ch.doublewhammy-第25章

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　〃He'll　be　all　right。　He　gets　these　moods。〃
　Decker　told　Tile　about　Skink's　histrionics　on　the　airplane。　〃He　has　arraignment　tomorrow；〃　Decker　said。　〃In　the　federal　building　on　Poydras。　If　he　calls；　Jim；　please　remind　him。〃
　Tile　said；　〃Don't　hold　your　breath。〃
　
　Lanie　had　ordered　another　dozen　on　the　half…shell　while　Decker　was　on　the　phone。
　〃I'm　stuffed；〃　he　said；　but　ate　one　anyway。
　〃Dennis　says　you're　getting　close　to　Lockhart。〃
　She'd　been　trying　all　night　to　find　out　what　happened　with　the　tournament。　Decker　hadn't　said　much。
　Lanie　said；　〃I　heard　on　the　radio　that　Dickie　won。〃
　〃That's　right。〃　Radio？　What　kind　of　radio　station　covers　a　fish　tournament？　Decker　wondered。
　〃Did　he　cheat　again？〃　Lanie　asked。
　〃I　don't　know。　Probably。〃　Decker　paused。　〃I'll　send　your　brother　a　full　report。〃
　〃He'll　be　pissed。〃
　Tough　shit；　Decker　wanted　to　say。　But　instead：　〃We're　not　giving　up。〃
　〃You　and　Bigfoot？〃
　〃He's　got　a　particular　talent。〃
　〃Not　with　women；〃　Lanie　said。
　
　Decker　dropped　her　off　at　the　Bienville　House。　His　feelings　were　not　the　least　bit　wounded　when　she　didn't　invite　him　to　stay　the　night。
　He　took　his　time　driving　back　to　Hammond。　It　was　past　two　in　the　morning；　but　I…10　was　loaded　with　big　trucks　and　semis；　city…bound。　Their　headlights　made　Decker's　eyes　water。
　At　the　junction　near　Laplace　he　decided　to　take　Route　51　instead　of　the　new　interstate。　The　bumpy　unlit　two…lane　was　Skink's　kind　of　highway。　Decker　flicked　on　his　brights　and　drove　slowly；　hoping　against　all　reason　to　spot　the　big　orange　rainsuit　skulking　roadside。　By　the　time　Decker　reached　Pass　Manchac　all　he'd　seen　was　a　gray　fox；　two　baby　raccoons；　and　a　fresh…dead　water　moccasin。
　Decker　pumped　the　brakes　as　he　drove　by　the　Sportsman's　Hide…out。　Someone　had　left　the　spotlights　on　at　the　dock。　It　made　no　sense；　the　tournament　was　over；　the　bassers　long　gone。　Decker　negotiated　a　sleepy　U…turn　and　went　back。
　When　he　got　out　of　the　car；　he　noticed　that　the　lake　air　was　not　nearly　as　chilly　as　the　night　before。　Too　late　for　the　fishermen；　the　wind　had　finally　shifted　from　north　to　south；　it　was　a　balmy　Gulf　breeze　that　made　the　spotlights　tremble　on　the　poles。
　One　of　the　beams　aimed　at　the　tournament　scoreboard；　another　more　or　less　at　the　giant　aquarium。
　Decker　wondered　if　anyone　had　remembered　to　free　the　bass。　He　strolled　down　to　the　docks　to　see。
　The　aquarium　pump　labored；　grinding　noisy　bubbles。　The　water　had　turned　a　silty　shade　of　brown。　With　the　back　of　his　hand　Decker　wiped　a　window　in　the　condensation　and　peered　into　the　glass　tank。　Right　away　he　spotted　three　dead　fish；　gaping　and　jelly…eyed；　rolling　slow…motion　with　the　current　along　the　bottom。　Decker　felt　like　a　tourist　at　some　Charles　Addams　rendition　of　Marineland。
　The　shadow　of　something　larger　drifted　over　the　dead　bass。　Decker　glanced　toward　the　top　of　the　ten…foot　tank；　but　looked　away　when　the　spotlight　caught　him　flush　in　the　eyes。
　To　escape　the　glare　he　climbed　the　wooden　stairs　to　the　weigh…　master's　platform；　which　overlooked　both　the　scoreboard　and　the　release　tank。　From　this　vantage　Decker　spotted　more　dead　bass　floating　on　the　surface；　and　something　else；　whorling　slowly　in　the　backwash　of　the　pump。　The　form　was　big…shouldered　and　brown…at　first　Decker　thought　it　might　be　a　sea　cow；　somebody's　sick　idea　of　a　joke。
　When　the　thing　drifted　by；　he　got　a　better　look。
　It　was　a　man；　floating　facedown；　a　chunky　man　dressed　in　a　brown　jumpsuit。
　Decker　watched　the　corpse　go　around　the　tank　again。　This　time；　when　it　floated　by；　he　grabbed　the　stiff　cold　shoulders　and　flipped　it　over　with　a　splash。
　Dickie　Lockhart's　eyes　stared　wide　but　were　long　past　seeing。　He　wore　a　plum…sized　bruise　on　his　right　temple。　If　the　blow　hadn't　killed　him　outright；　it　had　definitely　rendered　him　unfit　for　a　midnight　swim。
