Double Whammy

by Carl Hiaasen

  The trooper went outside and got the portable stereo. He came back and set it up on the coffee table in the living room. There was already a cassette in the tape player.

  Jim Tile punched the Record button. He said, “You don’t mind?”

  “Hey, that’s my Neil Diamond you’re erasing,” Lanie complained.

  “What a loss,” Decker said.

  Jim Tile fiddled with the volume dial. “Nice box,” he said. “Graphic equalizers and everything.”

  “Let’s start with Dennis,” Decker said.

  “Forget it, R.J.”

  Jim Tile said, “She’s right. Let’s don’t start with her brother. Let’s start with Robert Clinch.”

  Lanie stared coldly at the big black man. “I could get you in a lot of trouble.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” said Jim Tile.

  Decker was impressed at how unimpressed Jim Tile was. He said, “Okay, princess, guess who killed Bobby.”

  “Dickie Lockhart did.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Then who?”

  Jim Tile got up and opened the glass doors to the balcony. A cool breeze stirred the curtains. Lanie shivered.

  Decker said, “Dennis didn’t think much of your affair with Bobby Clinch, did he? I mean, a sexy high-class girl like you can’t be sneaking off with a grotey redneck bass fisherman.”

  “What?” Lanie looked aggravated, not cool at all.

  Jim Tile said, “Your brother had Robert Clinch killed. He hired two men to do it. They waited for him at the Coon Bog that morning, jumped him, then rigged his boat for a bad wreck. Dennis wanted everyone to think Dickie was behind it.”

  “No,” said Lanie, glassy-eyed.

  She really doesn’t know, Decker thought. If she’s acting, it’s the performance of her life.

  “Bobby wasn’t getting anywhere on the cheating,” she said numbly. “Dickie’s people were too slick. Dennis was impatient, he was riding Bobby pretty hard. Then . . . well.”

  “He found out you and Bobby were involved.”

  Lanie gave a shallow laugh. “The sportfucking, he didn’t mind. A different fella each night and he’d never say a word to me. Whenever things got serious is when he acted weird. Like when Bobby said he was going to leave his wife and go away with me, Dennis got furious. But still he would never do what you say. Never!”

  Decker said, “Lanie, he needed you more than he needed Bobby.”

  “For what, Decker? Needed me for what?”

  Decker tapped his chest. “For me.”

  By now Lanie was crying. Not the best job of crying Decker had ever seen, but still pretty convincing. “What are you saying?” she hacked between sobs. “You think I was whoring for my own brother! I cared for Bobby, you don’t believe me but it’s true.”

  Jim Tile was not moved. In years of writing traffic tickets, he’d heard every imaginable tale of woe. With his usual remoteness he said, “When’s the last time you spoke to him?”

  “Bobby? I saw him the night before he died. We had a drink at a shrimp place over in Wabasso.”

  “Did he tell you he was going to the lake?”

  “Of course he did—he was so excited. He’d gotten a tip that Dickie was hiding his fish cages in the Coon Bog. Bobby was thrilled as anything. He couldn’t wait to find the bass and call Dennis.”

  Decker said, “Where did the tip come from?”

  “Some guy who called up Bobby, wouldn’t give his name.”

  “It was a setup,” Jim Tile said, “the phone call.”

  “Now, wait,” Lanie said. She kept looking down at the tape player.

  Time’s up, Decker thought. He sat next to Lanie and said, “Call me nosy, but I’d like to know why you framed me.”

  Lanie didn’t answer. Decker took one of her hands and held it very gently, as if it were a baby animal he was afraid of squeezing. Lanie looked frightened.

  “It was your brother’s idea, wasn’t it?”

  “At first he talked about blackmail,” she said. “He asked if I knew any good photographers who could follow Dickie and get the pictures without him knowing. I thought of you, and Dennis said fine. He said to keep you interested and I said okay, anything to get back at Dickie for what he did.”

  “What you thought he did,” Decker interjected.

  “Dennis said it was Dickie who killed Bobby. I believed him, why shouldn’t I? It made sense.”

  Jim Tile said, “So Dickie’s murdered, then what?”

