Double Whammy

by Carl Hiaasen

  “May I ask,” Deacon Johnson said, “are you blind?”

  “I suppose,” the man said.

  “May I ask how blind?”

  “Depends what you mean.”

  “Can you see what that billboard says?” Deacon Johnson pointed to a big Toyota sign a quarter-mile down the road.

  The man said, “Not hardly.”

  Deacon Johnson held a hand in front of the man’s face. “Can you see that?”

  The man nodded yes.

  “Very good.” Thank God, Deacon Johnson thought. For coaching purposes, partly blind was perfect. As a telegenic bonus, the man appeared sickly but not morbidly sunken, like some of the bums at the soup kitchen.

  Deacon Johnson introduced himself and said, “Have you heard of the Outdoor Christian Network?”

  “Yes,” the blind man said.

  “Then you’ve heard of the Reverend Charles Weeb, how he heals people on national television?”

  “I watch no television.”

  “Yes, I understand, but at least have you heard of Reverend Weeb’s healings? The reason I ask, he’s having one today. Right here, inside this gate.”

  “A healing.”

  “On live satellite television,” Deacon Johnson said. “Would you be interested?”

  The man toyed with his beard.

  “For five hundred dollars,” Deacon Johnson said.

  “And would I be healed?”

  “Let me say, Reverend Weeb gets excellent results. With the Lord’s help, of course.” Deacon Johnson circled the blind man and assessed his camera presence. “I think the Lord would probably like us to shave you,” he said. “And possibly cut your hair—the braid could be a distraction.”

  The blind man raised a middle digit in front of Deacon Johnson’s face. “Can you see that?” he said.

  Deacon Johnson chuckled weakly. “I underestimated you, sir. Let’s make it a thousand dollars.”

  “For a thousand bucks I take a shower,” the blind man said, “that’s all.”

  When the man stood up he towered over Deacon Johnson. He pulled on a flowered plastic cap and smoothed it flat over his skull. Then, with thick callused fingers, he pinched Deacon Johnson’s elbow and held on.

  “Lead the way,” the blind man said.

  The instant the other bass boats roared away, Al García felt sure that he and Jim Tile would be drowned, that the roiling wakes would swamp the wooden skiff and it would sink upside-down, trapping them both in a cold underwater pocket.

  This did not happen. The skiff proved not only stable but also dry. It was, however, maddeningly slow—made even slower by the sloshing heft of the Igloo cooler, which was filled with fresh Lake Jesup water especially for Queenie. That, added to the considerable weight of the two men, the tackle, the gas tank, the lunchboxes, the anchor, and the bait (several pounds of frozen Harney County shiners, Queenie’s favorite) was almost too much for the tired little six-horse Mercury to push.

  García puttered down the canal on a straight course for Lunker Lake Number Seven. With one hand he steered the engine. With the other he idly trolled a fishing line baited with a misshapen jangling monstrosity of a lure. “Looks like an elephant IUD,” García had told the perky but unappreciative sales rep who’d given it to him on the dock. “Maybe one of Cher’s earrings.”

  It was a long slow ride, and the rhythmic drone of the outboard eventually brought on drowsiness. García was half-dozing when something jolted his hands; he opened his eyes to see the tip of the fishing rod quiver and dip. Remembering what Skink had taught him, he jerked twice, solidly, and a stubborn tug answered at the end of the line. Without much effort the detective reeled in his catch, a feisty black fish no more than twelve inches long.

  Jim Tile said, “I believe that’s a baby bass.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Al Garcia. “Throw him in the cooler.”

  “What for?”

  “So we can show the governor we got one fair and square.”

  “It’s awfully small,” Jim Tile remarked, releasing the bass into the Igloo.

  “A fish is a fish,” the detective said. “Come on, Jimbo, get in the goddamn tournament spirit.”

  Then the engine quit; coughed twice, spit blue smoke, and died. Al García removed the cowling and tinkered fruitlessly for ten minutes, then traded places so the trooper could give it a try.

  Jim Tile repeatedly pulled the starter cord, but the Mercury showed no sign of life. After the tenth try, he sat down and said, “Damn.”

