Eddie stepped forward and tipped an invisible cap. He was looking pretty pleased himself, and for good reason. January had been a fabulous month. Without winning a single bass tournament he had doubled both his salary and his national TV exposure, and had also landed the lucrative six-figure endorsement contract for Happy Gland Fish Scent products. The Happy Gland package (entailing print, TV, billboard, and radio commercials) was the envy of the professional bass-fishing circuit, a prize held exclusively for the past five years by Dickie Lockhart. With Lockhart’s sudden death, the Happy Gland people needed a new star. The choice was an obvious one; the ad agency didn’t even bother to hold auditions. Henceforth every bottle of Bass Bolero, Mackerel Musk, and Catfish Cum would bear the grinning likeness of Fast Eddie Spurling.
“Any questions?” asked Charlie Weeb.
The reporters just looked at one another. Each of them was thinking he would go back to the newsroom and kill the editor who sent him on this assignment.
Weeb said, “I’ve saved the best for last. Girls, bring out the visuals.”
Two young women in opalescent bathing suits entered the skybox carrying an immense gold-plated trophy. The trophy easily stood five feet off the ground. On the corners of the base of the trophy were toy-size figures of anglers holding fishing rods, bent in varying degrees of mythic struggle. At the crown of the trophy was an authentic largemouth bass in a full body mount. As bass went, it was no hawg, but poised on the trophy it did look impressive.
“Well, there!” said the Reverend Weeb.
“What did you win it for?” one of the reporters asked Eddie Spurling.
“I didn’t win it,” Fast Eddie said, “not yet.”
“Gentlemen, read what it says on the trophy, look closely,” said Charlie Weeb. “This is probably the biggest trophy most of you ever saw, including Eddie here, who’s won some pretty big ones.”
“None this big,” Eddie Spurling said admiringly.
“Damn right,” Weeb said. “That’s because it’s the biggest trophy ever. And it’s the biggest trophy ever because it goes to the winner of the biggest fishing tournament ever. Three weeks from today, gentlemen, on the edge of the legendary Florida Everglades, fifty of the best bass anglers in the world will compete for a first prize of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Christ,” said one of the reporters. Finally something to scribble.
“The richest tournament ever,” Charlie Weeb said, glowing. “The Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic.”
Ed Spurting said, “At Lunker Lakes.”
“Oh yes,” said the Reverend Weeb, “how could I forget?”
20
Al Garcίa was dog-tired. He’d been up since six, and even after four cups of coffee his tongue felt like mossy Styrofoam. His bum left shoulder was screaming for Percodans but Garcia stuck with plain aspirin, four at a pop. It was one of those days when he wondered why he hadn’t just retired on full disability and moved quietly to Ocala; one of those days when everything and everybody in Miami annoyed the shit out of him. The lady at the toll booth, for instance, when she’d snatched the dollar bill out of his hand—a frigging buck, just for the matchless pleasure of driving the Rickenbacker out to Key Biscayne. And the doorman at the Mayan high-rise condo. Let’s see some identification, please. How about a sergeant’s badge, asshole? The thing was, the doorman—dressed in a charcoal monkey suit that must have cost four bills—the doorman used to work for fucking Somoza. Used to pulverize peasant skulls on behalf of the Nicaraguan National Guard. Garcίa knew this, and still he had to stand there, dig around for his shield and a driver’s license, before the goon would let him inside.
To top it off, the rich guy he’s supposed to interview comes to the door wearing one of those faggy thong bathing suits (candy-apple red) that make it look like you’ve got a python between your legs.
“Come on in, Sergeant,” said Dennis Gault. “Tell me the news.”
“What news?” Garcia looked the place over before he sat down. Nice apartment. Thick, fluffy carpet—no rug-burn romances for this stud. Swell view of the Atlantic, too. Got to cost a million-three easy, Garcίa thought. You can’t buy a toilet on the island for under two-fifty.
Gault said, “About Decker—didn’t you catch him?”
“Not yet.”
“Grapefruit juice? O.J.?”
