“Like shiners.” Skink took another fish from the bucket and thwacked it lightly against the gunwale, killing it instantly. “Watch here,” he said to Garcίa.
Leaning over the side of the skiff, Skink slapped the palm of his hand on the water, causing a loud concussion. He repeated this action several times until suddenly he pulled his hand from the pond and said, “Whooo, baby!” He dropped the dead shiner and beneath it the black water erupted—a massive fish, as bronze and broad as a cannon, engulfed the little fish where it floated.
“Cristo!” gasped Al Garcίa.
Skink stared at the now-silken surface and grinned proudly. “Yeah, she’s a big old momma.” He tossed another shiner, with the same volcanic result.
“That’s a bass?” Garcίa asked.
“Hawg,” Skink said. “The fucking monster-beastie of all time. Guess her weight, Sergeant.”
“I’ve got no idea.” In the fickle light of the lantern Garcίa looked hard for the fish but saw nothing; the water was impenetrable, the color of crude oil.
“Name’s Queenie,” Skink said, “and she weighs twenty-nine pounds, easy.”
Skink tossed three more shiners, and the bass devoured them, soaking the men in her frenzy.
“So this is your pet,” Garcίa said.
“Hell, no,” Skink said, “she’s my partner.” He handed the bucket to Al Garcίa. “You try,” he said, “but watch your pinkies.”
Garcίa crippled a shiner and tossed it into the pond. Nothing happened, not a ripple.
“Spank the water,” Skink instructed.
Garcίa tried, timidly, making more bubbles than noise.
“Louder, dammit!” Skink said. “That’s it. Quick, now, drop a shiner.”
No sooner had the tiny fish landed—still wriggling, this one—than the monster-beastie slurped it down. The noise was obscene.
“She likes you,” Skink said. “Do it again.”
Garcίa tossed another baitfish and watched it disappear. “You learn this shit from Marlin Perkins?” he said.
Skink ignored him. “Give me the bucket,” he said. He fed the big fish the rest of the dying shiners, save one. Skink held it between his thumb and forefinger, tickling the water. He used the fish as a silvery wand, tracing figure-eights by the side of the rowboat. From its unseen lair deep in the pond, the big fish rose slowly until its black dorsal punctured the velvet surface. As the fish hung motionless, Garcίa for the first time could see its true size, and appreciate the awesome capacity of its underslung jaw. The bass glided slowly toward Skink’s teasing shiner; frenzy had been replaced by a delicate deliberation. Skink’s fingers released the baitfish, which disappeared instantly into the white maw—yet the fish did not swim away, nor did Skink withdraw his hand. Amazingly, he took the bass by its lower lip, hoisted it from the pond, and laid it carefully across his lap. There now, momma,” Skink said. Dripping in the boat, the fish flared its gills and snapped at air, but did not struggle. It was, Garcίa thought, a magnificent gaping brute—nearly thirty pounds of iridescent muscle.
“Sergeant,” Skink said, “say hi to Queenie.”
Garcίa did not wish to seem rude, but he didn’t feel like talking to a fish.
“Come on,” Skink prodded.
“Hey, Queenie,” said the detective, without conviction. He was very glad his lieutenant couldn’t see him.
Skink kept a thumb curled in the bass’s lower lip, and slipped the other hand under its bloated pale belly. He lifted the bass and propped it long-wise on his shoulder, like a barrel. Skink’s face was side-byside with that of the monster bass, and Al Garcia found himself staring at (from left to right) the eyes of a fish, a man, and a stuffed owl.
As if cuddling a puppy, Skink pressed his cheek against Queenie’s scaly gillplates. “Meet the new boss,” he whispered to the fish, “same as the old boss.”
Al Garcia didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
The Reverend Charles Weeb arrived at Lunker Lakes just in time to see the second batch of fish die. The hydrologist was crestfallen but said there was nothing to be done. Under a gray sky Weeb stood on the bank next to the young scientist and counted the fish as they bobbed to the surface of the bad water. At number seventy-five, Weeb turned and stalked back to the model town-home that was serving as tournament headquarters.
“Cancel tomorrow’s press tour,” he snapped at Deacon Johnson, who obediently lunged for his Rolodex.
