ch.doublewhammy-第26章

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t　that　spelled　death　on　the　Q　meter。　The　budget　was　too　lean　for　speech　lessons　or　overdubbing；　so　Pinkler　was　out；　Charlie　Weeb　needed　a　genuine　redneck。
　Which　left　Dickie　Lockhart。
　Weeb　thought　the　first　episode　of　Fish　Fever　was　the　worst　piece　of　television　he　had　ever　seen。　Dickie　was　incoherent；　the　camera　work　palsied；　and　the　tape　editors　obviously　stoned。　Still　Dickie　had　hauled　in　three　huge　largemouth　bass；　and　the　advertisers　had　loved　every　dirt…cheap　minute。　Baffled；　Weeb　stuck　with　the　show。　In　three　years；　Fish　Fever　became　a　top　earner　for　the　Outdoor　Christian　Network；　though　in　recent　months　it　had　lost　ground　in　several　important　markets　to　Ed　Spurling's　rival　bass　show。　Spurling's　program　was　briskly　edited　and　slickly　packaged；　which　appealed　to　Charlie　Weeb；　as　did　anything　that　made　wads　of　money　and　was　not　an　outright　embarrassment。　Sensing　that　Dickie　Lockhart's　days　as　the　Baron　of　Bass　might　be　numbered；　the　Reverend　Weeb　had　quietly　approached　Fast　Eddie　Spurling　to　see　if　he　could　be　bought。　The　two　men　were　still　haggling　over　salaries　by　the　time　the　Cajun　Invitational　fishing　tournament　came　along；　when　Dickie　found　the　preacher　with　two　nearly　naked　women。
　Lockhart's　demand　for　a　lucrative　new　contract　was　an　extortion　that　Reverend　Weeb　could　not　afford　to　ignore；　petition　had　grown　cutthroat　among　TV　evangelicals…the　slightest　moral　stain　and　you'd　be　off　the　air。
　As　he　had　vowed；　Dickie　Lockhart　won　the　New　Orleans　tournament　easily。　Charlie　Weeb　didn't　bother　to　show　up　at　the　victory　party。　He　scheduled　a　press　conference　for　the　next　morning　to　announce　Dickie　Lockhart's　new　cable　deal；　and　phoned　the　TV　writer　of　the　Times…Picayune　to　let　him　know。　Then　he　called　a　couple　of　hookers。
　At　five…thirty　in　the　morning；　a　city　policeman　knocked　on　the　double　door　to　Charlie　Weeb's　hotel　suite。　The　cop　recognized　one　of　the　hookers　but　didn't　mention　it。　〃I've　got　bad　news；　Reverend；〃　the　policeman　said。　〃Dickie　Lockhart's　been　murdered。〃
　〃Jesus　help　us；〃　Charlie　Weeb　said。
　The　cop　nodded。　〃Somebody　beat　him　over　the　head　real　good。　Stole　his　truck；　his　boat；　all　his　fishing　gear。　The　cash　he　won　in　the　tournament；　too。〃
　〃This　is　terrible；〃　said　Reverend　Weeb。　〃A　robbery。〃
　〃We'll　know　more　tomorrow；　when　the　lab　techs　are　done；〃　the　cop　said　on　his　way　out。　〃Try　to　get　some　rest。〃
　〃Thank　you；〃　said　Charlie　Weeb。
　He　was　wide…awake　now。　He　paid　off　the　hookers　and　sat　down　to　write　his　Sunday　sermon。
　
　R。　J。　Decker　was　not　exactly　flabbergasted　to　wake　up　in　the　motel　room　and　find　that　Skink　had　not　returned。　Decker　had　every　reason　to　suspect　that　it　was　he　who　had　murdered　Dickie　Lockhart…first　of　all；　because　Skink　had　talked　so　nonchalantly　about　doing　it；　second；　the　perverse　details　of　the　crime　seemed　to　carry　his　stamp。
