by Carl Hiaasen
The morning after the vote, Governor Clinton Tyree did what no other Florida governor had ever done. He quit.
He didn’t tell a soul in Tallahassee what he was doing. He simply walked out of the governor’s mansion, got in the back of his limousine, and told his chauffeur to drive.
Six hours later he told the driver to stop. The limo pulled into a bus depot in downtown Orlando, where the governor said good-bye to his driver and told him to get the hell going.
For two days Governor Clinton Tyree was the subject of the most massive manhunt in the history of the state. The FBI, the highway patrol, the marine patrol, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and the National Guard sent out agents, troops, psychics, bloodhounds and helicopters. The governor’s chauffeur was polygraphed seven times and, although he always passed, was still regarded as a prime suspect in the disappearance.
The search ended when Clinton Tyree’s notarized resignation was delivered to the Capitol. In a short letter released to the press, the ex-governor said he quit the office because of “disturbing moral and philosophical conflicts.” He graciously thanked his friends and supporters, and closed the message by quoting a poignant but seemingly irrelevant passage from a Moody Blues song.
After Clint Tyree’s resignation, the slimy business of selling off Florida resumed in the state capital. Those who had been loyal to the young governor began to give interviews suggesting that for two whole years they’d known that he was basically a nut. A few intrepid reporters depleted precious expense accounts trying to track down Clinton Tyree and get the real story, but with no success. The last confirmed sighting was that afternoon when the fugitive governor had vanished from the downtown Orlando bus depot. Using the name Black Leclere, he had purchased a one-way ticket to Fort Lauderdale, but never arrived. Along the way the Greyhound Scenic Cruiser had stopped to refuel at an Exxon station; the driver hadn’t noticed that the tall passenger in a blue pinstriped suit who had gotten off to use the men’s room had never come back. The Exxon station was located across from a fruit stand on Route 222, four miles outside the town limits of Harney.
Clinton Tyree had selected Harney not only because of its natural beauty—the lake and the ranchlands, the cypresses and the pines—but also because of its profound political retardation. Harney County had the lowest voter registration per capita of any county in Florida. It was one of the few places to be blacklisted by both the Gallup and Lou Harris pollsters, due to the fact that sixty-three percent of those interviewed could not correctly name a vice-president, any vice-president, of the United States. Four out of five Harney citizens had not bothered to cast ballots during the previous gubernatorial election, mainly because the annual bull-semen auction was scheduled the same day.
This was a town where Clinton Tyree was sure he’d never be recognized, where he could build himself a place and mind his own business and call himself Rajneesh or Buzz, or even Skink, and nobody would bother him.
Skink waited all day to get rid of the body. Once darkness fell, he took the truck and left R. J. Decker in the shack. Decker didn’t ask because he didn’t want to know.
Skink was gone for an hour. When he got back, he was regarbed in full fluorescence. He stalked through the screen door and kicked off his Marine boots. His feet were bare. He had two limp squirrels under one arm, fresh roadkills.
“The Armadillo is still there,” he reported.
Immediately Decker guessed what had happened: Skink had hauled the other body out to Morgan Slough. And he probably had hooked it on the same fish stringer.
“I can’t stay here,” Decker said.
“Suit yourself. Sheriff cars all over the place. There’s a pair of ’em parked out on the Mormon Trail, and they hate it out there, believe me. Could be something’s in the wind.”
Decker sat on the bare wooden floor, his back rubbing against the unvarnished planks of a bookcase. He needed sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he saw Ott Pickney’s corpse. The images were indelible. Three frames, if he’d had a camera.
First: the crest of the skull breaking the surface, Ott’s hair dripping to one side like brown turtle grass.
Then a shot of the bloodless forehead and the wide-open eyes focused somewhere on eternity.
Finally: a full pallid death mask, fastened grotesquely on the stringer with a loop of heavy wire, and suspended from the water by Skink’s tremendous arms, visible in the lower-left-hand corner of the frame.
