. “I gotta go by the house and fetch Momma.” He got in the truck and started the ignition.

Jim Tile leaned in the driver's window and said, “Ozzie, you understand what happens if I have to arrest you.”

“Culver goes to jail,” Ozzie said wanly.

“For the rest of his natural life. When he gets to feeling better, please remind him, would you?”

“I will,” said Ozzie. “Sir, I swear I don't think he meant to shoot you.”

“Of course he did,” said Jim Tile, “but I'm inclined to let the whole thing slide, long as you boys stay out of my way for a while.”

Ozzie was so relieved that he nearly peed his pants. He didn't even mind that the black man had called
them
boys. Basically Ozzie was happy to still be alive. The trooper could have killed them both and gotten away with it, yet here he was, being a true Christian and letting them go.

“Just one favor,' Jim Tile said, resting a coal-black arm on the door of the truck.

“Sure,” Ozzie said.

“Where can I find Thomas Curl?”

 

 

Richard Clarence Lockhart was buried on January 25 at the Our Lady of Tropicana cemetery outside Harney. It was a relatively small turnout, considering Dickie's fame and stature in the county, but the low attendance could be explained easily enough. By unfortunate coincidence, the day of the funeral was also opening day of the Okeechobee Bass Blasters Classic, so almost all Dickie's friends and colleagues were out fishing. Dickie would certainly forgive them, the preacher had chuckled, especially since the tournament required a nonrefundable entry fee of two thousand dollars per boat.

Dickie Lockhart was buried in a handsome walnut coffin, not a bass boat. The hearse bearing the coffin was escorted to Our Lady of Tropicana by three police cars, including a trooper's cruiser driven, none too happily, by Jim Tile. Dickie Lockhart's casket was closed during the eulogy, since the mortician ultimately had been frustrated in his cosmetic efforts to remove the Double Whammy spinnerbait from Dickie's lip; in the clammy New Orleans morgue the lure's hook had dulled, while Dickie's skin had only toughened. Rather than further mutilate the facial features of the deceased, the mortician had simply advised Dickie's sisters to keep the coffin closed and remember him as he was.

Ozzie Rundell was extremely grateful. He couldn't have borne another glimpse of his murdered idol.

Culver Rundell did not attend the funeral, since he was hospitalized with thirty-nine linear feet of stainless-steel wire in his jaws. On Culver's behalf, the bait shop had ordered a special floral arrangement topped by a ceramic jumping fish. Unfortunately the ceramic fish was a striped marlin, not a largemouth bass, but no one at the funeral was rude enough to mention it.

The Reverend Charles Weeb also did not attend the funeral, but on behalf of the Outdoor Christian Network he sent a six-foot gladiola wreath with a white ribbon that said: “Tight Lines, Old Friend.” This was the hit of the graveside service, but the best was yet to come. The next morning, at the closing of the regular Sunday broadcast of
Jesus in Your Living Room
, Charlie Weeb offered a special benediction for the soul of his dear, dear friend Dickie Lockhart, the greatest bass fisherman in the history of America. Then Dickie's face appeared on the big screen behind the pulpit, and the assembled flock lip-synched to a Johnny Cash recording of “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” At the end of the song everybody was weeping, even Charlie Weeb, the man who had so often privately referred to Dickie Lockhart as a shiftless pellet-brained cocksucker.

 

Twenty-five minutes after the church show was over and the audience was paid, the Reverend Charles Weeb strolled into a skybox in the Superdome, which had been rented for the big press conference. If Charlie Weeb was disappointed in the sparse turnout of media, he didn't show it. He wore his wide-bodied smile and a cream-colored suit with a plum kerchief in the breast pocket. At his side stood a rangy tanned man with curly brown hair and a friendly, toothy smile. Right away the man reminded some of the photographers of Bruce Dern, the actor, but it wasn't. It was Eddie Spurling, the fisherman.

“Gentlemen,” said Charlie Weeb, still in character, “am I a happy man today! Yes indeed, I am. It is my pleasure to announce that, beginning this week, Eddie Spurling will be the new host of
Fish Fever.”

