When the cage finally broke the surface, he dropped the stick and grabbed the mesh with his fingers. Then he pulled it to shore.
Eddie shone his flashlight in the cage and said, “My God!” He couldn’t believe the size of it—a coppery-black bass of grotesque proportions, so huge it could’ve been a deep-sea grouper. It looked thirty pounds. The hawg glared at Eddie and thrashed furiously in its wire prison. Eddie could only stare, awestruck. He thought: This is impossible.
On the other side of the pond something made a noise, and Eddie Spurting went cold. He recognized the naked click of a rifle hammer.
A deep voice said: “Put her back.”
Eddie swallowed dryly. He was almost too terrified to move.
The gun went off and the Clorox bottle exploded at his feet. After the echo faded, the voice said: “Now.”
Rubber-kneed, Eddie lowered the fish cage back into the pool, letting the wet rope pay through his fingers.
Across the pond, the rifleman rose from the cattails. By the size of the silhouette Eddie Spurting saw that the man was quite large. His appearance was made more ominous by military fatigues and some sort of black mask. The man sloshed through the marsh and hiked up the side of the dike. Eddie thought about running but there was no place to go; he thought about swimming but there was a problem with snakes and alligators. So he just stood there, trying not to soil himself.
Soon the rifleman loomed directly above him, on the dike.
“Kill the flashlight,” the man said.
He was close enough for Eddie to make out his features. He had long dark hair and a ratty beard and a flowered plastic cap on his head. The mask turned out to be sunglasses. The rifle was a Remington.
“I’m Fast Eddie Spurling.”
“Who asked?”
“From television?”
“I watch no television,” said the rifleman.
Eddie tried a different approach. “Is it money you want? The Jeep? Go ahead and take it.”
Without blinking, the rifleman turned and blasted the tinted windshield out of Eddie Spurling’s Wagoneer. “I got my own truck, thanks,” he said. Then he shot out the fog lights, too.
Eddie was sweating ice water.
The man said, “That’s some fish, huh?”
Eddie nodded energetically. “Biggest I ever saw.”
“Name’s Queenie.”
“Real nice,” Eddie said desperately. He was quite certain the hairy rifleman was going to kill him.
“You’re probably curious what happened to yours.”
“They weren’t really mine,” Eddie said.
The man laughed thinly. “You just came all the way out here to say hello.”
Eddie said, “No, sir, I came to let ’em go.”
“How about I just shoot off your pecker and get it over with?”
“Please,” Eddie cried. “I mean it, I was about to set them fish free. Check the truck if you don’t believe it. If I was gonna take ’em, I’d have brung a livewell, right? I’d have brung the damn boat, wouldn’t I?”
The rifleman seemed to be thinking it over.
Eddie went on: “And why would I be here three hours before the tournament and risk having ’em croak on me?”
The man said, “You’re not one of the cheaters?”
“No, and I don’t aim to start. I couldn’t go through with it, so screw Charlie Weeb.”
The rifleman lowered his gun. “I let those ringer bass go.”
Eddie Spurling said, “Well, I’m glad you did.”
“Three hawgsters. One must’ve gone at least eleven-eight.”
“Well,” said Eddie, “maybe I’ll catch him someday, when he’s bigger.”
The man said: “What about Queenie? What would you have done about her?”
Without hesitating Eddie said, “I’da let her go, too.”
“I bet.”
“What would be the point of killing her, mister? Suppose I took that monster home and stuffed her. Every time I’d walk in the den she’d be staring down from the wall, the awful truth in those damn purple eyes. I couldn’t live with it, mister. That’s why I say, you didn’t need the gun. I’da let her go anyway.”
The rifleman stood there, showing nothing. The sunglasses scared the hell out of Eddie.
“I’ve got a boy, mister, age nine,” Eddie said. “You think I could lie to my boy about a fish like that? Say I caught it when I didn’t?”
“Some men could.”
“Not me.”
The rifleman said: “I believe you, Mr. Spurling. Now, get the fuck out of here, please.”
