Double Whammy (7 page)

“How'd they ever find the rod?”

Ott shrugged. “Hell, R.J., how do I know? Maybe they snagged it off the bottom.”

“Thirty feet of brown water? I don't think so.”

“Okay, maybe he didn't bring it with him. Maybe he left it at home.”

“But it was his favorite rig.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I just think it's odd.”

“Bass fanatics like Bobby Clinch got a hundred fishing poles, R.J., a new favorite every day. Whatever catches a lunker.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“You need to relax,” Ott said, “you really do.”

They climbed in the Toyota and like clockwork Pickney lit up a Camel. He couldn't do it outdoors, in the fresh air, Decker thought; it had to be in a stuffy cab. He felt like getting out and hiking back to the motel. Give himself some time to think about this Lanie business.

“Clarisse didn't give me diddly for this story,” Ott complained. “A bitter, bitter woman. I'd much rather have been interviewing your saucy new friend.”

Decker said, “Who was she, anyway?”

“A very hot number,” Ott said. “Don't tell me she's already got your dick in a knot.”

“She seemed to know who I am. Or at least what I do.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“She said her name was Lanie.”

“Lovely, lovely Lanie,” Ott sang.

“Then you know her.”

“R.J., everybody knows Lanie Gault. Her brother's one of the biggest bass fishermen in the country.”

 

Dickie Lockhart missed the big funeral because he had to fly to New Orleans and meet with his boss.

The boss was the Reverend Charles Weeb, president, general manager, and spiritual commander of the Outdoor Christian Network, which syndicated Dickie Lockhart's television show.

Lockhart was not a remotely religious person—each Sunday being occupied by fishing—so he'd never bothered to ascertain precisely which denomination was espoused by the Reverend Charles Weeb. Whenever the two men met, Weeb never mentioned sin, God, Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, or any of the A-list apostles. Instead Weeb mainly talked about ratings and revenues and why some of Lockhart's big sponsors were going soft on him. During these discussions the Reverend Charles Weeb often became exercised and tossed around terms like “shithead” and “cocksucker” more freely than any preacher Dickie Lockhart had ever met.

Two or three times a year, Lockhart would be summoned to New Orleans for a detailed review of
Fish Fever
, Lockhart's immensely popular television show. The Reverend Charles Weeb, who naturally had his own evangelical show on the Outdoor Christian Network, seemed to possess an uncommon interest in Lockhart's low-budget fishing travelogue.

On the day of Bobby Clinch's funeral the two men met in a pink suite in a big hotel on Chartres Street. The room was full of fruit baskets and complimentary bottles of booze. On a credenza by the door stood an odd collection of tiny statuary—plastic dashboard saints that various hotel workers had dropped off so that the Reverend Weeb might bestow a small blessing, if he had time.

“Nutty Catholics,” Weeb grumbled. “Only know how to do two things—screw and beg forgiveness.”

“Can I have an apple?” Dickie Lockhart asked.

“No,” said Charles Weeb. He wore an expensive maroon jogging suit that he'd bought for cash on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. As always, his straw-blond hair looked perfect. Weeb also had straw-blond eyebrows which, Dickie Lockhart guessed, were combed with as much care as the hair.

Weeb propped his Reeboks on the coffee table, slipped on a pair of reading glasses, and scanned the latest Nielsens.

“Not too terrible,” he said.

“Thank you,” Lockhart said. Meetings were not his strong suit; he was already daydreaming about Bourbon Street, and what might happen later.

“You want to explain Macon?” Charlie Weeb said, peering over the rims.

Lockhart shrank into the sofa. He had no idea what the boss was talking about Had he missed a fishing tournament? Maybe a promotional gig for one of the top sponsors? Wasn't Macon where Happy Gland Fish Scent was manufactured?

“Macon,” Weeb sighed. His tone was that of a disappointed parent. “We lost Macon to that shiteating cocksucker.”

“Spurling?”

“Who else!” Weeb crumpled the Nielsens.

Ed Spurling hosted a show called
Fishin' with Fast Eddie,
which was broadcast by satellite to one hundred and seventeen television stations. One more, counting Macon.