　The　killer's　final　touch　was　diabolical；　and　not　without　wit：　a　fishing　lure；　the　redoubtable　Double　Whammy；　had　been　hooked　through　Dickie　Lockhart's　lower　lip。　It　hung　off　Dickie's　face　like　a　queer　Christmas　ornament。　Unfortunately；　being　just　as　dead　as　Dickie；　none　of　the　bass　in　the　aquarium　could　appreciate　the　piquancy　of　the　killer's　gesture。
　R。　J。　Decker　lowered　the　corpse　back　into　the　water　and　walked　quickly　to　the　car。　The　scene　screamed　for　a　photograph；　but　it　screamed　something　else　too。　Decker　heard　it　all　the　way　back　to　the　motel　and　even　afterward；　deep　into　fitful　dreams。
　
　According　to　his　official　church　biography；　Charles　Weeb　had　turned　to　God　after　an　anguished　boyhood　of　poverty；　abuse；　and　neglect。　His　father　had　died　a　drunk　and　his　mother　had　died　a　dope　fiend；　though　not　before　selling　Charlie's　two　sisters　to　a　Chinese　slavery　ring　in　exchange　for　sixty…five　dollars　and　three　grams　of　uncut　opium。
　The　imagined　fate　of　the　missing　Weeb　sisters　was　a　recurring　theme　in　Charlie's　TV　sermons　on　the　Outdoor　Christian　Network；　nothing　sucked　in　money　faster　than　a　lingering　close…up　of　those　snapshots　of　the　two　little　girls；　June…Lee　and　Melissa；　under　the　plaintive　caption：　〃WHAT　HAS　SATAN　DONE　WITH　THESE　ANGELS？〃
　The　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　knew；　of　course。　The　angels　in　question　were　both　alive　and　well；　and　presumably　still　working　for　Mr。　Hugh　Hefner　in　the　same　capacity　that　had　first　attracted　Reverend　Weeb's　attention。　He　had　personally　clipped　their　childhood　photographs　from　the　pages　of　Playboy　magazine…that　hokey　section　featuring　family　pictures　of　the　centerfold　as　a　little　girl。　Charlie　Weeb　had　long　since　forgotten　the　real　names　of　these　models；　or　even　what　month　and　year　they　had　starred　in　the　publication。　However；　he　wasn't　the　least　bit　worried　that　the　pictures　would　be　recognized　and　his　scheme　revealed；　since　no　devout　OCN　viewer　could　ever　admit　to　looking　at　such　a　magazine。　The　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　made　sure　to　regularly　warn　his　flock　that　Playboy　was　a　passport　to　hell。
　In　fact　Charlie　Weeb　had　no　sisters；　just　an　older　brother　named　Bernie；　who　had　been　busted　selling　phony　oil　leases　from　a　North　Miami　boiler　room　and　was　now　doing　seven　years　for　wire　fraud。　Weeb's　father　had　been　a　shoe　salesman　with　an　ulcer　intolerant　of　alcohol；　his　mother　was　not　a　dope　fiend　but　a　successful　real…estate　agent；　and　from　her　Charlie　Weeb　had　drawn　the　inspiration　for　his　dream　project　in　Florida；　Lunker　Lakes。
　The　Weeb　family　had　never　been　particularly　religious；　so　neighbors　were　surprised；　even　somewhat　skeptical；　to　learn　that　little　Charlie　had　grown　up　to　bee　a　fundamentalist　preacher。　The　Weebs；　after　all；　were　Jewish。　Acquaintances　were　even　more　puzzled　to　turn　on　the　television　and　see　Charlie　going　on　about　his　wretched　parents　and　kidnapped　sisters。　Bernie　the　Bum　was　the　only　one　whom　the　neighbors　remembered。
　Charles　Weeb's　path　to　religious　prominence　had　been　a　curious　and　halting　one。　After　being　expelled　from　the　Citadel　for　moral　turpitude；　he　had　spent　ten　years　chasing　fads；　hoping　to　hit　it　big。　〃Eighteen…to…twenty…five　alive！〃　was　Charlie's　slogan；　because　that　was　always　his　target　market。　His　schemes　were　always　about　two　years　too　late　and　fifty　percent　undercapitalized。　For　a　while　he　ran　a　health…food　store　in　Tallahassee；　then　a　disco　in　Gulf　Shores；　then　a　hot…tub　factory　in　Orlando。　Though　his　track　record　made　him　look　like　a　loser；　Charlie　Weeb　was　basically　a　clever　man；　no　matter　how　catastrophically　his　enterprises　failed；　Weeb's　bank　account　always　prospered。　In　the　late　1970s　the　IRS　expressed　an　avid　interest　in　Charlie　Weeb's　fortunes；　this　he　took　as　a　signal　to　find　God；　and　quickly。　Thus　was　born　the　First　Pentecostal　Church　of　Exemptive　Redemption。