  “Dennis calls me in New Orleans.”

  Decker said, “Just what the hell were you doing there anyway?”

  “He sent me,” Lanie said. “To make sure you weren’t goofing off, he said. He was pissed off because you weren’t telling him much on the phone.”

  “So you drag me into bed, then steal my. film?”

  “Who dragged who?” Lanie said sharply. “About the film, I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do. Dennis said he was dying to see what you’d got. Said the stuff belonged to him anyway.”

  Decker held her hand just a little tighter. “And you actually believed all this?” he asked agitatedly. “These errands didn’t strike you as a little odd? No light bulb flashed on in your beautiful size-four brain?”

  “No,” Lanie snapped, “no light bulbs.”

  Jim Tile said, “Getting back to Dickie’s murder . . .”

  “Yeah,” Lanie said, shifting her eyes to the trooper. “That morning Dennis called me in New Orleans, all upset. He said Decker had gone and killed Lockhart. Dennis was afraid.”

  Jim Tile said, “He told you he might be a suspect.”

  “Right. He said Decker was trying to frame him, and he asked me to go to the police.”

  “And lie?”

  “He’s my brother, for God’s sake. I didn’t want him to go to jail over a crazy goddamn fish murder. Bobby’s death was bad enough, I didn’t want to lose Dennis too. So I went down and gave a very brief statement.” She looked at Decker again. “I said you dropped me off on your way to see Dickie Lockhart. That’s all.”

  “It was plenty,” Decker said. thanks a heap.”

  “Dennis sounded desperate.”

  “And with good reason.”

  “I still don’t believe you,” Lanie said.

  “Yes, you do,” said Jim Tile.

  It was all Decker could do to hold his temper. “Any other little Dennis favors we should know about?”

  Lanie said, “Can you turn that thing off?”

  Jim Tile stopped the tape machine.

  Lanie got up and led them through the apartment to the second bedroom. She opened the door as quietly as she could. The room was totally dark; the shades were not only drawn, but the cracks were sealed with hurricane tape. Lanie turned on the ceiling light.

  A young long-haired woman lay in bed, a pink cotton blanket pulled up to her chin. Her bluish eyelids were half-closed and she breathed heavily, with her mouth open. Some pills and a half-empty bottle of Dewar’s sat on the nightstand.

  Jim Tile looked at R. J. Decker, who said, “I’ve seen her before. At the tournament in New Orleans.”

  “Name’s Ellen O’Leary,” Lanie said in a dull voice. “She’s not feeling well.”

  In a fury Decker pushed Lanie Gault to the wall, pinned her arms.

  “No more games,” he said. “Who’s this girl?”

  “I don’t know,” Lanie cried.

  “You just came home one night and there she was, passed out in bed?”

  “No, a man brought her. Dennis asked me to look after her.”

  Decker said, “You’re a very sick lady, Elaine.”

  “Easy, man,” said Jim Tile. He sat down on the bed next to Ellen O’Leary and studied the labels on the pill bottles. “Nembutals,” he said to Decker.

  “Swell, a Norma Jean cocktail.”

  “Just to make her sleepy,” Lanie insisted. “She’ll be all right, R.J. Every night I give her soup. Would you get off me, please?”

  Decker grabbed
Lanie’s arm and led her out of the bedroom. Jim Tile flushed the pills down the toilet and went to the kitchen to fix coffee for the woman named Ellen. He was wondering how much stranger things would get.

  Decker himself was frazzled. Lanie was impossible.

  “What did your brother say about this woman?” he asked her.

  “He said to keep an eye on her, that’s all. Keep her sleepy and out of trouble. He said she was a danger to herself and others.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Lanie asked if she could get dressed. Decker said yes, but he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Lanie didn’t object. Casually she stripped off her nightgown and stood naked in front of the mirror, brushing out her hair while Decker watched impassively. Finally she put on jeans and a University of Miami sweatshirt.

  Decker said, “You know a man named Thomas Curl?”

  “Sure, that’s the guy who brought Ellen,” Lanie answered. “He works for Dennis.”

  By the way she said it, Decker could tell she really didn’t know. Even Lanie wasn’t that good.

