Double Whammy

by Carl Hiaasen

  Skink netted more shiners and made Al Garcia practice with the fish until nearly dawn. Finally they let the monster-beastie rest, and Skink rowed back across Lake Jesup. As they dragged the skiff ashore, Garcia noticed two cars parked behind Skink’s truck at the shack. One belonged to Trooper Jim Tile. The other was a tangerine Corvette.

  “Company,” Skink said, removing his raincap.

  The four of them were sitting around the campfire: Decker, Tile, Lanie Gault, and a woman whom Skink did not recognize. Decker introduced her as Ellen O’Leary.

  “How’s the eye?” Jim Tile asked.

  Skink grinned and took off his sunglasses. “Good as new,” he said. Everyone felt obliged to say something nice about the owl eye.

  “You hungry?” Skink said. “I’ll take the truck and find some breakfast.”

  “We hit the Mister Donut on the way in,” Decker said.

  “Thank you anyway,” Lanie added.

  Skink nodded. “I am, sort of,” he said. “Hungry, I mean. You please move the cars?”

  “Take mine,” Lanie said, fishing the keys out of her jeans. “Better yet, I’ll go with you.”

  “Like hell,” Decker said.

  “I don’t mind,” said Skink, “if you don’t.”

  “No more rope tricks,” Lanie said. It was her cockteasing voice; Decker recognized it. She got in the passenger side of the Corvette. Skink squeezed himself behind the wheel.

  “Hope she likes possum omelets,” Decker said.

  Skink and Lanie were gone a long time.

  Al Garcίa told Decker the plan, beginning with: “The man’s totally crazy.”

  “Thanks for the bulletin.”

  Jim Tile said, “He knows about things. You can trust him.”

  Skink’s plan was to crash the big bass tournament and ruin it. His plan was to sabotage the Lunker Lakes resort on national television.

  Garcίa said to Jim Tile: “You and me are fishing together.”

  “In the tournament?”

  “He’s already paid our entry fee,” Garcίa said. “The best part is, we’re supposed to be hermanos. Brothers.”

  Jim Tile shook his head. He was smiling. “I like it. I don’t know why, but I do.”

  In a faint voice Ellen O’Leary said, “You don’t look that much alike.”

  “In the eyes we do,” Garcίa said, straight-faced. “This is going to be fun.”

  “Fun” is not the word R. J. Decker would have chosen. Things had gotten dangerously out of hand; suddenly a one-eyed roadside carnivore with possible brain damage was running the whole program. Even more astounding, Garcίa was going along with it. Decker couldn’t imagine what could have happened while he and Jim Tile were up at Crescent Beach.

  “This is all fascinating,” Decker said, “and I wish both of you the best of luck in the tournament, but my immediate problem is Dennis Gault. Murder-one, remember?”

  By way of interagency updating, Jim Tile said to Garcίa: “The sister is taken care of. As a state’s witness, forget it.” He held up the tape cassette.

  “Good work,” Garcίa said. He turned to Ellen O’Leary. “What about you, miss?”

  Ellen looked worriedly at Jim Tile. The trooper said, “She can put Tom Curl with Dickie Lockhart right before the murder.”

  “Not bad,” Garcia said. “RJ., I can’t figure what you’re so worked up about. Sounds to me like an easy nolle prosse.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Decker said. “Gault set me up on a murder charge. He also arranged to kill my friend Ott. At this very moment he’s got some halfwit redneck hitman out looking for me. I would prefer not to wait three or four months for the New Orleans district attorney to settle the issue.”

  Garcίa raised a fleshy brown hand. “Yeah, I hear you, chico. Why don’t I just pop big Mr. Gault at the fish tournament? Irritate the hell out of him, wouldn’t it?”

  “Good TV, too,” Jim Tile remarked.

  “Pop him for what?” Decker asked.

  Garcίa paused to light a cigarette. “Filing false information, for starters. He lied to me—I don’t like that. Obstruction, that’s another good one. I haven’t used it in years, so why not.”

  Decker said, “It’s chickenshit, Al.”