  The wooden skiff hung motionless in the canal, not another bass boat in sight.

  “We got a long ways to go,” García said.

  On a hunch, Jim Tile disengaged the fuel line and sniffed the plug.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said.

  García winced. “Don’t tell me we’re out of gas.”

  Jim Tile hoisted the heavy aluminum fuel tank and unscrewed the lid. He peered inside, then put his nose to the hole.

  “Plenty of gas,” he said dismally, “only somebody’s pissed in it.”

  30

  The night had taken a toll on both of them.

  Catherine felt gritty and cramped from being curled in the trunk of the car. Her knees were scuffed and her hair smelled like tire rubber from using the spare as a pillow. She had cried herself to sleep, and now, in the white glare of morning, the sight of Thomas Curl’s pistol made her want to cry again. Thinking of Decker helped to hold back the tears.

  Curl himself had deteriorated more than Catherine had thought possible, short of coma or death. He could no longer move his right arm at all; the muscle was as black and dead as the dog head that hung from it. Gunk seeped from Curl’s eyes and nose, and overnight his tongue had bloomed swollen from his mouth, like some exotic scarlet fruit. On the boat he practically ignored Catherine, but murmured constantly to the rictal dog while stroking its petrified muzzle. By now Catherine was used to everything, even the smell.

  Thomas Curl had been drinking ferociously since before dawn, and she surmised that this alone had kept the pain of infection from consuming him. He drove the boat slowly, steering with his knees and squinting against the sun. They passed several fishermen on the canal, but apparently none could see the pistol poking Catherine’s left breast. If they noticed the pit bull’s head, they didn’t let on.

  “I’m a rich man, Lucas,” Thomas Curl said to the dog. “I got enough money for ten of these speedboats.”

  Catherine said, “Tom, we’re almost there.” She felt the muzzle of the gun dig harder.

  “Lucas, boy, we’re almost there,” Thomas Curl said.

  With this announcement he threw himself against the throttle and the Starcraft shot forward, plowing aimlessly through a stand of thick sawgrass. Catherine let out a cry as the serrated stalks raked her cheeks, drawing blood. The boat broke out of the matted grass, leapt the water, and climbed a mudbank. The prop stuck hard, and there they sat.

  “This is the place,” Thomas Curl declared.

  “Not quite,” Catherine said.

  “He’ll find us, don’t you worry,” Curl said. “He’s got a nose for your little pussy, I bet.”

  “Cute,” Catherine said. “You ought to work for Hallmark, writing valentines.”

  She used the hem of her skirt to dab the cuts on her face. Half-staggering, Curl got himself out of the boat. The pistol was still in his good hand.

  “Don’t bother with the leash,” he said to Catherine.

  “Right,” she said. There was no leash, of course. She climbed out of the beached Starcraft and instantly cursed Thomas Curl for not letting her wear any shoes.

  While she stooped to pick the nettles from her feet, Curl cocked his head and cupped an ear with his gun hand. “What is it?” he said excitedly.

  “What is what?” Catherine asked, but he wasn’t speaking to her.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Somewhere in the deep rotting bog of Thomas Curl’s brain, his dog was barking. Curl dropped
to a crouch and lowered his voice.

  “Lucas hears something comin’,” he said.

  Catherine heard it too. Her heart raced when she spotted R. J. Decker, hands in his pockets, walking along the bank of the canal.

  She waved and tried to shout, but nothing came out. Decker waved back and grinned, the way he always did when he hadn’t seen her for a while. Grinned like nothing was wrong, like no gangrenous madman was jabbing a loaded pistol into Catherine’s nipple while shouting at a severed dog head on his arm: “Heel, boy, heel!”

  “Easy, Tom,” said R. J. Decker.

  “Shut up, fuckhead.”

  “Did we get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

  “I said shut up, and don’t come no closer.”

  Decker stood ten feet away. Jeans, flannel shirt, tennis shoes. A camera hung from a thin strap around his neck.

  “You remember the deal,” he said to Curl. “A straight-up trade: Me for her.”