Eddie obediently scrambled up the bank of the dike. He hopped in the Jeep without even brushing the broken glass off the seat.
“Can you turn this thing around okay?”
“Yeah,” Eddie said, “I got four-wheel drive.” In the dark he groped nervously for the keys.
“The seam of the universe,” the rifleman mused. “This dike is like the moral seam of the universe.”
“It’s narrow, that’s for sure,” Eddie said.
“Evil on the one side, good on the other.” The man illustrated by pointing with the Remington.
Eddie stuck his head out the window and said very politely: “Can I ask what you plan to do with that big beautiful bass?”
“I plan to let her go,” the man said, “in about five minutes.” He didn’t say where, on which side of the seam.
Eddie knew he shouldn’t press his luck, knew he should just get the hell away from this lunatic, but he couldn’t help it. The fisherman in him just had to ask: “What’s she weigh, anyhow?”
“Twenty-nine even.”
“Holy moly.” Fast Eddie Spurling gasped
“Now get lost,” said the rifleman, “and good luck in the tournament.”
After Eddie had gone, Skink hauled the big fish out of the pool. He propped the cage yoke-style across his shoulders and carried it across the dike to Lunker Lakes. He put it back in the water while he searched the banks until he found the two beer cans marking the spot where Jim Tile and Al García had sunk the brushpile.
Skink hoisted the cage once more and moved it to the secret spot. This time he removed the big bass, pointed her toward the submerged obstruction, and gently let her go. The fish kicked once, roiled, and was gone. “See you tonight,” Skink said. “Then we go home.”
Rifle in hand, he stood on the dike for two hours and watched the night start to fade. On the Everglades side, a heron croaked and redwings bickered in the bulrushes; the other side of the dike lay mute and lifeless. Skink waited for something to show in Lunker Lake Number Seven—a turtle, a garfish, anything. He waited a long time.
Then, deep in worry, he trudged down the dike to where he’d left his truck. To the east, at the dirty rim of the city, the sun was coming up.
At that moment R. J. Decker parked his car behind a row of construction trailers at Lunker Lakes. Dawn was the best time to move, because by then most rent-a-cops were either asleep or shooting the shit around the timeclock, waiting to punch out. Decker spotted only one uniformed guard, a rotund and florid fellow who emerged from one of the trailers just long enough to take a leak, then shut the door.
Decker checked the camera again. It was a Minolta Maxxum, a sturdy thirty-five-millimeter he’d picked up at a West Palm Beach discount house that took credit cards. He was thinking that a Kodak or a Sure-Shot might have worked just as well, but he’d been in such a hurry. He opened the back of the frame and inspected the loading mechanism; he did the same with the motor-drive unit.
Satisfied, Decker capped the lens, closed up the camera, and locked it in the glove compartment of Al García’s car. Then he got the bolt-cutters out of the trunk and snuck up to the supply shed, where he went to work on the padlock.
The blast-off for the Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic was set for six-thirty, but the anglers arrived very early to put their boats in the water and test their gear and collect free goodies from tackle reps
up and down the dock. The fishermen knew that whoever won this tournament might never have to wet a line again, not just because of the tremendous purse but because of the product endorsements to follow. The bass lure that took first prize in the Lockhart undoubtedly would be the hottest item in freshwater bait shops for a year. There was no logic to this fad, since bass will eat just about anything (including their own young), but the tackle companies did everything in their power to encourage manic buying. Before the opening gun they loaded down the contestants with free plugs, jigs, spinners, and of course rubber worms, displayed in giant plastic vats like so much hellish purple pasta.
The morning was cool and clear; there was talk it might hit eighty by midafternoon. Matronly volunteers from The First Pentecostal Church of Exemptive Redemption handed out Bible tracts and served hot biscuits and coffee, though many contestants were too tense to eat or pray.
At six sharp a burgundy Rolls-Royce Corniche pulled up to the ramp at Lunker Lake Number One. Dennis and Lanie Gault got out. Lanie was dressed in a red timber jacket, skintight Gore-Tex dungarees, and black riding boots. She basked in the stares from the other contestants and dug heartily into a bag of hot croissants.