In the fierce battle for TV bass-fishing supremacy, Ed Spurling was Dickie Lockhart's blood rival.

“Macon,” Dickie said morosely. Georgia was damn good bass country, too.

“So it's one hundred twenty-five stations to one-eighteen,” the Reverend Charles Weeb remarked. “Too damn close for comfort.”

“But we've got some overlap,” Lockhart noted. “Mobile, Gulfport, and Fort Worth.”

Weeb nodded. “Little Rock too,” he said.

These were cable systems that carried both bass programs; a few markets could easily support more than one.

“Guess I forgot to tell you,” Weeb said. “You lost the dinnertime slot in Little Rock. They bumped you to Sunday morning, after
Ozark Bowling
.

Lockhart groaned. Spurling's lead-in was Kansas City Royals baseball, a blockbuster. It didn't seem fair.

“You see what's happening,” the reverend said darkly.

“But the show's doing good. Did you see the one from Lake Jackson?”

“Shaky lens work.” Weeb sneered. “Looked like your video ace had the DTs.”

“We do our best,” the fisherman muttered, “on a thousand lousy bucks per episode.” That was the
Fish Fever
budget, excluding Dickie Lockhart's salary. Travel money was so tight that Lockhart drove a Winnebago between locations to save on motels.

Weeb said, “Your show needs a damn good jolt.”

“I caught three ten-pounders at Lake Jackson!”

“Spurling's got a new theme song,” Weeb went on. “Banjos. Mac Davis on the vocals. Have you heard it?”

Lockhart shook his head. He wasn't much for arguing with the boss, but sometimes pride got the best of him. He asked Charles Weeb, “Did you see the latest BBRs?”

Published by
Bass Blasters
magazine, the Bass Blasters Ratings (BBR) ranked the country's top anglers. The BBR was to bass fishing what the Nielsens were to the TV networks.

“Did you notice who's number one?” Dickie Lockhart asked.
“Again.”

“Yeah.” Weeb took his sneakers off the coffee table and sat up. “It's a good fucking thing, too, because right now all we got going for us is your name, Dickie. You're a winner and viewers like winners.'Course, I see where Mr. Spurling won himself a tournament in mid-Tennessee—”

“The minor leagues, Reverend Weeb. I smoked him at the Atlanta Classic. He finished eighth, and no keepers.”

Weeb stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from his expensive jogging suit. Then he sat down again. “As I said, we're very pleased you're on top. I just hate to see you slipping, that's all. It happens, if you're not careful. Happens in business, happens in fishing too. One and the same.”

Weeb tore open a fruit basket and tossed Lockhart an apple. Lockhart felt like telling Weeb how much his jogging suit looked like K-Mart pajamas.

The Reverend Charles Weeb said, “This is the majors, Dickie. If you don't win, you get benched.” He took off his glasses. “I truly hope you keep winning. In fact, I strongly recommend it.”

On this matter, of course, Dickie Lockhart was way ahead of him.

Decker honked twice as he drove up to Skink's shack. Short, polite honks. The last thing he wanted to do was surprise a man in a shooting mood.

The shack had a permanent lean, and looked as if a decent breeze could flatten it. Except for the buzz of horseflies, the place stood silent. Decker stuck his hands in his pockets and walked down to the lake. Across the water, several hundred yards away, a sleek boat drifted with two fishermen, plugging the shoreline. Every time one of them cast his lure, the shiny monofilament made a gossamer arc over the water before settling to the surface. The pointed raspberry hull of the fishermen's boat glistened under the noon sun. Decker didn't even bother to try a shout. If Skink were fishing, he'd be alone. And never in a boat like that.

Decker trudged back to the shack and sat on the porch. Seconds later he heard a cracking noise overhead, and Skink dropped out of an old pine tree.

He got up off the ground and said, “I'm beginning not to despise you.”

“Nice to hear,” Decker said.

“You didn't go inside.”

“It's not my house,” Decker said.

“Precisely,” Skink grumped, clomping onto the porch. “Some people would've gone in anyway.”

