Double Whammy

Table of Contents

 

WILL CAST A SPELL ON YOU!

 

“A DAY-GLO VERSION OF REALITY THAT IS INSANELY FUNNY—AND SCARY.”

 

“FOLLOW THE ADVENTURES OF A NEWS-PHOTOGRAPHER-TURNED-PRIVATE-EYE AS HE SEEKS TRUTH, JUSTICE, AND AN AFFAIR WITH HIS EX-WIFE.”

 

“A REAL SWAMP STEW OF COLORFUL CHARACTERS.... The plot is very quickly paced, filled with twists and turns and just enough deception and revelations, along with a devilish wit, to keep the reader riveted to the page. The Elmore Leonard school of writing is in good hands with Carl Hiaasen.”

 

“CARL HIAASEN'S VIVID IMAGINATION SERVES UP A SEVEN-COURSE MEAL IN
DOUBLE WHAMMY
. It's a spread where every course is thick, rare, red meat....You'll have a good time.”

 

“A STEWPOT FULL OF THE STRANGE, THE WACKY, THE INTERESTING, AND THE BIZARRE...zany, diverting, marvelously grotesque.”

 

“A SAVAGELY FUNNY CRIME ADVENTURE...BRISTLES ALL OVER WITH SWIFTIAN WIT....For all its loony-tunes characters and their mondo-bizarro adventures, there's something about this mordant, comic fantasy that says it's just too crazy not to be true.”

 

“A FINE, FUN READ.”

 

“WITH ITS BYZANTINE PLOT AND WONDERFUL, WEIRD DENIZENS, this is one of the most delightfully inventive and entertaining novels of the year.”

 

“CARL HIAASEN IS AN UNCOMMONLY GOOD AUTHOR....HE HAS A LOT OF FUN ALONG THE WAY, AND SO DOES THE READER....You don't have to be a fishing buff to like
DOUBLE WHAMMY.”

 

“A FIRST-RATE COMPOSITE OF CRISP DIALOGUE, TIGHT PLOTTING, AND LIKABLE CHARACTERS.”

 

“WRY AND RICH... holds the reader just firm enough to keep him from falling off the dock with laughter.”

 

“IF YOU LIKE BIZARRE HUMOR MIXED WITH YOUR MYSTERIES, YOU'LL BE LURED INTO THIS BOOK.... A keeper.”

 

“HIAASEN POWERS HIS STORY WITH THE SUCCESSFULLY COMIC ATTITUDE that so many other detective writers ‘attempt.'”

 

“SPEEDS ALONG, RIVETING THE READER'S ATTENTION UNTIL THE LAST WORD...an entertaining, funto-read story, just right for a long rainy night. Get comfortable and enjoy!”

 

“HIAASEN IS WHAT MIGHT HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU COULD CROSS JOHN D. MACDONALD WITH TOM ROBBINS...a fast-paced mystery....Hiaasen's inventiveness, deft skewerings, and clean style strike with all the force of hawg bass on amphetamines.”

 

“FANS OF MURDER SUSPENSE WOULD BE FOOLISH TO OVERLOOK
DOUBLE WHAMMY
. It's got everything going for it and is compulsive reading... superbly inventive...not to be missed.”

 

“AS FUNNY AS HIAASEN IS, HE HAS THE UNCOMFORTABLE RING OF TRUTH ABOUT EVERYTHING HE WRITES... a truly splendid writer.”

 

Skinny Dip
Basket Case
Sick Puppy
Lucky You
Stormy Weather
Strip Tease
Native Tongue
Skin Tight
Double Whammy
Tourist Season

 

Flush
Hoot

 

 

Team Rodent: How Disney Devours the World

 

Kick Ass: Selected Columns
(
edited by Diane Stevenson
)

 

Paradise Screwed: Selected Columns
(edited by Diane Stevenson)

 

 

G. P. Putnam's Sons
Publishers Since 1838
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016

Copyright © 1987 by Carl Hiaasen

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof,
may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Published simultaneously in Canada

 

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hiaasen, Carl.
Double whammy.

I. Title.

PS3558.1217D'.54 87-13145

eISBN : 978-1-101-43664-6

 

On the morning of January 6, two hours before dawn, a man named Robert Clinch rolled out of bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He put on three pairs of socks, a blue flannel shirt, olive dungarees, a Timex waterproof watch, and a burgundy cap with a patch stitched to the crown. The patch said: “Mann's Jelly Worms.”

