Double Whammy (39 page)

Decker hung up and sagged against the wall.

Al Garcίa, who'd come out of the store whistling, grabbed Decker by the arm. “What is it, man?”

Jim Tile came up and took the other side.

“He's got Catherine,” Decker said tonelessly.

“Fuck.” Garcίa spit on the pavement.

“It's Tom Curl,” said the trooper.

R. J. Decker sat on the fender of Jim Tile's car and said nothing for five minutes, just stared at the ground. Finally he looked up at the other two men.

“Is there a place around here to buy a camera?” he asked.

When they got back to Lake Jesup, Jim Tile told Skink what Thomas Curl had done.

The big man sat down heavily on the tailgate of the truck and wrapped his arms around his head. R. J. Decker took a step forward but Jim Tile motioned him back.

After a few moments Skink looked up and said, “It's my fault, Miami.”

“It's nobody's fault.”

“I'm the one who shot—”

“It's nobody's fault,” Decker said again, “so shut up.” The less said about Lemus Curl, the better. Especially in the presence of cops.

Skink pulled painfully at his beard. “This could screw up everything,” he said hoarsely.

“I would say so,” Al Garcίa grunted.

Skink took off the sunglasses. His good eye was red and moist. He gazed at Decker, and in a small brittle voice, said: “The plan can't be changed, it's too late.”

“Do what you have to,” Decker said.

“I'll kill him afterward,” Skink said, “I promise.”

“Thanks anyway, but it won't come to that.”

“This thing—” Skink paused, raked feverishly at his beard. He was boiling inside. He pounded his fists against the fender of the truck. “This thing I have to do—it's so important.”

Decker said, “I know, captain.”

“You'd understand better if you knew everything.” Skink spoke solemnly. “If you knew it all, then you'd see the point.”

“It's all right,” Decker said. “Go ahead with your plan. I've got one of my own.”

Skink grinned and clapped his hands. That's the spirit!” he said. That's what I like to hear.”

Al Garcίa and Jim Tile exchanged doubtful glances. In its own way, R. J. Decker's scheme was every bit as loony as Skink's.

 

Like a surgeon inspecting his instruments, Dennis Gault laid out his tournament bass tackle on the pile carpet and took inventory: six Bantam Magnumlite 2000 GT plugging reels, eight Shimano rods, four graphite Ugly Stiks, three bottles of Happy Gland bass scent, a Randall knife, two cutting stones, Sargent stainless pliers, a diamond-flake hook sharpener, Coppertone sunblock, a telescopic landing net, two pairs of Polaroid sunglasses (amber and green), a certified Chatillion scale and, of course, his tacklebox. The tacklebox was the suitcase-size Piano Model 7777, with ninety separate compartments. As was everything in Dennis Gault's tournament artillery, his bass lures were brand-new. For top-water action he had stocked up on Bang-O-Lures, Shad Raps, Slo Dancers, Hula Poppers, and Zara Spooks; for deep dredging he had armed himself with Wee Warts and Whopper Stoppers and the redoubtable Lazy Ike. For brushpiles he had unsheathed the Jig-N-Pig and Double Whammy, the Bayou Boogie and Eerie Dearie, plus a rainbow trove of Mister Twisters. As for that most reliable of bass rigs, the artificial worm, Dennis Gault had amassed three gooey pounds. He had caught fish on every color, so he packed them all: the black-grape crawdad, the smoke-sparkle lizard, the flip-tail purple daddy, the motor-oil moccasin, the blueberry gollywhomper, everything.

Gault arranged them lovingly; there was plenty of room.

The most critical decision, the one over which he pondered longest, was what strength fishing line to put on the reels. Good line is paramount; the slenderest of plastic threads, it is all that ties the angler to his wild and precious trophy. The longer a bass stays on the line, the greater its chances of escape. Since every fish that breaks off or throws the hook is money down the drain, the goal of the professional bass angler is to lose no fish whatsoever. Consequently, in tournaments there is not even the pretense of an actual battle between fisherman and fish. The brutish deep dives and graceful acrobatics of a hooked largemouth bass are not tolerated in the heat of serious angling competition. In fact, the standard strategy is to strike the fish with all your might and then drag the stunned creature into the boat as rapidly as possible. In tournaments it is not uncommon to see five-pound bass being skipped helplessly across the water in this manner.

Obviously, heavy line was essential. For the Dickie Lockhart Memorial Classic, Dennis Gault selected a twenty-pound pink Andes monofilamem—limp enough to cast the lure a modest distance in a light wind, yet sturdy enough to straighten the spine of any mortal largemouth.

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.