　Decker　showered　in　a　daze　and　shaved　brutally；　as　if　pain　would　drive　the　fog　from　his　brain。　The　case　had　turned　not　only　more　murderous　but　also　more　insane。　The　newspapers　would　go　nuts　with　this　stuff；　it　was　probably　even　a　national　story。　It　was　a　story　from　which　Decker　fervently　wished　to　escape。
　After　checking　out　of　the　motel；　he　packed　his　gear　into　the　rental　car　and　drove　toward　Pass　Manchac。　It　was　nine　in　the　morning…surely　somebody　had　discovered　the　gruesome　scene　by　now。
　As　he　drove　across　the　water　Decker's　heart　pounded；　he　could　see　blue　lights　flashing　near　the　boat　ramp。　He　pulled　in　at　the　Sportsman's　Hideout；　got　out　of　the　car；　and　wedged　into　the　crowd　that　encircled　the　huge　bass　aquarium。　There　were　five　police　cruisers；　two　ambulances；　and　a　fire　truck；　all　for　one　dead　body。　It　had　been　three　whole　hours　since　Dickie's　remains　had　been　fished　from　the　tank；　strapped　to　a　stretcher；　and　covered　with　a　green　woolen　blanket；　no　one　seemed　in　a　hurry　to　make　the　trip　to　the　morgue。
　The　crowd　was　mostly　men；　some　of　whom　Decker　recognized　even　without　their　caps　as　contestants　from　the　bass　tournament。　Two　local　detectives　with　pads　and　pencils　were　working　the　spectators；　hoping　to　luck　into　a　witness。　A　pretty　young　woman　leaned　against　one　of　the　squad　cars。　She　was　sobbing　as　she　talked　to　a　uniformed　cop；　who　was　filling　out　a　pink　report。　Decker　heard　the　girl　say　her　name　was　Ellen。　Ellen　O'Leary。　She　had　a　New　Orleans　accent。
　Decker　wondered　what　she　knew；　what　she　might　have　seen。
　In　the　back　of　his　mind　Decker　harbored　a　fear　that　Skink　might　show　up　at　the　dock　to　admire　his　own　handiwork；　but　there　was　no　sign　of　him。　Decker　slipped　into　a　phone　booth　and　called　Dennis　Gault　at　home　in　Miami。　He　sounded　half…asleep。
　〃What　do　you　want？〃
　What　do　you　want？　All　charm；　this　guy。
　〃Your　pal　Dickie's　landed　his　last　lunker；〃　Decker　said。
　〃What　do　you　mean？〃
　〃He's　dead。〃
　〃Shit；〃　Gault　said。　〃What　happened？〃
　〃I'll　tell　you　about　it　later。〃
　〃Don't　leave　New　Orleans；〃　Gault　said。　〃Stay　put。〃
　〃No　way。〃　Just　what　I　need　is　that　asshole　jetting　up　for　brunch　at　Brennan's；　Decker　thought。　He's　probably　icing　a　Dom　Perignon　already。
　In　an　oddly　stiff　tone　Gault　asked；　〃Do　you　have　those　pictures？〃　As　if　it　made　a　difference　now。
　Decker　didn't　answer。　Through　the　pane　in　the　phone　booth　he　was　watching　Thomas　Curl　and　the　Rundell　brothers　in　the　parking　lot　of　the　marina。　One　of　the　local　detectives　was　interviewing　the　three　men　together；　when　Ozzie　talked；　his　head　bobbed　up　and　down　like　a　dashboard　puppy。　The　cop　was　scribbling　energetically　in　his　notebook。
　〃What　number　you　at？〃　Dennis　Gault　asked　over　the　phone。
　〃Seventy；〃　Decker　replied。　〃As　in　miles　per　hour。〃