  “Better than nothing,” Jim Tile said.

  Garcίa watched a blue smoke ring float into the oaks. “Best I can do,” he said, “until we find Tom Curl and have a serious chat with the boy.”

  “You think he’ll flip?” Decker said.

  “Sure.” Al Garcia smiled. “If I ask real nice.”

  Skink jacked the Corvette up to ninety on the Gilchrist. He felt obliged to do it, seeing as how he’d probably never get another chance. It truly was quite a car. He loved the way its snout sucked up the road.

  In the passenger seat Lanie tucked her long legs beneath her bottom and turned sideways to watch him drive. Skink didn’t like being watched, but he said nothing. It had been a long time since he had shared a moment with a beautiful woman; that was one price of hermitage. He remembered how good judgment went out the window in such times, so he warned himself to be careful, there was work to do. His head was killing him, too; the pain had returned as soon as he’d gotten off the lake. A specialist was out of the question. There was no time.

  Lanie popped a Whitney Houston tape in the cassette player and started keeping time with her bare feet. Without looking away from the road, Skink reached over and jerked the tape out of the dash. Then he threw it out the window.

  “Got any Creedence?” he said.

  In the seat Lanie whirled and, through the rear window, watched Whitney Houston bounce and shatter and unspool on the highway. “You’re crazy,” she snapped at Skink. “You’re buying me a new tape, buster.”

  Skink wasn’t paying attention. He had spotted something far ahead in the road; a motionless brown lump. He started braking the sports car, pumping slowly so it wouldn’t leave rubber or spin out. When it finally came to a stop on the shoulder, he flicked on the emergency flashers and got out. He made sure to take the keys.

  The thing in the road was a dead armadillo. After a brief examination Skink carried it by its scaly tail back to the Corvette.

  Lanie was aghast. Skink tossed the carcass in the back and started the car.

  “Ever had one?”

  Lanie shook her head violently.

  “Makes one hell of a gumbo,” he said. “Use the shell as a tureen, if you do it right. Holds about two gallons.”

  Lanie leaned back to see where the armadillo had landed, how much of a mess had been made on the upholstery.

  “It’s fresh, don’t worry,” Skink said. He wheeled the Corvette around and headed back.

  “Okay, who are you? Really.”

  Skink said, “You’ve seen who I am.”

  “Before this,” Lanie said. “You must have been . . . somebody. I mean, you didn’t grow up on roadkills.”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Lanie said, “I like you. Your hands especially. The day we first met I noticed them, when you were tying me with that plastic rope.”

  “Fishing line,” Skink said, “not rope. I’m glad there’s no hard feelings.”

  “You can’t blame me for being curious.”

  “Sure I can. It’s none of your damn business who I am.”

  “Shit,” Lanie said, “you’re impossible.”

  Skink hit the brakes hard and downshifted. The sports car fishtailed severely and spun off the Gilchrist and came to rest in a field of crackling dry pastureland.

  “My Vette is now parked in cowshit,” Lanie observed, more perturbed than frightened.

  Skink took his hands off the steering wheel.

  “Want to know who I am? I’m the guy who had a chance to save this place, only I blew it.”

  “Save what?”

  Skink made a circular gesture. “Everything. Everything that counts for anything. I’m the guy that could have saved it, but instead I ran. So there’s your answer.”
<
br />   “Clue me in, please.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s ancient history.”

  Lanie said, “Were you famous or something?”

  Skink just laughed. He couldn’t help it.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked. He had a terrific smile, no doubt about it.

  “No more damn questions.”

  “Just one,” Lanie said, moving in. “How about a kiss?”

  It didn’t stop at just one, and it didn’t stop with just kissing. Skink was impressed by both her energy and agility—unless you had circus experience, it wasn’t easy getting naked in the bucket seat of a Corvette. Skink himself tore the inseam of his orange weathersuit in the struggle. Lanie had better luck with her jeans and panties; somehow she even got her long bare legs wrapped around him. Skink admired her tan, and said so. She hit a button and the seat slid down to a full recline.