“Coffee if you got it,” Garcίa said. “You must be headed down to the beach.”
“No,” Gault said, “the sauna.” After he poured Garcίa’s coffee, he said, “I thought that’s why you called—Decker, I mean. I figured you boys would’ve found him by now.”
You boys. Fine, be that way, Garcίa thought. “We almost had him last night, but he got away.”
“Got away?” Dennis Gault asked.
“As in, eluded us,” Garcίa said. “Stole a boat and took off across the bay. By the time we got a chopper up, it was too late.”
“Sounds like you boys fucked up.”
“We prefer to think of it as a missed opportunity.” Garcίa smiled. “Very good coffee. Colombian?”
“Yeah,” Dennis Gault said. He dumped a squirt of vodka into his grapefruit juice.
“The reason I’m here,” Garcίa said, “is I need you to tell me everything about what happened with Decker.”
Gault sat down, tugged irritably at his cherry swimtrunks. Garcίa figured they must be riding clear up the crack of his buttocks.
“Hell, I flew to New Orleans and gave a full statement,” Gault said. “How many times do I have to go over it?”
Garcίa said, “I’ve read your statement, Mr. Gault. It’s fine as far as it goes. But, see, working the Miami angle, I need a few more details.”
“Such as?”
“Such as how did Decker choose you?” Garcίa was admiring the empty coffee cup. It looked like real china.
Gault said, “My feelings about Dickie Lockhart were no secret, Sergeant. I’m sure Decker talked to some fishermen, heard the stories. Once he took those photographs, I was the logical choice for a buyer—he knew I hated Dickie, knew I wanted to see him discredited. Plus he knew I was a man of means. He knew I could afford his price, no matter how ludicrous.”
Man of means. Garcίa was in hog heaven. “He told you all this, Decker did?”
“No, I don’t recall that he did. You asked how he picked me and I’m telling you it wasn’t too damn difficult.”
Garcίa said, “How did he first contact you?”
“He called.”
“Your secretary just patched him right through?”
“Of course not,” Gault said. “He left a message. Left about seventeen messages before finally I got fed up and picked up the phone.”
“That’s good,” Garcίa said. From the inside of his tan suit coat he produced a small notebook and wrote something down. “Seventeen messages—your secretary’s bound to remember the name, don’t you think? She probably wrote his number in a desk calendar somewhere. Even a scrap of paper would be a help.”
“I don’t know,” Gault said. “That was weeks ago. She probably tossed it by now.”
Al Garcίa left his notebook open on his lap while Gault repeated his story that R. J. Decker had demanded one hundred thousand dollars for the photographs of Dickie Lockhart cheating.
“I told him he was nuts,” Gault said. “I told him to take a flying fuck.”
“But you saw the pictures.”
“Yeah, and it was Dickie, all right, pulling fish cages in a lake somewhere. Illegal as hell.”
Garcίa said, “So why didn’t you buy them?”
“For the obvious reasons, that’s why.” Gault pretended to be insulted.
“Too much money,” Garcίa said. “That’s the most obvious one.”
“Forget the money. It would have been wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Gault said. “You’re looking at me like I was a common criminal.”
Maybe worse, G
arcίa thought. He had already decided that Dennis Gault was a liar. The question was, how far did it go?
“The note,” the detective said. “Asking for a hundred grand—”
“I gave it to the cops in New Orleans.”
“Yes, I know. But I was wondering what Decker meant—remember he used the word ‘fee’. Like it was a real case. He said, The fee is now a hundred grand,’ something like that.”
Gault said, “Hell, I knew exactly what he meant.”
“Sure, but I was thinking—why he didn’t use the word ‘price’? I mean, he was talking about the price of the photographs, wasn’t he? It just seemed like a funny choice of words.”
“Not to me,” Gault said.
“When did he give you the note?”
“Same day he showed me the pictures. January 7, I guess it was.” Gault got up and went to the bathroom. When he came back he was wearing a monogrammed terrycloth robe over the skimpy red thong. It had gotten chillier in the apartment.
