ch.doublewhammy-第48章

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while　Jim　Tile　stuffed　the　dead　branches　between　the　slats。　Together　they　lowered　the　crates　into　the　water。　With　a　fishing　line；　Al　Garcia　measured　the　depth　at　thirteen　feet。　He　marked　the　secret　spot　by　placing　two　empty　Budweiser　cans　on　the　bank。
　This　was　to　be　Queenie's　home　away　from　home。
　〃Oldest　trick　in　the　book；〃　Skink　had　told　the　detective　two　nights　before。　〃These　big　hawgs　love　obstructions。　Lay　back　invisible　in　the　bush；　sucking　down　dumb　minnows。　Find　the　brushpile；　you　find　the　fish。　Make　the　brushpile；　you　win　the　damn　tournament。〃
　That　was　the　plan。
　Jim　Tile　and　Al　Garcia　felt　pretty　good　about　pulling　it　off；　there　wasn't　another　boat　in　sight。
　There　was；　however；　a　private　helicopter。
　The　Tile　Brothers　hadn't　bothered　to　look　up；　since　it　flew　over　only　once。
　But　once　was　all　that　Dennis　Gault's　pilot　needed　to　mark　his　map。　Then　he　flew　back　to　the　heliport　to　radio　his　boss。
　
　That　evening；　after　the　practice　day；　the　mood　at　the　boat　ramp　ranged　from　doubtful　to　downhearted。　No　one　had　caught　a　single　bass；　though　none　of　the　fishermen　would　admit　it。　It　was　more　than　a　matter　of　pride…it　was　the　mandatory　furtiveness　of　petition。　With　two　hundred　and　fifty　thousand　dollars　at　stake；　lifelong　friendships　and　fraternal　confidences　counted　for　spit。　No　intelligence　was　shared；　no　strategies　pared；　no　secrets　swapped。　As　a　result；　nobody　prehended　the　full　scope　of　the　fishless　disaster　that　was　named　Lunker　Lakes。　While　scouting　the　shoreline；　a　few　anglers　had　e　across　dead　yearling　bass；　and　privately　mulled　the　usual　theories…nitrogen　runoff；　phosphate　dumping；　algae　blooms；　pesticides。　Still；　it　wasn't　the　few　dead　fish　as　much　as　the　absence　of　live　ones　that　disturbed　the　contestants；　as　the　day　wore　on；　optimism　evaporated。　These　were　the　best　fishermen　in　the　country；　and　they　knew　bad　water　when　they　saw　it。　All　morning　the　men　tried　to　mark　fish　on　their　Humminbird　sonars；　but　all　that　showed　was　a　deep　gray　void。　The　banks　were　uniformly　steep；　the　bottom　uniformly　flat；　and　the　lakes　uniformly　lifeless。　Even　Dennis　Gault　was　worried；　though　he　had　an　ace　up　his　L。　L。　Bean　sleeve。
　At　dusk　the　anglers　returned　to　the　boat　ramp　to　find　banners　streaming；　canned　country　music　blaring；　and　an　elaborate　rectangular　stage　rising…a　pink　pulpit　at　one　end；　the　bass　scoreboard　at　the　other。　The　whole　stage　was　bathed　by　hot　kliegs　while　the　OCN　cameramen　conducted　their　lighting　checks。　Over　the　pulpit　hung　a　red…lettered　banner　that　said：　〃JESUS　IN　YOUR　LIVING　ROOM…LIVE　AT　FIVE！〃　And　over　the　scoreboard　hung　a　blue…lettered　banner　that　said：　〃Lunker　Lakes　Presents　the　Dickie　Lockhart　Memorial　Bass　Blasters　Classic。〃　Every　possible　camera　angle　was　cluttered　with　the　signs　and　logos　of　the　various　sponsors　who　had　put　up　the　big　prize　money。
　Once　all　the　bass　boats　had　returned　to　the　dock；　the　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　ambled　centerstage　with　a　cordless　microphone。
　〃Greeting；　sportsmen！〃
　The　tired　anglers　grumbled　halfheartedly。
　〃Understand　it　was　tough　fishing　out　there　today；　but　don't　you　worry！〃　shouted　Charlie　Weeb。　〃The　Lord　tells　me　tomorrow's　gonna　be　one　hell　of　a　day！〃
　The　PA　system　amplified　the　preacher's　enthusiasm；　and　the　fishermen　smiled　and　applauded；　though　not　energetically。