Clinch padded to the kitchen and fixed himself a pot of coffee, four eggs scrambled (with ketchup), a quarter-pound of Jimmy Dean sausage, and two slices of whole-wheat toast with grape jam. As he ate, he listened to the radio for a weather report. The temperature outside was forty-one degrees, humidity thirty-five percent, wind blowing from the northeast at seven miles per hour. According to the weatherman, thick fog lay on the highway between Harney and Lake Jesup. Robert Clinch loved to drive in the fog because it gave him a chance to use the amber fog lights on his new Blazer truck. The fog lights had been a $455 option, and his wife, Clarisse, now asleep in the bedroom, was always bitching about what a waste of money they were. Clinch decided that later, when he got home from the lake, he would tell Clarisse how the fog lights had saved his life on Route 222; how a wall-eyed truck driver with a rig full of Valencia oranges had crossed the center line and swerved back just in time because he'd seen the Blazer's fancy fog lights. Robert Clinch was not sure if Clarisse would bite on the story; in fact, he wasn't sure if she'd be all too thrilled that the truck hadn't plowed into him, vanquishing in one fiery millisecond the expensive Blazer, the sleek bass boat, and Robert Clinch himself. Clarisse did not think much of her husband's hobby.

Robert Clinch put on a pair of soft-soled Gore-Tex boots and slipped into a vivid red ski vest that was covered with emblems from various fishing tournaments. He went out to the garage where the boat was kept and gazed at it proudly, running his hand along the shiny gunwale. It was a Ranger 390V, nineteen and one-half feet long. Dual livewells, custom upholstery and carpeting (royal blue), and twin tanks that held enough fuel to run all the way to Okeechobee and back. The engine on the boat was a two-hundred-horsepower Mercury, one of the most powerful outboards ever manufactured. A friend had once clocked Bobby Clinch's boat at sixty-two miles per hour. There was no earthly reason to go so fast, except that it was fun as hell to show off.

Robert Clinch loved his boat more than anything else in the world. Loved it more than his wife. More than his kids. More than his girlfriend. More than his double-mortgaged home. Even more than the very largemouth bass he was pursuing. Riding on the lake at dawn, Robert Clinch often felt that he loved his boat more than he loved life itself.

On this special morning he decided, for appearance' sake, to bring along a fishing rod. From a rack on the wall he picked a cheap spinning outfit—why risk the good stuff? As he tried to thread the eight-pound monofilament through the guides of the rod, Clinch noticed that his hands were quivering. He wondered if it was the coffee, his nerves, or both. Finally he got the rod rigged and tied a plastic minnow lure to the end of the line. He found his portable Q-Beam spotlight, tested it, and stored it under a bow hatch inside the boat. Then he hitched the trailer to the back of the Blazer.

Clinch started the truck and let it warm. The air in the cab was frosty and he could see his breath. He turned up the heater full blast. He thought about one more cup of coffee but decided against it; he didn't want to spend all morning with a bursting bladder, and it was too damn cold to unzip and hang his pecker over the side of the boat.

He also thought about bringing a gun, but that seemed silly. Nobody took a gun to the lake.

Robert Clinch was about to pull out of the driveway when he got an idea, something that might make his homecoming more bearable. He slipped back into the house and wrote a note to Clarisse. He put it on the dinette, next to the toaster: “Honey, I'll be home by noon. Maybe we can go to Sears and look for that shower curtain you wanted. Love, Bobby.”

 

Robert Clinch never returned.

By midafternoon his wife was so angry that she drove to Sears and purchased not only a shower curtain but some electric hair curlers and a pink throw rug too. By suppertime she was livid, and tossed her husband's portion of Kentucky fried chicken over the fence to the Labrador retriever next door. At midnight she phoned her mother in Valdosta to announce that she was packing up the kids and leaving the bum for good.

The next morning, as Clarisse rifled her husband's bureau for clues and loose cash, the county sheriff phoned. He had some lousy news.

From the air a cropduster had spotted a purplish slick on a remote corner of Lake Jesup known as Coon Bog. On a second pass the cropduster had spotted the sparkled hull of a bass boat, upside down and half-submerged about fifty yards from shore. Something big and red was floating nearby.

Clarisse Clinch asked the sheriff if the big red thing in the water happened to have blond hair, and the sheriff said not anymore, since a flock of mallard ducks had been pecking at it all night. Clarisse asked if any identification had been found on the body, and the sheriff said no, Bobby's wallet must have shaken out in the accident and fallen into the water. Mrs. Clinch told the sheriff thank you, hung up, and immediately dialed the Visa Card headquarters in Miami to report the loss.

 

“What do you know about fishing?”

“A little,” said R. J. Decker. The interview was still at the stage where Decker was supposed to look steady and taciturn, the stage where the prospective client was sizing him up. Decker knew he was pretty good in the sizing-up department. He had the physique of a linebacker: five-eleven, one hundred ninety pounds, chest like a drum, arms like cable. He had curly dark hair and sharp brown eyes that gave nothing away. He often looked amused but seldom smiled around strangers. At times he could be a very good listener, or pretend to be. Decker was neither diffident nor particularly patient; he was merely on constant alert for jerks. Time was too short to waste on them. Unless it was absolutely necessary, like now.