  “Thomas Curl killed Bobby,” he said.

  “Stop it,” Lanie said, “right now.” But it was obvious by her expression that she was putting it all together.

  In the other room Jim Tile carried Ellen to the shower. He propped her under a cold drizzle for ten minutes until she spluttered and bent over to vomit. Then he toweled her off and put her back in bed. Once her stomach settled, she sat up and sipped some coffee.

  Jim Tile closed the door and said, “You want to talk?”

  “Where am I?” Ellen asked thickly.

  “Florida.”

  “I must’ve got sick—did I miss it?”

  “Miss what?” Jim Tile asked.

  “Dickie’s funeral.”

  “Yes, it’s over.”

  “Oh.” Ellen’s eyes filled up.

  Jim Tile said, “Dickie was a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, officer, he was.”

  “How long did you know him?”

  “Not long,” answered Ellen O’Leary, “just a few days. But he cared for me.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  Ellen said, “Right before it happened.”

  “The murder?”

  “Yes, officer. I was up in the hotel with him, celebrating after the bass tournament, when Thomas Curl came to the door and said he needed to see Dickie right away.”

  “Then what happened, Ellen?”

  “They went off together and Dickie didn’t come back. I fell asleep—we’d had an awful lot of champagne. The next morning I heard on the radio what happened.”

  Jim Tile refilled her coffee cup. “What did you do then?” he asked.

  “I was so upset, I called Reverend Weeb,” she said, “and I asked him to say a prayer for Dickie’s soul. And Reverend Weeb said only if I came over and knelt down with him.”

  “I bet you weren’t in the mood for that.”

  “Right,” Ellen said. She didn’t understand how the black trooper could know about Reverend Weeb’s strange ways, but she was grateful for the compassion.

  Jim Tile opened the bedroom door and asked Decker and Lanie to come in.

  “Ellen,” he said, “tell Miss Gault who came and got Dickie Lockhart the night he was killed.”

  “‘Thomas Curl,” said Ellen O’Leary.

  Lanie looked stricken. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve known him since high school.”

  “God,” Lanie said dejectedly.

  Ellen tucked an extra pillow under her head. “I’m feeling lots better,” she said.

  “Well, I feel like hell,” said Lanie.

  The phone rang. Jim Tile told her to answer it, and motioned Decker to pick up the kitchen extension.

  The caller was Dennis Gault.

  “Hi,” Lanie said, with the trooper standing very close behind her.

  “How’s it going, sis?” Gault asked.

  “Fine,” Lanie said. “Ellen’s still sleeping.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Dennis, I’d like to go out, catch some sun, do some shopping. How much longer with the babysitting?”

  “Look, Elaine, I don’t know. The cops still haven’t caught Decker.”

  “Oh, great.” Perfect sarcasm. Decker listened admiringly—she really could have been a star of stage and screen.

  “What if they don’t catch him?” she said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Dennis, I want Tom to come get this girl.”

  “Soon,” Gault promised. “I sent him down to Miami on some business. He’ll pick up Ellen when he gets back. Relax, wouldya, sweet thing?”

  “Miami,” Lanie repeated.

  “Yeah,” her brother said, “we’re getting ready for the big tournament.”

  “Oh boy,” said Lanie, thinking: I hope you drown, you murdering bastard.

  25

  The fire died slowly, and as it did Al Garcίa poked and speared the embers in a feeble attempt to revive the flames. Soon a gray curling mist cloaked the lake and settled over the detective’s shoulders like a damp shroud. Small creatures scuttled unseen through the woods, and each crackling twig reminded Garcίa that he was desperately removed from his element, the city. Even from the lake there were noises—what, he couldn’t imagine—splashes and gurgles of all dimensions. Garcίa wondered about bears; what kind, how big. The weight of the Colt Python under his arm was a small comfort, but he knew the gun was not designed to kill bears. Garcίa was no outdoorsman, his main exposure to the wilderness being old reruns of The American Spornman. Two things he remembered most vividly about the TV show were ferocious bears the size of Pontiacs, and convivial campfire scenes where all the men slugged down beers and feasted on fresh venison. Garcίa seemed to recall that there were always at least ten heavily armed guys around Curt Gowdy at the camp, plus a camera crew. And here he was, practically all alone with a dead fire.