To the hydrologist Weeb said: “So how long did this bunch live?”
“Eighteen hours, sir.”
“Shit. And the trip down from Alabama was . . . ?”
“About two days,” the hydrologist said.
“Shit.” Lunker Lakes had now claimed four thousand young bass, and Charlie Weeb was deeply worried. For now he was thinking in the short-term.
“I can get another two thousand,” he said to the hydrologist.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” the man said. “The water’s still substandard.”
“Substandard? What you’re really saying is these fish stand a better chance in a sewer, is that right?”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” the hydrologist said.
“Okay, pencil-neck, let’s hear the bad news.” Weeb shut the door to his private office and motioned the young man to a Chippendale chair. “You like this unit? We’ve got your atrium doors, your breakfast bay, your cathedral ceiling—did I mention solar heat? See, I’ve got to sell twenty-nine thousand of these babies and right now they’re moving real fucking slow. It’s gonna get slower if I got a dead-fish problem, you understand?” Charlie Weeb inhaled two Chiclets. “I’m selling a new Florida here, son. The last of the frontier. My buyers are simple folks who’d rather go fishing than get fried to raisins on the beach. Lunker Lakes is their kind of place, an outdoor community, see? Walk out the back door with your fishing pole and reel in a whopper. That’s the way I dreamed it, but right now . . . well.”
“We’re talking cesspool,” the hydrologist said bluntly. “I did some more tests, very sophisticated chemical scans. You’ve got toxins in this water that make the East River seem like Walden Pond. The worst concentration is in the bottom muck—we’re talking Guinness-record PCBs.”
“How?” Charlie Weeb yowled. “How can it be poisoned if it’s pre-dredged!”
The hydrologist said, “I was puzzled too, until I checked down at the courthouse. This used to be a landfill, Reverend Weeb, right where the lakes are.”
“A dump?”
“One of the biggest—and worst,” the hydrologist reported grimly. “Four hundred acres of sludge, rubbers, dioxins, you name it. EPA never did find out.”
Charlie Weeb said, “Lord God!”—an exclamation he almost never used off the air.
“In layman’s terms,” the hydrologist concluded, “when you dredged Lunker Lakes, you tapped into twenty-four years’ worth of fermented battery acid.”
Charlie Weeb coughed his gum into the trashcan. His mind was racing. He visualized the disastrous headlines and rubbed his eyes, as if to make the nightmare go away. Silently he cursed himself for succumbing to the South Florida real-estate disease when he could have played it safe and gone for tax-free muni bonds—the OCN board had left it up to him. Through his befogged paroxysm of self-pity Weeb remotely heard the hydrologist explaining how the lakes could be cleansed and made safe, but the project would take years and cost millions. . . .
First things first, thought Charlie Weeb. The poster on the wall reminded him that the big tournament was only four days away. The immediate priority was getting some new fish.
“If I could get the tanker truck here before dawn,” Charlie Weeb said, “get the bass in the water early, would they live until sunset?”
“Probably.”
“Thank God it’s a one-day tournament,” Weeb said, thinking aloud.
“Can’t say how healthy they’d be,” the hydrologist cautioned. “They may not feed at all.”
“They don’t n
eed to,” Weeb said, leaving the man thoroughly confused. “Get those fucking dead fish out of my sight, every one,” the preacher ordered, and the hydrologist fled to round up some boats.
Fast Eddie Spurling was next on Charlie Weeb’s agenda. Eddie came in wearing a Happy Gland fishing cap and a shiny silver Evinrude jacket. Tucked into his cheek was a plug of Red Man tobacco so big it would have gagged a hyena. It was all Weeb could do to conceal his disgust; Eddie Spurling was about the biggest Gomer he’d ever met.
the fish are dying,” Eddie said, his voice pained.
“You noticed.”
“Why?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Weeb said. “Sit down, please.”
“I hate to see ’em dying like that.”
Not half as much as I do, Weeb thought morosely. “Eddie,” he began, “have you given much thought to the big tournament? Have you got a plan for winning?”