With an air of supreme confidence, Dennis Gault uncranked his sparkling seventeen-foot Ranger bass boat off the trailer into the water. One by one, he meticulously stowed his fishing rods, then his toolbox, then his immense tacklebox. Hunkering into the cockpit of the boat, he checked the gauges—water temperature, trim tilt, tabs, tachometer, fuel, batteries, oil pressure. He punched a button on his sonic fish-finder and the screen blinked a bright green digital good-morning. The big Johnson outboard turned over on the first try, purring like a tiger cub. While the engine warmed up, Dennis Gault stood at the wheel and casually smoothed the creases of his sky-blue jumpsuit. He squirted Windex on the lenses of his amber Polaroids and wiped them with a dark blue bandanna. Next he slipped on his monogrammed weather vest, and tucked a five-ounce squirt bottle of Happy Gland into the pocket. In accordance with prevailing bass fashion, he spun his cap so that the bill was at his back; that way the wind wouldn’t tear it off his head at fifty miles an hour.
Dennis Gault had expected to hear the usual cracks about the Rolls and what a pompous ass he was, but for once the other bass anglers left him alone. In fact, Gault was so absorbed in his own pretournament ritual that he almost missed the highlight of the morning.
It started as a pinprick on the eastern horizon, but it came faster than the sunrise; a strange pulsing light. The bass fishermen clustered on the dock to watch. They figured one of the big bait companies was pulling a stunt for a new commercial. Some stunt it was, too.
Soon the sky over Lunker Lakes throbbed in piercing aquamarine. On a forty-foot screen mounted behind the stage, the face of Reverend Charles Weeb appeared for the morning benediction; it was a taped message (for Charlie Weeb seldom rose before ten), but none of the contestants was in the mood to hear what the Old Testament said about fishing. They were riveted on what was slowly rolling toward them down the road.
It was a convoy of police cars.
Highway-patrol cruisers, to be exact; sixteen of them, their flashing blue lights slicing up the darkness. Dead last in the procession was a garbage truck with a rowboat hooked to the bumper.
Dennis Gault did not like the looks of things. He wondered if the cops had come to arrest somebody, possibly even him. He shot a worried glance at Lanie, who shrugged and shook her head.
The first eight troopers peeled off to one side of the boat ramp and parked bumper-to-bumper; the last eight parked in similar formation on the other side, forming a broad V-shaped alley for Al García and Jim Tile in the garbage truck.
Each of the state troopers got out and stood by his car. They wore seriously neutral expressions, and showed no reaction to the OCN Minicams filming their arrival. To a man, the troopers were young, ramrod-straight, clean-cut, muscular, and heavily armed. They were some of Jim Tile’s best friends on the force, and they were white, which definitely made an impression.
The old wooden skiff was lowered into the lake without incident.
Deacon Johnson was up early. The importance of the day weighed heavily, and he had reason to be anxious. He put on his favorite desert-tan leisure suit, buffed his cream-colored shoes, and trimmed his nose hairs. At the breakfast table he chewed halfheartedly on raisin bagels, scanned the sports page to make sure they hadn’t screwed up the big display ad for the tournament, then called for the limousine.
He decided to give the VA hospital one more try.
This time, two doctors were waiting at the admissions desk.
Deacon Johnson smiled and stuck out his hand, but the doctors regarded it as if it were a rattlesnake.
“I’m sorry,” one said, “but you’ll have to leave.”
“You’ve been upsetting the patients,” said the other.
“Isn’t there one,” Deacon Johnson said, “who wants to be on TV?”
“They said you offered them money.”
“I had to,” Deacon Johnson lied. “FCC rules.”
“Money,” the doctor went on, “in exchange for lying about their illnesses.”
“Not lying—dramatizing. There’s a big difference.” Deacon Johnson folded his arms indignantly. “We run a thoroughly Christian enterprise at OCN.”
“Several of the patients became quite upset when you were here before.”
“I certainly meant no harm.”
“They’ve discussed violence,” said the other doctor, apparently a psychiatrist.