“After I told Decker to get lost, he went right to Lockhart for all the marbles. It was pure blackmail: Pay me or I give the picures to my pals at the newspaper. Naturally Dickie paid—the poor schmuck had no choice.”
Garcίa said, “How do you know all this?”
Gault laughed caustically and slapped his hands on his knees. “From R. J. Decker!” he said. “Decker told my sister Elaine. Turns out he was banging her—I’m sure New Orleans must’ve filled you in. Anyway, Decker told Elaine he squeezed thirty grand out of Dickie before Dickie cut him off. At the tournament Decker went to see him about it, and you know the rest.”
“Decker doesn’t sound too bright.”
“Then why haven’t you caught him?”
“What I meant,” Garcίa said evenly, “is that it wasn’t too bright for him to blab all this shit to your sister.”
Dennis Gault shrugged and stood up. “You know how it is—in the sack you’ll say anything. Besides, you never met Elaine. Talking is her second-favorite thing.” Gault flashed Garcίa a sly, frat-house sort of look. Garcίa thought this showed real class, a millionaire pimping his own sister. With each passing minute the homicide detective was growing to doubt Mr. Gault’s character.
He said, “Maybe Decker was just bragging.”
“Bragging, passing the time, waiting for his dick to get hard again, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, he told Elaine.” Gault took Garcίa’s coffee cup. “What about Decker’s partner, this Skink maniac?”
“We don’t even know his real name,” Garcίa said.
“He’s a nut case, I’ve met him. Tell your boys to be damn careful.”
“You bet,” Garcίa said, rising. “Thanks for the coffee. You’ve been most helpful.”
Gault twirled the sash of his robe as he walked the detective to the door. “As you can tell, I had no love for Dickie Lockhart. If anything else had happened to him—a plane crash, prostate cancer, AIDS—you wouldn’t have heard a peep out of me. Hell, I would’ve thrown a party. But murder—not even a cheating motherfucker like Dickie deserved to be murdered in cold blood. That’s why I went to the police.”
“Sort of a civic duty,” Garcίa said.
“Exactly.” Before Gault said good-bye, something occurred to him: It would be best to end the interview on a light and friendly note. He said to Garcίa, “You’re from Cuba, right?”
“A long time ago.”
“There’s some hellacious fishing down there, south of Havana. Castro himself is a nut for largemouth bass, did you know that?”
“I read something about it.”
Gault said, “For years I’ve been trying to pull some strings and wrangle an invitation, but it’s damn tough in my position. I’m in the sugar business, as you know. The Bearded One doesn’t send us many valentines.”
“Well, you’re the competition,” Garcia said.
“Still, I’m dying to try for a Cuban bass. I’ve heard stories of sixteen-, eighteen-pound hawgs. What’s the name of that famous lake?”
Garcίa said, “I forget.”
“Did you do much fishing,” Gault asked, “when you lived there?”
“I was just a small boy,” Garcίa said. “My great-uncle did some fishing, though.”
“Is that right?”
“He was a mullet man.”
“Oh.”
“He sold marlin baits to Hemingway.”
“No shit!” Dennis Gault said. Now he was impressed. “I saw a movie about Hemingway once,” he said. “Starred that Patton guy.”
Back at police headquarters, Al Garcίa sat down at his desk and slipped a cassette into a portable tape recorder. The date of January 7 had been written in pencil on the label of the cassette. It was one of three used in R. J. Decker’s answering machine. Garcίa had picked them up at the trailer after he got the search warrant.
He closed the door to his office, and turned the volume on the tape machine up to number ten on the dial. Then he lit a cigarette and pressed the Play button.
There were a few seconds of scratchy blank tape, followed by the sound of a phone ringing. The fourth ring was interrupted by a metallic click and the sound of R. J. Decker’s voice: “I’m not home now. Please leave a message at the tone.”
The first caller was a woman: “Rage, it’s me. James is on another trip and I’m in the mood for pasta. How about Rita’s at nine?”