Eddie Spurling shifted the tobacco to his other cheek. Chewing hard, he said, Truthfully, I figured buzzbaits would do it, but now I don’t know. There’s not much cover in this water. ’Fact, there’s not much anything in this water. I didn’t even see any garfish down there, and those suckers could live in a toilet bowl.”
Weeb frowned.
“Jelly worms,” Eddie declared through his chaw. “Rig ’em Texas-style, I think that’ll be the ticket, sir.”
Charlie Weeb sat forward and put on his eyeglasses. “Eddie, it’s very important that you win this tournament.”
“Well, I’ll damn sure try.” He flashed a mouthful of wet brown teeth. “Prize money like that—you kidding?”
“Trying is fine,” Weeb said, “very admirable. But this time we may need to do more. A little insurance.”
Weeb was not surprised that Eddie looked confused.
“You’re the new star at OCN, we got a lot riding on you,” Charlie Weeb said. “If you win, we all win. And Lunker Lakes too. This is a tremendous opportunity, Eddie.”
“Well, sure.”
“Opportunities like this don’t come along every day.” Weeb rocked back and folded his hands behind his head. “I’ve been having this dream, Eddie, and you’re in it.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s right. In my dream, the sun is shining, the lakes are clear and beautiful. Thousands of happy home-buyers are gathered around, and the TV is there too, waiting for the end of the big tournament. All the other fishermen are back at the dock except you, Eddie.”
“Ugh.”
“Then, only seconds before the deadline, I see your boat cutting across the water. You pull up with a big smile on your face, get out, wave at the cameras. Then you reach down and pull up the biggest stringer of largemouth bass anyone’s ever seen. The whole joint goes wild, Eddie. There you are, standing under the Lunker Lakes sign, holding up these giant mother fish. God, it’s a vision, don’t you agree?”
“Sure, Reverend Weeb, it’d be a dream come true.”
Charlie Weeb said, “Eddie, it will come true. I’m trucking in some big fucking bass from Alabama. They’re yours, partner.”
“Wait a minute.”
“With the water this bad, I can’t chance keeping the biggest ones in Lunker Lakes,” Weeb said. He unrolled a map across the kitchen counter. “Here we are,” he said, pointing, “and here’s the Everglades dike. All you got to do is tie the boat at the culvert, hop the levee, and pull the cages.”
“Cages—fish cages?”
“No, tiger cages, Eddie—Christ, what do you think?”
Eddie Spurling said, “I ain’t gone cheat.”
“Pardon me?”
“Lookit, I’ll scout the lakes and dump some brush piles a few days ahead. Stock ’em with bass before tournament day and mark the spots. Hell, everybody does that—how about it?”
Charlie Weeb shook his head. “The fish will croak, Eddie, that’s the problem. I got two thousand yearlings coming in the night before and I’ll be lucky if they hang on until dusk. Worse comes to worst, you might be the only guy in the tournament to bring in a live bass.”
“But I ain’t gone cheat.”
Reverend Weeb smiled patiently. “Eddie, you just bought that big place outside Tuscaloosa—what, sixty acres, something like that. And I notice your wife’s driving a new Eldorado . . . well, Eddie, I look at you and see a man who’s enjoying himself, am I right? I see a man who likes being number one, for a change. Some men get a chance like this and they blow it—think of Dickie Lockhart.”
Eddie Spurling didn’t want to think about that fool Dickie Lockhart. What happened to Dickie Lockhart was a damn fluke. Eddie ground his Red Man to a soggy pulp. “You got a place I could spit this?” he asked.
“The sink is fine,” Weeb said. Angrily Eddie Spurling drilled the wad straight into the disposal.
“So what’s it gonna be,” Charlie Weeb said. “You want to be a star, or not?”
Later that afternoon, Deacon Johnson knocked on the door to Reverend Weeb’s private office. Inside, Reverend Weeb was getting a vigorous back rub and dictating a Sunday sermon for transcription.
“Who you got lined up for the healing?” Weeb grunted, the masseuse kneading his freckled shoulder blades.
“No kids,” Deacon Johnson reported glumly. “Florida’s different from Louisiana, Charles. The state welfare office threatened to shut us down if we use any kids on the show.”
“Pagan assholes!”