Daylight added no nuances or definition to Skink's appearance. Today he wore camouflage fatigues, sunglasses, and a flowered shower cap from which sprouted the long braid of silver-gray hair.

He poured coffee for Decker, but none for himself.

“I got fresh rabbit for lunch,” Skink said.

“No thanks.”

“I said
fresh.”

“I just ate,” Decker said unconvincingly.

“How was the funeral?”

Decker shrugged. “Did you know Robert Clinch?”

“I know them all,” Skink said.

“Lanie Gault?”

“Her brother's the big tycoon who hired you.”

“Right.” Decker had been relieved when Ott had told him that Dennis Gault was Lanie's brother. A husband would have been disconcerting news indeed.

Decker said, “Miss Gault thinks there's something strange about the way Bobby Clinch died.”

Skink was on his haunches, working on the fire. He didn't answer right away. Once the tinder was lit, he said, “Good rabbit is tough to come by. They tend to get all the way smushed and there's no damn meat left. The best ones are the ones that just barely get clipped and knocked back to the shoulder of the road. This one here, you'd hardly know it got hit. Meat's perfect. Might as well dropped dead of a bunny heart attack.” Skink was arranging the pieces on a frypan.

“I'll try a bite or two,” Decker said, surrendering.

Only then did Skink smile. It was one of the unlikeliest smiles Decker had ever seen, because Skink had perfect teeth. Straight, flawless, blindingly white ivories, the kind nobody is born with. TV-anchorman-type teeth—Skink's were that good.

Decker wasn't sure if he should be comforted or concerned. He was still thinking about those teeth when Skink said: “I was at the Coon Bog Saturday morning.”

“When it happened?”

“Right before.”

“They said he must've been doing sixty knots when the boat flipped.”

Skink basted the sizzling rabbit with butter. He looked up and said, “When I saw the boat, it wasn't moving.”

“Was Clinch alive?”

“Hell, yes.”

Decker said, “Then the accident must have happened after you left.”

Skink snorted.

“Did he see you?” Decker asked.

“Nope. I was kneeling in the trees, skinning out a rattler. Nobody saw me.” He handed Decker a hunk of fried meat.

Decker blew on it until it cooled, then took a small bite. It was really very good. He asked, “What made you notice Clinch?”

“Because he wasn't fishing.”

Decker swallowed the meat, and out came a quizzical noise.

“He wasn't fishing,” Skink repeated, “and I thought that was damn strange. Get up at dawn, race like mad to a fishing hole, then just poke around the lily pads with a paddle. I was watching because I wanted to see if he'd find what he was looking for.”

“Did he?”

“Don't know. I left, had to get the snake on ice.”

“Christ,” Decker said. He reached into the frypan and gingerly picked out another piece of rabbit. Skink nodded approvingly.

Decker asked, “What do you make of it?”

Skink said: “I'm working for you, is that right?”

“If you'll do it, I sure need the help.”

“No shit.” The pan was empty. Skink poured the gloppy grease into an old milk carton.

“Bass were slapping over that morning,” he said, “and not once did that fucker pick up a rod and cast. Do you find that strange?”

“I suppose,” Decker said.

“God, you need a lesson or two,” Skink muttered. “Guys like Clinch love to catch bass more than they love to screw. That's the truth, Miami. You put 'em on a good bass lake at dawn and they get
hard.
So the question is, why wasn't Bobby Clinch fishing on the Coon Bog last Saturday?”

Decker had nothing to offer.

“You want to hear something even stranger?” Skink said. “There was another boat out there too, and not far away. Two guys.”

Decker said, “And they weren't fishing either, were they, captain?”

“Ha-ha!” Skink cawed. “See there—those rabbit glands went straight to your brain!”

Decker's coffee had cooled, but it didn't matter. He gulped the rest of it.

Skink had become more animated and intense; the cords in his neck were tight. Decker couldn't tell if he was angry or ecstatic. Using a pocket knife to pick strings of rabbit meat from his perfect teeth, Skink said: “Well, Miami, aren't you going to ask me what this means?”

“It was on my list of questions, yeah.”