In his notebook Garcίa wrote: Ex-wife.
The second caller was also a woman: “R.J., it’s Barbara. I’m sorry about canceling the other night. How about a drink later to make up for it?”
Garcίa wrote: Some girl.
The third caller was a man: “Mr. Decker, you probably don’t know me but I know of you. I need a private investigator, and you come highly recommended. Call me as soon as possible—I guarantee it’ll be worth your time. The number is 555-3400. The name is Dennis Gault.”
In his notebook Al Garcίa wrote: Bad guy.
For several days Decker and Skink stayed inside the hotel room, waiting for things to cool off. Decker had done what he could over the phone, and was eager to get on the road. For his part, Skink had shrunk into a silent and lethargic melancholy, and exhibited no desire to do anything or go anywhere.
Finally, the afternoon Catherine arrived, Skink briefly came to life. He went outside and stood on the beach and started shooting at jetliners on final approach to the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood airport.
Catherine had shown up with a recent stock prospectus from the Outdoor Christian Network, which was listed on the New York exchange as Outdoor ChristNet. Decker was no whiz when it came to stocks, so he had telephoned a reporter friend on the business desk of the Miami Sun. The reporter had done a search on OCN in the newsroom computer and come up with some interesting clips, which Catherine had picked up before she left Miami. From the file it was obvious that OCN’s rapid growth in the Sun Belt cable market had flooded the company with fluid capital, capital which the Reverend Charles Weeb and his advisers were plowing pell-mell into Florida real estate. The prospectus made several tantalizing references to an “exciting new waterfront development targeted for middle-income family home buyers” but neglected to mention the protracted and somewhat shady process by which Lunker Lakes had escaped all zoning regulations known to man. The word “kickback,” for example, appeared nowhere in the stock brochure. The newspaper articles dwelt on this aspect of the controversial project, and indeed it was the only angle that seemed to interest Skink in the slightest. He asked where exactly Lunker Lakes would be located, then took the prospectus and newspaper clippings from Decker’s hands and read them closely.
Then he pulled the flowered shower cap down tight on his hair, excused himself with a mumble, walked outside, and waited on the beach. The first incoming jet was an Eastern 727 from La Guardia; the second was a United DC-10 from Chicago via St. Louis; the third was a Bahamas Air shuttle carrying day gamblers back from Freeport. None of the airliners went down or even smoked, though Skink was sure he ding
ed the bellies a couple of times. The noise of the gunfire was virtually smothered by the roar of the jets and the heavy-metal wail of Bon Jovi from some teenybopper’s boom box. In all Skink got off eleven rounds from the nine-millimeter Browning before he spied the lifeguard’s Jeep speeding toward him down the beach. The Jeep was at least three-quarters of a mile away, giving Skink plenty of time to jog back to the hotel, duck into a john in the lobby, and work on his appearance.
When he got back to the room, the shower cap and sunglasses were in his pocket, the orange rainsuit was folded under one arm, and his long braid of hair was tucked down the back of his shirt. R. J. Decker asked what happened and Skink told him.
“Excellent,” Decker said. “Let’s see, by my estimate that means we’re now wanted by the Metro-Dade police, the highway patrol, the marine patrol, and now the FAA and FBI. Am I leaving anybody out?”
Skink settled listlessly on the floor.
Catherine said, “R.J., you’ve got to get him out of the city.”
Decker said, “My father, rest his soul, would be so proud to know that he raised a fugitive. Not every FBI man can make that claim.”
“I’m sorry,” Skink sighed.
It was the most pathetic thing Decker had ever heard him say—and in one way the scariest. Skink acted like he was on the brink of losing it. Decker leaned over and said, “Captain, why were you shooting at airplanes?”
“Look who they’re bringing,” Skink said. “They’re bringing the suckers to Lunker Lakes. The Reverend Weeb’s lucky lemmings.” He seemed out of breath. He motioned for Catherine to hand him the OCN prospectus. With a brown crusty finger he went down the names of directors.
“These guys,” he said hoarsely. “I know a few.”