　〃Yes；　sir；〃　Charlie　Weeb　said；　〃I　talked　to　the　Lord　this　afternoon；　and　the　Lord　said：　Tomorrow　will　be　good。　Tomorrow　the　hawgs　will　be　hungry！'〃
　Duke　Puffin　shouted；　〃Did　he　say　to　use　buzzbaits　or　rubber　worms？〃
　The　bass　fishermen　roared；　and　Reverend　Weeb　grinned　appreciatively。　Anything　to　loosen　the　jerks　up。
　〃As　you　know；〃　he　said；　〃tonight　is　barbecue　night　at　Lunker　Lakes。　Ribs；　chicken；　Okeechobee　catfish；　and　all　the　beer　you　can　drink！〃
　The　free…food　announcement　drew　the　first　sincere　applause　of　the　evening。
　〃So；〃　Reverend　Weeb　continued；　〃I　got　two　air…conditioned　buses　ready　to　take　y'all　to　the　clubhouse。　Have　a　good　time　tonight；　get　plenty　of　rest；　and　tomorrow　you　put　some　big　numbers　on　that　bass　board；　because　the　whole　country'll　be　watching！〃
　Eagerly　the　anglers　filed　onto　the　buses。　Jim　Tile　and　Al　Garcia　made　a　point　of　sitting　in　the　very　front。　No　one　spoke　a　word　to　them。
　As　soon　as　the　buses　pulled　away；　Weeb　tossed　the　microphone　to　an　OCN　technician；　grabbed　the　young　hydrologist　backstage；　and　said：　〃It's　here；　I　hope。〃
　〃Yes；　sir；　just　give　the　word。〃
　To　the　grips　Weeb　yelled：　〃Turn　those　kliegs　around！　Light　the　ramp…hurry　up；　asshole；　while　we're　still　young！〃
　Out　of　the　settling　darkness　a　gleaming　steel　tanker　truck　appeared。　Although　it　looked　like　an　ordinary　oil…pany　truck；　it　was　not。　The　driver　backed　cautiously　down　the　slick　boat　ramp；　and　three　feet　from　water's　edge　he　braked　the　tanker　with　a　gaseous　hiss。
　〃Nice　park　job；〃　the　hydrologist　said。
　The　driver　hopped　out　waving　a　clipboard。　〃Two　thousand　fresh　basserinos；〃　he　said。　〃Who　signs　for　these？〃
　
　After　the　barbecue　Jim　Tile　and　Al　Garcia　drove　the　loaner　car　back　to　the　lodge；　where　they　got　the　bad　news。
　The　raid　had　failed。
　The　Broward　SWAT　team　had　swept　with　lethal　certainty　into　Room　1412　of　the　Coral　Springs　Holiday　Inn　and　brusquely　arrested　one　Mr。　Juan　Gomez；　suspected　kidnapper。　Unfortunately　he　turned　out　to　be　a　genuine　Juan　Gomez；　puter　software　salesman。　Furthermore；　the　young　lady　he　had　been　diddling　in　his　motel　room　turned　out　not　to　be　the　missing　Catherine　Stuckameyer；　but　rather　the　nineteen…year…old　daughter　of　the　founder　of　Floppy　World；　one　of　Juan　Gomez's　biggest　retail　clients。
　By　the　time　the　confusion　was　sorted　out　and　the　SWAT　team　returned　to　the　Holiday　Inn；　the　other　Juan　Gomez；　the　one　whose　real　name　was　Thomas　Curl；　had　fled　his　room　for　parts　unknown。　Evidence　technicians　spent　hours　analyzing　the　Gaines　Burger　particles。
　Al　Garcia　had　arranged　the　raid　without　telling　R。　J。　Decker；　who　had　fiercely　rejected　the　idea　of　a　police　rescue　attempt。　He　had　insisted　on　handling　Thomas　Curl　himself　because　Catherine's　life　was　at　stake；　so　Jim　Tile　and　Al　Garcia　had　backed　off　and　pretended　to　go　along　with　it。　As　soon　as　Decker　left　Harney；　Garcia　got　on　the　phone　to　his　lieutenant　in　Miami；　who　got　on　the　phone　to　the　Broward　sheriff's　office。　There　was　a　delay　of　several　hours　in　the　police　bureaucracy；　mainly　because　no　Catherine　Stuckameyer　had　officially　been　reported　missing　and　the　authorities　suspected　it　was　just　another　lonely　rich　wife　skipping　out。　By　the　time　the　SWAT　team　moved；　and　found　the　right　motel　room；　it　was　too　late。