  Once she was on top Lanie allowed her breasts to brush back and forth against Skink’s cheeks. She looked down and saw that he seemed to be enjoying himself. His huge boots were braced against the dashboard.

  “What do you like?” she asked.

  “Worldly things.”

  “You got it,” Lanie said. “We’re going to do it and then we’re going to lie here together and talk, all right?”

  “Sure.”

  She pressed down hard and began to rock her hips. “Get to know each other a little better.”

  “Fine idea,” Skink said.

  Then she leaned down, snuck her tongue in his ear, and said, “Leave the sunglasses on, okay?”

  Even for Lanie Gault, the owl eye would have been a glaring distraction.

  Later that afternoon, after Lanie was gone and Jim Tile had stashed Ellen O’Leary at his apartment, Skink took the truck to town. He came back towing a dented old boat trailer with a sagging rusty axle. In the Ratbed of the pickup truck was a six-horsepower Mercury outboard that had seen brighter days. There was also a plastic forty-gallon garbage bucket, eight feet of aquarium tubing, and four dozen D-size batteries, which Skink had purchased at Harney Hardware.

  He was fiddling with his trash-bucket contraption when Decker came up and said, “Why’d you let her go?”

  “No reason to keep her.”

  To Decker the reason seemed obvious. “She’ll run straight to her brother.”

  “And tell him what?”

  “Where I am, for starters.”

  “You won’t be here that long,” Skink said. “We’re all heading south. Jim Tile and the Cuban—they been practicing?”

  “All day,” Decker said. “Garcίa’s hopeless.”

  “He can play captain, then.”

  Decker needed to ask something else but he didn’t want to set Skink off.

  “She doesn’t know the plan, does she?”

  It was another way of asking what had happened in the Corvette. Skink clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Some of us know how to get laid with our mouths shut,” he said sourly. “No, she doesn’t know the damn plan.”

  Decker was getting ominous vibrations; maybe the beating in Delray had loosened a few more bolts in the big man’s brainpan. Skink was forever pulling guns, and he looked like he wanted to pull one now. Decker asked Jim Tile for a ride to town, to make some phone calls. Al Garcίa went along; he was out of cigarettes.

  “Town’s a bad idea,” Jim Tile said, heading away from Harney on Route 222. “The three of us shouldn’t be seen together. There’s a Zippy Mart about eight miles along here.”

  Decker said, “This idea of his . . . I don’t know, Jim.”

  “It’s his last chance,” the trooper said. “You saw how bad he looks.”

  “Then let’s get him to a hospital.”

  “It’s not the eye, Decker. Or what those kids did to him. He’s all beat up inside. He’s done it to himself, you understand? Been doing it for years.”

  Al Garcίa leaned forward in the back seat and said, “What’s the harm, R.J.? The man wants to make a point.”

  Decker said, “Skink I almost understand. But why are you guys going along?”

  “Maybe we got a point to make, too,” Jim Tile said.

  After that, Decker left it alone.

  “Relax,” Garcίa told him. “Couple old road cops like us need a break in the monotony, that’s all.”

  At the Zippy Mart, Jim Tile waited in the car while Garcίa went to buy his cigarettes and Decker used the pay phone. It had been several days since he had left Miami and, assuming he’d still have to make a living when this case was over, he thought it a wise idea to check his messages. He dialed his number, then punched the playback code for the tape machine.

  The first voice made him wince. Lou Zicutto from the insurance company: “Hey, douche-bag, you’re lucky Núñez came down with mono. We got a two-week postponement from the judge, so this time no excuses—be there with your negatives. Otherwise just go ahead and buy yourself some fucking crutches, got it?”

  What a prince to work for.

  Decker didn’t recognize the second voice, didn’t need to: “I got your wife, Mr. Decker, and she’s just as pretty as the pitchers. So we’re gonna trade: her tight little ass for yours. Call me . . . make it Friday at the Holiday Inn, Coral Springs. We’ll be registered Mr. and Mrs. Juan Gómez.”

  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.

  27

  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 cut
ting 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.