There were only two print reporters in the room, but Weeb politely waited for them to jot the big news in their spiral notebooks.

Weeb continued: “As you know, for some time Eddie's been the host of his own popular bass show on a competing network. We are most pleased to have stolen him away, since it means—as of yesterday—an additional seventy-four independent cable stations switching to the Outdoor Christian Network for the upcoming fishing season.” Charlie Weeb allowed himself a brief dramatic pause. “And let me say that although all of us will miss Dickie Lockhart and his special brand of outdoor entertainment, I'm certain that his fans will find Eddie Spurling just as exciting, just as informative, and just as much fun to fish with every week. All of us here in the OCN family couldn't be more pleased!”

Eddie stepped forward and tipped an invisible cap. He was looking pretty pleased himself, and for good reason. January had been a fabulous month. Without winning a single bass tournament he had doubled both his salary and his national TV exposure, and had also landed the lucrative six-figure endorsement contract for Happy Gland Fish Scent products. The Happy Gland package (entailing print, TV, billboard, and radio commercials) was the envy of the professional bass-fishing circuit, a prize held exclusively for the past five years by Dickie Lockhart. With Lockhart's sudden death, the Happy Gland people needed a new star. The choice was an obvious one; the ad agency didn't even bother to hold auditions. Henceforth every bottle of Bass Bolero, Mackerel Musk, and Catfish Cum would bear the grinning likeness of Fast Eddie Spurling.

“Any questions?” asked Charlie Weeb.

The reporters just looked at one another. Each of them was thinking he would go back to the newsroom and kill the editor who sent him on this assignment.

Weeb said, “I've saved the best for last. Girls, bring out the visuals.”

Two young women in opalescent bathing suits entered the skybox carrying an immense gold-plated trophy. The trophy easily stood five feet off the ground. On the corners of the base of the trophy were toy-size figures of anglers holding fishing rods, bent in varying degrees of mythic struggle. At the crown of the trophy was an authentic largemouth bass in a full body mount. As bass went, it was no hawg, but poised on the trophy it did look impressive.

“Well, there!” said the Reverend Weeb.

“What did you win it for?” one of the reporters asked Eddie Spurling.

“I didn't win it,” Fast Eddie said, “not yet.”

“Gentlemen, read what it says on the trophy, look closely,” said Charlie Weeb. “This is probably the biggest trophy most of you ever saw, including Eddie here, who's won some pretty big ones.”

“None this big,” Eddie Spurling said admiringly.

“Damn right,” Weeb said. “That's because it's the biggest trophy ever. And it's the biggest trophy ever because it goes to the winner of the biggest fishing tournament ever. Three weeks from today, gentlemen, on the edge of the legendary Florida Everglades, fifty of the best bass anglers in the world will compete for a first prize of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Christ,” said one of the reporters. Finally something to scribble.

“The richest tournament ever,” Charlie Weeb said, glowing. “The Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic.”

Ed Spurting said, “At Lunker Lakes.”

“Oh yes,” said the Reverend Weeb, “how could I forget?”

Al Garcίa was dog-tired. He'd been up since six, and even after four cups of coffee his tongue felt like mossy Styrofoam. His bum left shoulder was screaming for Percodans but Garcia stuck with plain aspirin, four at a pop. It was one of those days when he wondered why he hadn't just retired on full disability and moved quietly to Ocala; one of those days when everything and everybody in Miami annoyed the shit out of him. The lady at the toll booth, for instance, when she'd snatched the dollar bill out of his hand—a frigging buck, just for the matchless pleasure of driving the Rickenbacker out to Key Biscayne. And the doorman at the Mayan high-rise condo.
Let's see some identification
,
please.
How about a sergeant's badge, asshole? The thing was, the doorman—dressed in a charcoal monkey suit that must have cost four bills—the doorman used to work for fucking Somoza. Used to pulverize peasant skulls on behalf of the Nicaraguan National Guard. Garcίa knew this, and still he had to stand there, dig around for his shield
and
a driver's license, before the goon would let him inside.