  “What kind of deal you offer Lemus?”

  Decker said, “I didn’t shoot your brother, but I will say he had it coming.”

  “So do you, fuckhead.”

  “I know, Tom.”

  R. J. Decker could see that something was monstrously wrong with Thomas Curl, that he was a sick man. He could also see that something ghastly had happened to Curl’s right arm, and that this might be a cause of his distress.

  Decker said, “That a dog, Tom?”

  “The hell does it look like?”

  “It’s definitely a dog,” Catherine said. “A pit bull, I believe.”

  “I used to know a dog like that,” Decker said affably. “Lived in my trailer park. Poindexter was its name.”

  Thomas Curl said, “This one is Lucas.”

  “Does he do any tricks?”

  “Yeah, he chews the balls off fuckheads like you.”

  “I see.”

  Catherine said, “You’re hurting me, Tom.”

  “Take the gun out of there.” Decker spoke calmly. “Let her go now, that was the deal.”

  “I’ll show you the deal,” said Thomas Curl. With his tumid red tongue he licked the tip of the gun barrel and placed it squarely between Catherine’s light brown eyebrows. He twisted the muzzle back and forth, leaving a wet round imprint on her forehead.

  “That’s the deal Lemus got,” said Thomas Curl. “Dead-center bull’s-eye.” He poked the gun back in her breast.

  The touch of blue steel on her face had made Catherine shiver. She thought she might even faint; in a way, she wished she would. Falling facedown in the sawgrass would be better than this. And Decker—she could have clobbered him, standing there like it was the checkout line of the supermarket. The one time she wanted to see the hot streak, the dangerous temper. Normally she detested violence, but this would have been an exception; Catherine would have been delighted to watch her ex-husband strangle Thomas Curl with his bare hands.

  “I got to kill you both,” Curl said. He was fighting off deep tremors. Sweat gathered in big drops on his cheeks, and his breath came in raspy bursts.

  Decker knew he could take him, probably with one good punch. If only the pistol weren’t aimed point-blank at Catherine’s heart. Oh, Catherine. Decker had to be careful, he was so close to the edge.

  “A deal is a deal,” Decker said.

  “Hell, I can’t let her go now.”

  “She won’t tell,” Decker said. “She’s got a husband to think about.”

  “Too bad,” Thomas Curl growled. Suddenly one eye looked bigger than the other. He started rocking slightly, as if on the deck of a ship.

  Curl said, “Let’s get it over with, I don’t feel so good.”

  He pushed Catherine toward Decker, who pulled her close with both hands. “Rage, please,” she whispered.

  Curl said, “So who wants it first?” When neither of them answered, he consulted his faithful pal. “Lucas, who gets it first?”

  “Tom, one final favor before you do this.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Take our picture together, okay? Me and Catherine.”

  Curl sneered. “What the hell for?”

  “Because I love her,” Decker said, “and it’s our last moment together. Forever.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Then please,” Decker said.

  Catherine squeezed his hand. “I love you too, Rage.” The words sounded wonderful, but under the circumstances Decker wasn’t sure how to take it; guns make people say the darnedest things.

  He lifted the Minolta from around his neck. Thomas Curl tucked the pistol under his right arm and took the camera in his good hand. He examined it hopelessly, as if it were an atom-splitter.

  “My daddy’s just got a Polaroid.”

  “This is almost the same,” Decker said reassuringly. “You look through that little window.”

  “Yeah?” Thomas Curl raised the camera to his big eye.

  “Can you see us?”

  “Nope,” Curl said.

  Decker took two steps backward, pulling Catherine by the elbows.

  “How about now, Tom?”

  Curl cackled. “Hey, yeah, I see you.”

  “Good. Now . . . just press that black button on top.”

  “Wait, you’re all fuzzy-looking.”

  “That’s all right.”

  Curl said, “Shit, might as well have a good final pitcher, considering. Now, how do I fix the focus?”

  Catherine squeezed Decker’s arm. “Fuck the focus,” she said under her breath. “Go for his gun.”

  But in a helpful tone Decker said, “Tom, the focus is in the black button.”