　
　The　tire　blew　on　Interstate　10；　outside　of　Kenner。　The　spare　was　one　of　those　tiny　toy　tires　now　standard　equipment　on　new　cars。　To　get　to　the　spare　Decker　had　to　empty　the　trunk　of　his　duffel　and　camera　gear；　which　he　stacked　neatly　by　the　side　of　the　highway。　He　had　gotten　the　rental　halfway　jacked　when　he　heard　another　car　pull　up　behind　him　in　the　emergency　lane；　by　the　emphysemic　sounds　of　the　engine；　Decker　knew　it　wasn't　a　cop。
　Not　even　close。　It　was　a　brown　1974　Cordoba；　its　vinyl　roof　puckered　like　a　sun　blister。　Two…for…four　on　the　hubcaps。　Three　men　got　out　of　the　rusty　old　tank；　judging　by　their　undershirts　and　tattoos；　Decker　assumed　they　were　not　from　the　Triple…A。　He　pried　the　crowbar　out　of　the　jack　handle　and　held　it　behind　him。
　〃Gentlemen；〃　he　said。
　〃Whatsamatter　here？〃　said　the　largest　of　the　trio。
　〃Flat　tire；〃　Decker　said。　〃I'm　fine。〃
　〃Yeah？〃
　〃Yeah。　Thanks　anyway。〃
　The　men　didn't　exactly　take　the　hint。　Two　of　them　ambled　over　to　where　Decker　had　laid　the　camera　bag；　tripod；　and　galvanized　lens　cases。　One　of　the　jerks　poked　at　the　cameras　with　the　toe　of　his　boot。
　〃Whatsis？〃　he　said。
　〃Beer　money；〃　said　the　other。
　Decker　couldn't　believe　it。　Broad　daylight；　cars　and　trucks　and　Winnebagos　cruising　by　on　the　interstate…and　these　pussbuckets　were　going　to　roll　him　anyway。　Damned　Nikons；　he　thought；　sometimes　they　seemed　to　be　the　root　of　all　his　troubles。
　〃I'm　a　professional　photographer；〃　Decker　said。　〃Want　me　to　take　your　picture？〃
　The　two　thinnest　men　looked　expectantly　toward　the　bigger　one。　Decker　knew　the　idea　appealed　to　them；　although　their　leader　needed　a　little　convincing。　〃A　nice　eight…by…ten；〃　Decker　said　affably；　〃just　for　fun。〃　He　knew　what　the　big　guy　was　thinking：　Well；　why　not…we're　going　to　steal　the　damn　things　anyway。
　〃Stand　in　front　of　the　car　and　I'll　get　a　shot　of　all　three　of　you　together。　Go　ahead；　now。〃
　Decker　walked　over　to　the　camera　bag　and　inconspicuously　set　the　crowbar　inside。　He　picked　up　a　bare　F…3　camera　body；　didn't　even　bother　to　screw　on　a　lens。　These　morons　wouldn't　know　the　difference。　Shrugging；　murmuring；　slicking　their　hair　with　brown　bony　hands；　the　highwaymen　struck　a　pricelessly　idiotic　pose　in　front　of　the　dented　Cordoba。　As　he　pressed　the　shutter；　Decker　almost　wished　there　were　film　in　the　camera。
　〃That's　just　great；　guys；〃　he　said。　〃Now　let's　try　one　from　the　side。〃
　The　big　man　scowled。
　〃Just　a　joke；〃　Decker　said。　The　two　thin　guys　didn't　get　it　anyway。
　〃Enough　a　this　shit；〃　the　leader　of　the　trio　said。　〃We　want　your　goddamn　car。〃
　〃What　for？〃
　〃To　go　to　Florida。〃
　Of　course；　Decker　thought；　Florida。　He　should　have　known。　Every　pillhead　fugitive　felon　in　America　winds　up　in　Florida　eventually。　The　Human　Sludge　Factor…it　all　drips　to　the　South。