Charlie Weeb had planned a grand healing for the morning of the big bass tournament. A lavish pulpit was being constructed as part of the weigh station.
“Now what?” he said.
“I’m going down to the VA tomorrow to look for some cripples,” Deacon Johnson said.
“Not real cripples?”
“No,” said the deacon. “With some of the vets, it comes and goes. They stub their toe, they get a wheelchair—it’s all in their head. I think we can find one to play along.”
“Be careful,” Reverend Weeb said. “All we need is some fruitcake Rambo flashing back to Nam on live TV.”
“Don’t worry,” Deacon Johnson said. “Charles, I thought you’d like to hear some good news.”
“Absolutely.”
Deacon Johnson said, “The tournament’s full. Today we got our fiftieth boat.”
“Thank God.” The hundred-fifty grand in entry fees would almost cover costs. “Anybody famous?” Weeb asked.
“No, couple of brothers,” Deacon Johnson said. “In fact, Eddie said he never even heard of them. Tile is the name. James and Chico.”
The preacher chuckled and rolled over on his back. “Long as the check cleared,” he said.
26
Catherine was astonished when they went through the Golden Glades interchange and the toll-booth lady hardly looked twice at Lucas.
“I can’t believe it,” Catherine said as they drove away.
Behind the wheel, Thomas Curl scowled. “What the hell would she say?”
When they had pulled up to the booth, Curl had reached out with his dog-headed arm to get the ticket. The toll-booth lady glanced benignly at the pit bull, which was decomposing rather noticeably.
“Have a nice day,” the toll-booth lady said. “I’m all out of Milkbones.”
“Thanks just the same,” said Thomas Curl, driving on.
He had named the dead dog head Lucas.
“Why not Luke?” Catherine asked.
“What a dumb name for a dog.”
Thomas Curl held the pistol tightly with his left hand; that’s why he’d had to reach for the toll ticket with his right arm, the dog arm. That’s the one he steered with. Catherine could see that it was grossly swollen with infection. The pus-lathered flesh had turned gray, with lightning streaks of crimson.
“You should see a doctor.”
“After I see Dennis,” Thomas Curl said. “And after I see your goddamn husband.” Curl was sweating like a pig.
Catherine said, “He’s not my husband anymore.”
“I still plan to
kill him, on account of Lemus.”
“See if I care,” said Catherine, staring out the window, seemingly enjoying the ride.
Thomas Curl didn’t know what to make of her. The girl should have been frightened to death.
“Wait’ll he finds out where you are.”
“Decker? What makes you think he still cares?” she bluffed.
Thomas Curl laughed coarsely. “He’s only got about a million fucking pitchers.”
“Of me?”
“Fucking A. Under the bed, in the closet, probably in his underpants drawer too. Didn’t you know that?”
Catherine didn’t know about the pictures. She wondered which ones R.J. had kept, which ones he liked best.
“My husband’s a doctor. He could take a look at that arm when he gets back tonight.” Another bluff. James would have passed out at the sight.
“No way,” Thomas said. “We’re headed for Lauderdale.” He looked down at the dog head and smiled. “Ain’t that right, Lucas boy?”
Catherine was not surprised when Lucas made no reply, but Thomas Curl frowned unhappily. “Lucas, you hear me? Goddammit, puppy, speak!”
The festering dog head clung mutely to his arm.
Thomas Curl shoved the barrel of the pistol into one of the animal’s piebald ears.
“Please don’t,” Catherine cried, raising her arms.
No longer paying even cursory attention to the highway, Thomas glared down at Lucas and bared his own teeth. “My daddy said you got to show ‘em who’s boss. Dogs is like wives, he said, you can’t let ’em have their way once else they run wild. Ain’t that right, Lucas boy?”
Again nothing.
Thomas Curl cocked the pistol. “Bad dog, Lucas!”
Catherine covered her mouth and let out a muffled little bark.
Curl grinned and leaned closer. “Hear that?”
Catherine barked again. It was better than having him fire a gun inside the car, doing seventy.
“That’s my puppy,” Curl said, oblivious. He laid the pistol in his lap and patted the crown of the dead dog’s head. “You good boy, Lucas, I knew all along.”
“Ruff!” said Catherine.