  Halfheartedly Garcίa collected some kindling and tossed it into the embers. He put his cigarette lighter to the pile, but the wood sparked and in a moment went cold. The detective unscrewed the top of his disposable lighter and dumped the fluid on the sticks. Then he leaned over and touched a match to the fire, which promptly blew up in his face.

  After Garcίa picked himself off the ground, he sat down lugubriously by the smoldering campfire. Gingerly he explored his face and found only minimal damage—his eyebrows were scorched and curlicued, and his mustache gave off an acrid smell. Garcίa jumped at the low rumble of laughter—it was Skink, hulking in the doorway of the shack.

  “Honest to God,” the big man said. In three minutes the fire was ablaze again. Skink made coffee, which Garcίa accepted gratefully. There was something odd about the governor’s appearance, and it took the detective several moments to figure it out.

  “Your eye,” he said to Skink.

  “What of it?”

  A new eye stared from the socket where the heavy gauze had been packed. The new eye was strikingly big, with a startling yellow iris and a pupil as large as a half-dollar. Garcia couldn’t help but notice that the new eye was not a perfect fit for the hole in Skink’s face.

  “Where did you get it?” Garcίa asked.

  “Does it look okay?”

  “Fine,” the detective said. “Very nice.”

  Skink clomped into the shack and came back with a stuffed barn owl, an erect, imperious-looking bird. “I tie this on the roof to keep the crows and grackles away,” he said. Admiring the taxidermied owl at arm’s length, Skink said, “If looks could kill.”

  Garcίa asked, “Will it still scare the birds? With one eye, I mean.”

  “Hell, yes,” Skink said. “Even more so. Just look at that vicious fucker.”

  The owl’s frozen gaze was still fierce, Garcia had to admit. And Skink himself looked exceptional; while his new eye did not move in concert with its mate, it still commanded attention.

  “I’ll give it a try,” Skink said, an
d put on his sunglasses.

  After they finished the coffee, Skink got the Coleman lantern and led Garcίa down to the water. He told him to get in the rowboat. Garcίa shared the bow with an old tin bucket, a nylon castnet folded inside. Skink rowed briskly across the lake, singing an old rock song that Garcia vaguely recognized: No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, to be the sad man. . . . More like the madman, Garcίa said to himself.

  He was impressed by Skink’s energy, after the savage beating he’d taken. The wooden boat cut the water in strong bolts, Skink pulling at the oars with a fervor that bordered on jubilation. Truly he was a different man than the bloodied heap wheezing in the back seat of Garcίa’s car. If the pain still bothered him, Skink didn’t show it. He was plainly overjoyed to be home, and on the water.

  After twenty minutes Skink guided the rowboat into a cove on the northern shore, but he didn’t break his pace. With his good eye he checked over his shoulder and kept a course for the mouth of a small creek that emptied into the lake between two prehistoric live oaks. To Garcίa the creek seemed too narrow even for the little skiff, yet it swallowed them easily. For fifty yards it snaked through mossy bottomland, beneath lightning-splintered cypress and eerie tangled beards of Spanish moss. Garcίa was awestruck by the primordial beauty of the swamp but said nothing, afraid to disturb the silence. Skink had long stopped singing.

  Eventually the creek opened to a blackwater pond rimmed by lily pads and mined with rotting stumps.

  Skink removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his weathersuit. He turned from the oars and motioned for the castnet. Awkwardly Garcίa handed it to him; the lead weights were heavy and unwieldly. Standing wide-legged, Skink clenched the string in his teeth and hurled the net in a smooth low arc; it opened perfectly and settled to the water like a gossamer umbrella. When he dragged the net back into the boat, it was spangled with fish, flashing in the mesh like pieces of a shattered mirror. Skink filled the tin bucket with water and emptied the fish into it. Then he refolded the net and sat down, facing Al Garcίa.

  “Golden shiners,” he announced. Skink plucked one out of the bucket and swallowed it alive.

  Garcίa stared at him. “What do they taste like?” he asked.