That was how R. J. Decker was doomed to remember Ott Pickney. It was a curse of the photographic eye never to forget.
“You look like you’re ready to quit,” Skink said.
“Give me another option.”
“Keep going as if nothing happened. Stay on Dickie Lockhart’s ass. There’s a bass tournament this weekend—”
“New Orleans.”
“Yeah, well, let’s go.”
“You and me?”
“And Mr. Nikon. You got a decent tripod, I hope.”
“Sure,” Decker said. “In the car.”
“And a six-hundred-millimeter, at least.”
“Right.” His trusty NFL lens; it could peer up a quarterback’s nostrils.
“So?” Skink said.
“So it’s not worth it,” Decker said.
Skink tore off his shower cap and threw it into a corner. He pulled the rubber band out of his ponytail and shook his long hair free.
“I got some supper,” he said. “I’ll eat all of it if you’re not hungry.”
Decker rubbed his temples. He didn’t feel like food. “I can’t believe they’d kill somebody over a goddamn fish.”
Skink stood up, holding the dead squirrels by their hind legs. “This thing isn’t about fishing.”
“Well, money then,” Decker said.
“That’s only part of it. If we quit, we miss the rest. If we quit, we lose Dickie Lockhart, probably forever. They can’t touch him on the killings, not yet anyway.”
“I know,” Decker said. There wouldn’t be a shred of evidence. Ozzie Rundell would go to the chair before he’d rat on his idol.
Decker asked, “Do you think they know it’s us?”
“Depends,” Skink said. “Depends if the other guy in the pickup saw our faces this morning. Also depends if the Armadillo told ‘em about you before he died. If he told ’em who you are, then you’ve got problems.”
“Me? What about you? It was your gun that waxed the guy.”
“What gun?” Skink said, raising his hands. “What gun you talking about, officer?” He flashed his anchorman smile. “Don’t worry about me, Miami. If you’ve got the urge to worry, worry about setting up some good fish pictures.”
Skink cooked the squirrels on sticks over the outdoor fire. Decker drank a cold beer and felt the night close down over Lake Jesup. They ate in silence; Decker was hungrier than he’d thought. Afterward they each popped open another beer and watched the embers burn down.
“Jim Tile is with us the whole way,” Skink said.
“Is it safe?” Decker asked. “For him, I mean.”
“Not for him, not for us. But Jim Tile is a careful man. So am I. And you—you’re catching on.” Skink balanced the beer can on one knee. “There’s an Eastern nonstop to New Orleans,” he said, “leaves about noon from Orlando.”
Decker glanced over at him. “What do you think?”
Skink said, “Probably smart if we drive separate.”
Decker nodded. They’ll never let him on the plane, he thought, not dressed like that. “Then I guess I’ll see you at the airport.”
Skink dumped a tin of water on the last of the coals. “Where you headed tonight?” he asked.
“There’s somebody I need to see,” Decker said, “though I’m not sure where she’s staying. Actually, I’m not even sure she’s still in town. It’s Dennis Gault’s sister.”
Skink snorted. “She’s still in town.” He peeled off his rainsuit. “She’s at the Days Inn, least that’s where the little gumdrop
Vette is parked.”
“Thanks, I can find it. What about the deputies up on the Trail?”
“Long gone,” Skink said. “Shift ended a half-hour ago.”
He walked Decker to the car.
“Be careful with that lady,” Skink said. “If you get the urge to tell her your life story, I understand. Just leave out the part about today.”
“I’m too damn tired,” Decker sighed.
“That’s what they all say.”
10
She was still at the Days Inn. Room 135. When she answered the door she wore a nightshirt. One of those expensive silky tops; it barely came down far enough to cover her pale yellow panties. R. J. Decker noticed the color of her panties when she reached up to get a robe from a hook on the back of the closet door. Decker did a pitiful job of trying not to stare.
Lanie said, “What’s in the bag?”
“A change of clothes.”
“You going somewhere?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Up north a ways.”
