Carl Hiassen - Double Whammy

"Elaine, it's running at us—go the other way!"

She jammed the engine in gear and the boat churned forward, roiling the water to a foam.

The great fish came to the top; a big bronze drainpipe, hovering behind the stern. It was dark enough and deep enough to be the shadow of something, not the thing itself. For the first time Dennis Gault realized its true dimensions and felt a hot rush. This fish was undoubtedly a world record; already he could see his name on the plaque. Already he could picture the bass mounted on the wall behind his desk; the taxidermist would brighten its flanks, touch up the gills, put some fury back in the dull purple eyes.

The fury was there now, only Dennis Gault couldn't see it.

When he pulled on the line, the bass obligingly swam toward the boat. "Get the net," he shouted at his sister. "Give me the goddamn net."

Then, with a kick of its tail, the fish sounded.

"Reverse!" Dennis Gault cried.

Lame jerked on the throttle as hard as she could, and the big outboard cavitated loudly as it backed up. It was then, with the boat directly overhead, that the fish exhibited what little guile nature had invested in her pebble-sized brain. She changed direction.

"No-no-no-no!" Dennis Gault was shrieking.

The boat was heading one way, the bass was going the other. Gault braced his knees against the gunwale. He clutched the butt of the rod with both hands.

The line came tight.

The rod doubled until the tip pricked the water. "Stop!" Dennis Gault grunted. "Stop, you sorry-dumb-dirty-fat-mother—"

The great fish did not stop.

With the drag cranked down, Dennis Gault could give her no line. All he could do was hang on.

"Let go!" Lanie pleaded.

"No fucking way," said Dennis. "This fish is mine."

Lanie watched helplessly as her brother pitched over the transom. The last she saw of him were the soles of his Top-Siders.

The splash was followed by a dreadful low whine, but it was not Dennis' scream. His scream had died when he hit the propeller, which was turning (according to the dash-mounted tachometer) at precisely four thousand revolutions per minute. The propeller happened to be a brand-new turbo model SST, so the three cupped stainless blades were as sharp as sabers. Dennis Gault might as well have fallen facefirst into a two-hundred-horsepower garbage disposal. Grinding was the sound that his sister had heard.

Lanie cut off the engine and stood up to see what had happened.

"Dennis?" Timorously she peered into the cloudy water, darkening from tea to rust.

A rag-size swatch of sky-blue fabric floated up; a piece of Dennis Gault's official Bass Blasters jumpsuit. When Lanie saw it, she knew there was no point in diving in after her brother. She held on to the side of the boat with both hands, leaned over, and daintily tossed her croissants.

A hundred yards away, at the point where Charlie Weeb's canal met the dike, the great fish crashed to the surface, shook its head, and threw the hook.

They sat on the hood of the car, parked among the bass trucks. They had a good view of the stage, the weigh-in station, the ramp, and the dock. The sun was starting to slip behind a low bank of copper clouds, and some of the boats were heading in.

"You all right?" Catherine asked. She had showered and brushed out her hair and changed clothes. Decker had stopped at a shopping mall and bought her some slacks and a kelly-green blouse; she'd been touched that he still remembered her size.

"I'm fine," Decker said. His mental lens had preserved Thomas Curl in three frames, none of them pretty.

Catherine said, "James'll never believe all this."

Decker looked at her in an odd way. Immediately she felt rotten about mentioning her husband.

Decker said, "See the excitement you're missing, not being married to me?"

"I don't remember it quite like this."

"I do," Decker said, "just like this." He smiled and gave her hand a little squeeze. Catherine felt relieved; he'd be all right. She slid off the car and went to scout the food at the buffet, which was set up near the stage.

From out of somewhere Skink materialized and stole Catherine's place on the hood.

"Nice threads," Decker said.

"First suit I've worn in years."

"The hat's a treat too."

Skink shrugged. "You missed the show."

"What happened?"

"Preacher tried to heal me."

Decker laughed a little as Skink told the story.

"That explains where the crowd went," he said.

"Scattered like hamsters," Skink said. "Worst part is, I lost the damn eye. Just kept rolling."

"We'll get you a new one."

"Not an owl this time, either. I'd prefer a boar—one of those big nasty bastards."

Up to this moment, Decker had been watching the boats race in. Now he turned to Skink and in a quiet voice said, "I'm in some trouble, captain."

Skink clicked his tongue against his teeth.

"I killed that man," Decker said.

"Figured as much."

"There was no other way."

Skink asked what happened to the body, and Decker told him. "Don't worry about it," he said. "You did good."

"Don't worry about it?"

"You heard me."

Decker sighed. He felt detached and fuzzy, as if he were having an out-of-body experience. He felt as if he were in a tall tree looking down on himself and this hoary character in a straw hat, a bad suit, and sunglasses. From this vantage Skink would have made a fine photographic portrait; like one of those debauched-looking acid dealers at Woodstock. Or maybe Altamont. One of those guys who looked too old and too hard for the crowd.

Decker decided to tell Skink why he'd come back to Lunker Lakes. He was bound to ask, anyway.

"When I found Catherine," Decker said, "I got to thinking about Dennis Gault."

"He's the case in New Orleans, the whole thing," Skink repeated. "It's a joke, so forget about it. You're clear."

Decker said, "I wasn't thinking about New Orleans, captain. I was thinking about Bobby Clinch and Ott Pickney and Dickie Lockhart. In relation to Gault, I mean."

"And Catherine."

"Yes. Catherine too."

"True," Skink said, "Mr. Gault is not a very nice man."

Decker took a short breath and said, "I was seriously thinking about killing him."

"Now that you got the hang of it, right?"

Decker was stung by Skink's sarcasm. And a sterling example you are, he thought. "I don't know what I'll do when I see him. Could be I won't be able to stop myself."

"Don't give me that cuckoo's-nest routine," Skink said. "Do you really want to do it? Or do you want yourself to want to? Think about it. Tom Curl was a different story—your girl was involved. That was rescue; this is revenge. Even a one-eyed basket case like me can see you don't have the stomach for it, and I'm glad."

Decker turned away.

"But the best reason not to kill the bastard," Skink added, "is that it's simply not necessary."

"Maybe you're right."

"I don't think you understand."

"Doesn't matter." Decker hopped off the hood. He spotted Catherine on her way back with a couple of chili dogs. "I think it's best if we take off before the festivities," he said wearily.

Skink shook his head. "It's best if you stay," he said. "Besides, I need a favor."

"Naturally."

"You know how to work one of these damn TV cameras?"

Later, when The Wall Street Journal and others would reconstruct the collapse of the Outdoor Christian Network, some of Charlie Weeb's colleagues and competitors would say he was a fool not to pull the plug on the Lunker Lakes show the instant Skink French-kissed the Minicam. However, such a judgment failed to take into account the pressure from Weeb's corporate sponsors, who had paid extraordinary sums to finance the bass tournament and definitely expected to see it (and their fishing products) on national television. To these businessmen, the attempted faith-healing was merely a gross and irritating preamble to the main event. The weigh-in itself was attended by no less than the entire board of directors of the Happy Gland fish-scent company, who had flown down from Elijay, Georgia, with the expectation that Eddie Spurling, their new spokesman, would win the Lockhart Memorial hands down. Charlie Weeb had assured them of this in the most positive terms.