　〃One　more　picture；〃　Decker　suggested。　He　had　to　hurry；　he　didn't　want　to　get　mugged；　but　he　didn't　want　to　miss　his　plane；　either。
　〃No！〃　the　big　man　said。
　〃One　more　picture　and　you　can　have　the　car；　the　cameras；　everything。〃
　Decker　kept　one　eye　on　the　interstate；　thinking：　Don't　they　have　a　highway　patrol　in　Louisiana？
　〃You　guys　got　some　cigarettes？　That　would　be　a　good　shot；　have　a　cigarette　hanging　from　your　mouth。〃
　One　of　the　thin　guys　lighted　a　Camel　and　wedged　it　into　his　lips　at　a　very　cool　angle。　〃Oh　yeah；〃　Decker　said。　〃That's　what　I　mean。　Let　me　get　the　wide…angle　lens。〃
　He　went　back　to　the　camera　bag　and　fished　out　a　regular　fifty…millimeter；　which　he　attached　to　the　Nikon。　He　picked　up　the　crowbar　and　slipped　it　down　the　front　of　his　jeans。　The　black　iron　felt　cold　against　his　left　leg。
　When　he　turned　around；　Decker　saw　that　all　three　men　now　sported　cigarettes。　'The　girls　down　in　Florida　are　gonna　love　this　picture；〃　he　said。
　One　of　the　thin　guys　grinned。　〃Good　pussy　in　Florida；　right？〃
　〃The　best；〃　Decker　said。　He　moved　up　close；　clicking　away。　The　men　stunk　like　stale　beer　and　tobacco。　Through　the　lens　Decker　saw　rawboned　ageless　faces；　they　could　have　been　twenty　years　old；　or　forty…five。　Classic　cons。　They　seemed　mesmerized　by　the　camera；　or　at　least　by　Decker's　hyperactive　choreography。　The　leader　of　the　trio　plainly　was　getting　antsy；　he　couldn't　wait　to　kick　Decker's　ass；　maybe　even　kill　him；　and　get　moving。
　〃Almost　done；〃　Decker　said　finally。　〃Move　a　little　closer　together　。。。　that's　good　。。。　now　look　to　my　right　and　blow　some　smoke　。。。　great！　。。。　keep　looking　out　at　the　water　。。。　that…is…per…fect！〃
　Staring　obediently　at　Lake　Pontchartrain；　the　three　men　never　saw　Decker　pull　out　the　crowbar。　With　both　hands　he　swung　as　hard　as　he　could；　a　batter's　arc。　The　iron　blade　pinged　off　the　top　of　their　skulls　one　by　one；　as　if　Decker　were　playing　a　human　xylophone。　The　robbers　fell　in　a　wailing　cross…eyed　heap。
　Decker　had　expected　less　noise　and　more　blood。　As　the　adrenaline　ebbed；　he　looked　down　and　wondered　if　he　had　hit　them　more　than　once。　He　didn't　think　so。
　Now　it　was　definitely　time　to　go；　the　flat　tire　was　Hertz's　problem。　Decker　quickly　loaded　his　stuff　into　the　Cordoba。　The　key　was　in　the　ignition。　A　blue　oily　pistol　lay　on　the　front　seat。　He　tossed　it　out　the　window　on　his　way　to　the　airport。
　
　The　first　person　R。　J。　Decker　called　when　he　got　back　to　Miami　was　Lou　Zicutto。　Lou　was　branch　claims　manager　of　the　mammoth　insurance　pany　where　Decker　worked　part…time　as　an　investigator。　Lou　was　a　spindly　little　twit；　maybe　a　hundred　twenty　pounds；　but　he　had　a　huge　florid　head；　which　he　shaved　every　day。　As　a　result　he　looked　very　much　like　a　Tootsie　Pop　with　lips。　Despite　his　appearance；　Lou　Zicutto　was　treated　respectfully　by　all　employees　and　coworkers；　who　steadfastly　believed