Lanie sat in the middle of the bed and Decker took a chair. An old James Bond movie was on television.
“Sean Connery was the best,” Lanie remarked. “I’ve seen this dam thing about twenty times.”
“Why are you still in town?” Decker asked.
“I’m going tomorrow, too.”
“You didn’t answer the question. Why are you still here? Why didn’t you go home after Bobby’s funeral?”
Lanie said, “I went out to the cemetery today. And yesterday. I haven’t felt like leaving yet, that’s all. We each deal with grief in our own way—isn’t that what you said?”
Very sharp, Decker thought. He just loved it when they filed stuff away. “Know what I think?” he said. “I think the Gault family needs to be tested. Scientifically, I mean. I think maybe there’s a genetic deficiency that prevents you people from telling the truth. I think the Mayo Clinic might be very interested.”
She rolled her eyes, a little ditty right out of high school. It was supposed to be cool but it came off as nervous.
“I won’t stay long,” Decker said, “but we need to talk.”
“I don’t feel like talking,” Lanie said, “but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I’m not tired.”
She crossed her legs up under the robe and glanced over at him. Something in the stale motel room smelled fresh and wonderful, and it definitely wasn’t Parfum de Days Inn. It was Lanie; she was one of those women who just naturally smelled like a spring day. Or maybe it just seemed that way because she looked so good. Whatever the phenomenon, Decker had the sense to realize he was in trouble, that by walking into her room and letting her hop into bed he had lost all leverage, all hope of getting any answers. He knew he was wasting his time, but he didn’t feel like leaving.
“You look like hell,” Lanie said.
“Been a long day.”
“Hot on the trail?”
“Oh, right.”
“Anything new about Bobby’s death?”
“I thought you didn’t feel like talking,” Decker said.
“I’m curious, that’s all. More than curious. I loved him, remember?”
“You keep saying that,” Decker said, “like you’ve got to keep reminding yourself.”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
Lee Strasberg material. Lanie the wounded lover. Her tone of voice was exquisite—hurt but not defensive. And not a flicker of doubt in those beautiful eyes; in fact, she looked about ready to cry. It was such a splendid performance that Decker reconsidered the question: Why didn’t he believe her?
“Because Bobby Clinch wasn’t your type,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“That Corvette parked outside. That’s you, Lanie. Bobby was pure pickup truck. You might’ve liked him, laid him, maybe even given him that blowjob you’re so proud of, but you didn’t love him.”
“You can tell all this from looking at a damn car!”
“I’m an expert,” Decker said, “it’s what I do.” It was true about cars: there was no better clue to the total personality. Any good cop would tell you so. Decker hadn’t thought much about the psychology of automobiles until he became a private investigator and had to spend half his time tracing, following, and photographing all kinds. On long surveillances in busy parking lots he made a game of matching shoppers to their cars, and had gotten good at it. The make, model, color, everything down to the shine on the hubcaps was a clue to the puzzle. Decker’s own car was a plain gray 1979 Plymouth Volaré, stylistically the most forgettable automobile Detroit ever produced. Decker knew it fit him perfectly. It fit his need to be invisible.
“So you think I belong back in Miami,” Lanie was saying sarcastically. “Who can you picture me with, Decker? I know—a young Colombian stud! Rolex, gold necklace, and black Ferrari. Or maybe you figure I’m too old for a coke whore. Maybe you see me on the arm of some silver-haired geezer playing the ponies out at Hialeah.”
“Anybody but Bobby Clinch,” Decker said. “Steve and Eydie you weren’t.”
Of course then the tears came, and the next thing Decker knew he had moved to the bed and put his arms around Lanie and told her to knock off the crying. Please. In his mind’s eye he could see himself in this cheesy scene out of a cheap detective movie; acting like the gruff cad, awkwardly consoling the weepy long-legged knockout, knowing deep down he ought to play it as the tough guy but feeling compelled to show this warm sensitive side. Decker knew he was a fool but he certainly didn’t feel like letting go of Lanie Gault. There was something magnetic and comforting and entirely natural about holding a sweet-smelling woman in a silken nightie on a strange bed in a strange motel room in a strange town where neither one of you belonged.