　Charlie　Weeb　didn't　own　an　actual　church；　but　he　had　something　even　better：　a　TV　station。
　For　two　million　dollars　he　had　purchased　a　small　UHF　operation　whose　programming　consisted　entirely　of　game　shows；　Atlanta　Braves　baseball；　and　The　Best　of　Hee…Haw。　Nothing　changed　for　four　months；　until　one　Sunday　morning　a　man　with　straw…blond　hair　and　messianic　eyebrows　stood　behind　a　cardboard　pulpit　and　introduced　himself　as　the　Most　Holy　Reverend　Charles　Weeb。　From　now　on；　he　said；　WEEB…TV　would　be　the　voice　of　Jesus　Christ。
　Then；　live　on　the　air；　Charlie　Weeb　healed　a　crippled　cat。
　Hundreds　of　viewers　saw　it。　The　calico　kitten　limped　to　the　stage　and…after　a　tremulous　Reverend　Weeb　prayed　for　its　soul　and　passed　a　hand　over　its　furry　head…the　animal　scampered　away；　cured。
　The　following　Sunday　Charlie　Weeb　performed　the　same　miracle　on　a　gimpy　beagle。　The　Sunday　after　that；　a　shoat。　Two　weeks　later；　a　baby　llama；　on　loan　from　a　traveling　circus。
　Weeb　saved　the　master　coup　for　Christmas　Sunday；　the　start　of　a　ratings…sweep　week。　Before　his　biggest　TV　audience　ever；　he　healed　a　lamb。
　It　was　a　magnificent　performance；　full　of　biblical　symbolism。　Few　viewers　who　saw　the　nappy　dull…eyed　critter　rise　off　the　floor　were　not　deeply　moved。　No　one　in　Charlie　Weeb's　flock　seemed　to　mind　that　the　miracle　took　about　an　hour　longer　than　expected；　they　figured　that；　it　being　a　busy　Christmas；　God　was　running　a　little　late。　In　fact；　the　reason　for　the　delay　in　the　much…promoted　lamb　healing　was　that　Charlie　Weeb's　assistant　had　injected　way　too　much　lidocaine　into　the　animal's　hind　legs　before　the　show；　so　it　took　an　extra　long　time　for　the　effect　of　the　drug　to　wear　off。
　The　Reverend　Weeb　nearly　preached　himself　hoarse　over　that　lamb；　and　after　the　Christmas　miracle　he　swore　off　healings　forever。　By　then　it　didn't　matter；　his　reputation　had　been　made。　Soon　stations　all　over　the　South　were　airing　Weeb's　show；　Jesus　in　Your　Living　Room；　and　weekly　mail　donations　were　topping　in　the　six　figures。　In　TV　evangelism　Charlie　Weeb　finally　had　hooked　into　a　popular　trend　before　it　tapped　out。
　This　time　he　decided　to　take　a　chance。　This　time　he　funneled　the　profits　into　expansion　instead　of　Bahamian　bank　accounts。　With　Weeb's　preacher　hour　as　its　blockbuster　leadoff；　the　Outdoor　Christian　Network　was　inaugurated　with　sixty…four　stations　as　prepaid　subscribers。　The　OCN　format　was　simple：　religion；　hunting；　fishing；　farm…stock　reports；　and　country…music…awards　shows。　Even　as　Charlie　Weeb　branched　the　OCN　empire　into　real　estate；　investment　banking；　and　other　endeavors；　he　could　scarcely　believe　the　rousing　success　of　his　TV　formula；　it　confirmed　everything　he　had　always　said　about　the　state　of　the　human　race。
　Initially　Weeb　had　refused　to　believe　that　grown　men　would　sit　for　hours　watching　fishing　programs　on　cable　TV。　In　person　the　act　of　fishing　was　boring　enough；　watching　someone　else　do　it　seemed　like　a　form　of　self…torture。　Yet　Weeb's　market　researchers　convinced　him　otherwise…Real　Men　tuned　in　to　TV　fishing；　and　the　demographics　were　rock…solid　for　beer；　tobacco；　and　automotive　advertising；　not　to　mention　the　marine　industry。
　Weeb　scanned　the　projections　and　immediately　ordered　up　a　one…hour　bass…fishing　program。　He　personally　auditioned　three　well…known　anglers。　The　first；　Ben　Geer；　was　rejected　because　of　his　weight　（three　hundred　and　ninety　pounds）　and　his　uncontrollable　habit　of　coughing　gobs　of　sputum　into　the　microphone。　The　second　angler；　Art　Pinkler；　was　witty；　knowledgeable；　and　ruggedly　handsome；　but　burdened　with　a　squeaky　New　England　accent　that　spelled　death