  “The same one?”

  “Yeah. It’s all automatic, you just press it.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Decker said, “Isn’t that something?”

  “Yeah,” Thomas Curl said, “but then where does the pitcher come out?”

  “Jesus,” Catherine sighed.

  “Underneath,” Decker lied. For the first time he sounded slightly impatient.

  Curl turned the camera upside-down in his hand. “I don’t see where.”

  “Trust me, Tom.”

  “You say so.” Curl raised the Minolta one more time. It took several drunken moments to align the viewfinder with his eye.

  “Lucas, don’t the two of them look sweet?” Curl hacked out a cruel watery laugh. “First I shoot your pitcher, then I shoot your goddamn brains out.”

  He located the black button with a twitching forefinger. “Okay, fuckheads, say cheese.”

  “Good-bye, Tom,” said R. J. Decker.

  There was no film loaded in the camera, only fourteen ounces of water gel, a malleable plastic explosive commonly used at construction sites. For Decker it was a simple chore to run bare copper wires from the camera’s batteries directly into the hard-packed gelatin, a substance so volatile that the charge from the shutter contact provided more than enough heat.

  As chemical reactions go, it was simple and brief.

  At the touch of the button the Minolta blew up; not much in the way of flash, but a powerful air-puckering concussion that tore off Thomas Curl’s poisoned skull and launched it in an arc worthy of a forty-foot jump shot. It landed with a noisy sploosh in the middle of the canal.

  Catherine was transfixed by how long it took for Curl’s headless body to fold up and collapse on the reddening mud; minutes, it seemed. But then, in the pungent gray haze of the killing, every scene seemed to happen in slow motion: R. J. tossing the gun into the water; R. J. dragging the corpse to the boat; R. J. sliding the boat down the bank; R. J. lifting her easily in his arms, carrying her away to someplace safe.

  They took turns rowing. Every time they squeaked past another bass boat, they got the same mocking look.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Al García said to Jim Tile. “You notice, they don’t seem to be catching fish.”

  This was true; García and Jim Tile did not know why, nor did they give it much thought as they rowe
d. Their concern was for one fish only, and they still had a long way to go. As for the other contestants, they might have been interested to know that Charlie Weeb’s hydrologist had warned this would happen, that the imported bass might not feed in the bad water. Even had the pros known the full truth, it was unlikely they would have given up and packed their rods—not with so much at stake. Deep in every angler’s soul is a secret confidence in his own special prowess that impels him to keep fishing in the face of common sense, basic science, financial ruin, and even natural disasters. In the maddening campaign at Lunker Lakes, whole tackleboxes were emptied and no secret weapon was left unsheathed. The putrid waters were plumbed by lures of every imaginable size and color, retrieved through every navigable depth at every possible speed. By midday it became obvious that even the most sophisticated angling technology in the world would not induce these fish to eat.

  As they tediously rowed the skiff through the network of long canals, Jim Tile and Al García detected angst on the faces of other competitors.

  “They don’t look like they’re having much fun,” García said.

  “They don’t know what fun is,” said Jim Tile, taking his turn at the oars. “This here’s fun.”

  With each pull the truth was sinking in: even if they reached the brushpile and did what Skink told them, they’d probably never get back to the dock by sunset. Not rowing.

  But they had to try.

  “Step on it, chico,” Al Garcia said. “Oxford’s gaining on us.”

  At that moment, on the westernmost end of Lunker Lake Number Seven, Dennis Gault was refolding the waterproof map that his helicopter pilot had marked for him. Lanie was up in the pedestal seat, reading from a stack of Cosmos she’d brought along to kill time. Her nose shone with Hawaiian tanning butter.

  Dennis Gault breathed on his sunglasses and wiped each lens with a tissue. He tested them against the sun before putting them on. Scanning his arsenal, he selected a plug-casting outfit with a brand-new Double Whammy tied to the end of the line. He tested the sharpness of the hook against his thumbnail, and grinned in self-satisfaction when the barb stuck fast. Then he squirted the lure three times with Happy Gland Bass Bolero.