A Bell Jet-Ranger helicopter awaited the Reverend Charles Weeb at the Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport. Weeb wore a navy pinstriped suit, designer sunglasses, and lizard boots. He was traveling with a vice-president of the Outdoor Christian Network and a young brunette woman who claimed to be a secretary, and who managed to slip her phone number to the chopper pilot during the brief flight.
The helicopter carried the Reverend Charles Weeb to a narrow dike on the edge of the Florida Everglades. Looking east from the levee, Weeb and his associates had a clear view of a massive highway construction site. The land had been bulldozed, the roadbed had been poured, the pilings had been driven for the overpasses. Dump trucks hauled loose fill back and forth, while graders crawled in dusty clouds along the medians.
“Show me again,” Weeb said to the vice-president.
“Our property starts right about there,” the vice-president said, pointing, “and abuts the expressway for five miles to the south. The state highway board has generously given us three interchanges.”
Generously my ass, thought Weeb. Twenty thousand in bonds to each of the greedy fuckers.
“Give me the binoculars,” Weeb said.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I left them at the airport.”
“I’m going to go sit in the helicopter,” the brunette woman whined.
“Stay right here,” Weeb growled. “How’m I supposed to see the lake system without the binoculars?”
“We can fly over it on the way back,” the vice-president said. “The canals are almost done.”
Vigorously Weeb shook his head. “Dammit, Billy, you did it again. People don’t buy townhouses on canals. ‘Canal’ is a dirty word. A canal is where raw sewage goes. A canal is where ducks fuck and cattle piss. Who wants to live on a damn canal! Would you pay a hundred-fifty grand to do that? No, you’d want to live on a lake, a cool scenic lake, and lakes is what we’re selling here.”
“I understand,” said the vice-president. Lakes it is. Straight, narrow lakes. Lakes you could toss a stone across. Lakes of identical fingerlike dimensions.
The company that OCN had hired was a marine dredging firm whose foremen were, basically, linear-minded. They had once dredg
ed the mouths of Port Everglades and Government Cut, and a long stretch of the freighter route in Tampa Bay. They had worked with impressive speed and efficiency, and they had worked in a perfectly straight line—which is desirable if you’re digging a ship channel but rather a handicap when you’re digging a lake. This problem had been mentioned several times to Reverend Charles Weeb, who had merely pointed out the fiscal foolishness of having big round lakes. The bigger the lake, the more water. The more water, the less land to sell. The less land to sell, the fewer townhouses to build.
“Lakes don’t have to be round,” the Reverend Weeb said. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Weeb turned to the west and stared out at the Glades. “Reminds me of the fucking Sahara,” he said, “except with muck.”
“The water rises in late spring and early summer,” the vice-president reported.
“Dickie promises bass.”
“Yes, sir, some of the best fishing in the South.”
“He’d better be right.” Weeb walked along the dike, admiring the spine of the new highway. The vice-president walked a few steps behind him while the secretary stayed where she was, casting glances toward the blue-tinted cockpit of the Jet-Ranger.
“Twenty-nine thousand units,” Weeb was saying, “twenty-nine thousand families. Our very own Christian city!”
“Yes,” the vice-president said. It was the name of the development that gnawed at him. Lunker Lakes. The vice-president felt that the name Lunker Lakes presented a substantial marketing problem; too colloquial, too red behind the neck. The Reverend Charles Weeb disagreed. It was his audience, he said, and he damn well knew what they would and would not buy. Lunker Lakes was perfect, he insisted. It couldn’t miss.
Charlie Weeb was heading back to the chopper. “Billy, we ought to start thinking about shooting some commercials,” he said. “Future Bass Capital of America, something like that. Fly Dickie down and get some tape in the can. He can use his own crew, but I’d like you or Deacon Johnson to supervise.”