“Violence?” said Deacon Johnson.
“That’s why we can’t let you back inside.”
“But there was one, Corporal Clement. He expressed an interest in appearing with Reverend Weeb today.”
The two doctors traded glances.
“Clement,” Deacon Johnson repeated, spelling out the name. “The fellow with the trick knees.”
The psychiatrist said, “I’m afraid Corporal Clement has been moved inpatient to the sixth floor.”
“It appears he got into the pharmacy last night,” the other doctor explained.
“He won’t be available for television appearances,” the psychiatrist added. “Please go now, Mr. Johnson, before we call for Security.”
Deacon Johnson got back in the limo and sulked.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“You know this town?”
“Born and raised,” the driver said.
“Good. Find me some burns.”
Charlie Weeb would be royally ticked off; he’d specifically said no street people, it was too risky. Lofty standards were fine and dandy, but Deacon Johnson was running out of time. The healing was only hours away.
The limousine driver took him to the dissolute stretch of Fort Lauderdale beach known as the Strip, but there all the bums had bleached hair and great tans. “Too healthy-looking,” Deacon Johnson decided.
“There’s a soup kitchen down Sunrise Boulevard,” the driver said.
“Let’s give it a try.”
Deacon Johnson saw that the driver was right about the soup kitchen: wall-to-wall winos; sallow, toothless, oily-haired vagabonds, the hardest of the hard-core. Some were so haggard that no makeup artist possibly could have rendered them presentable in time for the show. Worse, most of the men were too hung-over to comprehend Deacon Johnson’s offer; the money they understood just fine, it was the part about dressing up and rehearsing that seemed to sail over their heads.
“It’s television, for Christ’s sake,” Deacon Johnson implored.
The men just grinned and scratched themselves.
In desperation, Deacon Johnson selected a skinny bum named Clu, who was in a wheelchair. The driver lifted Clu into the back seat of the limo and folded the wheelchair into the trunk.
As they rode back to Lunker Lakes, Deacon Johnson said: “Are you sure you can rise up?”
“You bet.”
“On command?”
“Yo
u bet.”
Clu wore a mischievous smile that made Deacon Johnson wonder. “So what’s wrong with your legs?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” Clu replied.
“Then why the wheelchair?”
“I got it on a trade,” Clu said. “Three cans of Stemo and a wool sock. Pretty good deal, I’d say.”
“Indeed,” Deacon Johnson said. “And how long ago was this?”
“Nineteen and eighty-one,” said Clu, still smirking.
“And you’ve been in the chair ever since?”
“Every minute,” Clu said. “No need to get up.”
Deacon Johnson leaned forward and told the limo driver to pull over.
“Get out,” he said to Clu.
“What for?”
“It’s just a test,” Deacon Johnson said. “Get out and walk around the car.”
When the driver opened the door, Clu tumbled facedown onto the pavement. The driver reached down to help him, but Deacon Johnson shook his finger.
He said, “Can you rise up, son?”
Clu tried with all his might until he was pink in the face, but his skinny legs would not work. “I don’t believe this,” he whined.
“Just as I thought,” said Deacon Johnson stiffly.
On the ground Clu continued to grunt and squirm. “Let me work on this a minute,” he pleaded.
“Give him back the damn wheelchair,” Deacon Johnson snapped at the driver, “and let’s go.”
Just when he was certain that the grand TV mega-healing would have to be called off, or at least scaled back to a sheep or a cat, Deacon Johnson spotted the blind man.
The man was alone on a bus bench outside the entrance to Lunker Lakes; beneath the big cedar billboard, in fact, directly under the second L. That he would be sitting right there at such a crucial moment seemed like a heavenly miracle, except that Deacon Johnson didn’t believe in miracles. Plain old dumb luck was more like it. He told the limo driver to stop.
The blind man did not have a guide dog or a white cane, so Deacon Johnson was hopeful that they could do business.
He walked up to him and said hello. The man didn’t move one bit, just stared straight ahead. Deacon Johnson could see nothing but his own natty reflection in the dark glasses.