　〃They　fucked　it　up；〃　Garcia　said；　slamming　down　the　phone。　〃Can　you　believe　it；　now　they're　pissed　off　at　me！　Some　pinhead　gringo　captain's　saying　I　made　'em　look　bad；　says　there's　still　no　evidence　of　a　kidnap。　Fucking　GI　Joes　with　their　greasepaint　and　their　M…16s　hit　the　wrong　damn　room；　it's　not　my　fault。〃
　〃Meanwhile；〃　Jim　Tile　said；　〃we've　lost　Curl；　Decker's　ex；　and　even　Decker　himself。〃
　〃So　the　hotshot　gets　his　way　after　all。　It's　his　ball　game　now。〃
　Garcia　threw　down　his　bass　cap　and　cursed。　〃What　the　hell　else　can　we　do？〃
　〃Go　fishing；〃　the　trooper　said。　'That's　all。〃
　
　It　was　half…past　midnight　when　someone　knocked　on　the　door　of　Dennis　Gault's　room。　He　couldn't　imagine　who　it　might　be。　He　had　elected　not　to　stay　at　the　Lunker　Lakes　Lodge　with　the　others　because　all　the　parties　would　be　raucous　and　distracting；　and　because　the　other　anglers　would　ignore　him　as　always。　Besides；　there　was　sawdust　all　over　the　carpets；　and　the　walls　reeked　of　fresh　paint；　obviously　the　place　had　been　slapped　together　in　about　two　weeks；　just　for　the　tournament。
　So　Gault　had　taken　a　suite　at　the　Everglades　Hilton；　where　he　always　stayed　in　Fort　Lauderdale。　Only　Lanie；　his　secretaries；　and　a　few　lady　friends　knew　where　to　find　him。　Which　was　why　he　was　puzzled　by　the　midnight　visitor。
　He　listened　at　the　door。　From　the　other　side　came　the　sound　of　a　man's　labored　breathing　and　a　faint　buzzing　noise。　〃Who　is　it？〃
　〃Me；　Mr。　Gault。〃
　He　recognized　the　voice。　Angrily　Gault　opened　the　door；　but　what　he　saw　stole　his　breath　away。　〃Mother　of　Jesus！〃
　〃Hey；　chief；〃　said　Thomas　Curl；　〃nice　pajamas。〃　He　swayed　in　and　crashed　down　into　an　armchair。
　〃Uh；　Tom…〃
　〃'What's　the　matter；　chief？〃
　Gault　stared　numbly。　What　could　he　say？　Curl　looked　like　death　on　a　bad　day。　His　eyes　were　swollen　slits；　his　face　streaked　with　purple。　Sweat　glistened　on　his　gray　forehead　and　a　chowder…white　ooze　flecked　the　corners　of　his　lips。
　〃What　happened　to　you；　Tom？〃
　〃Mrs。　Decker's　safe　in　the　trunk；　don't　worry。〃　Curl　wiped　his　mouth　on　the　sleeve　of　his　jacket。　〃Say；　chief；　those　the　shiniest　damn　pajamas　I　ever　saw。〃
　Dennis　Gault's　gaze　fixed　on　Curl's　right　arm。　〃What　。。。　what　the　fuck　is　that？〃　he　stammered。
　〃Lucas　is　his　name；〃　Curl　said。　〃He　good　boy。〃
　〃Oh；　Christ。〃　Now　Gault　realized　where　the　buzzing　sound　had　e　from。　From　the　flies　swarming　around　the　dog　head。
　〃I's　raised　around　puppies；〃　Curl　said；　〃mostly　mutts。〃
　Gault　said；　〃It's　not　good　for　you　to　be　here。〃
　〃But　I　got　a　few　hours　to　kill。〃
　〃Before　you　meet　Decker？〃
　〃Yep。〃　Curl　spotted　a　decanter　of　brandy　on　a　sideboard。　Mechanically　Gault　handed　it　to　him。　Curl　drew　three　hard　swallows　from　the　bottle。　His　eyes　glowed　after　he　put　it　down。　〃I'll　need　a　bass　boat；〃　he　said；　smacking　his　lips。
　Gault　scribbled　a　phone　number　on　a　napkin。　〃Here；　this　guy's　got　a　Starcraft。〃
　〃Anything'll　do。〃
　〃You　all　right？〃　Gault　asked。
　〃I'll　be　fine。　Clear　this　shit　up　once　and　for　all。〃　Curl　noticed　Gault's　fishing　gear　laid　out　meticulously　on　the　carpet。　〃Nice　tackle；　chief。　Looks　straight　out　of　the　catalog。〃
　〃Tom；　you'd　better　go。　I've　got　to　be　up　early　tomorrow。〃
　〃I　ain't　been　sleepin　much；　myself。　Lucas；　he　always　wants　to　play。〃
　Dennis　Gault　could　scarcely　breathe；　the　stink　was　so　vile。　〃Call　me　day　after　tomorrow。　I'll　have　a　little　something　for　you。〃
　〃Real　good。〃
　〃One　more　thing；　Tom；　it's　very　important：　everything's　set　for　tonight；　right？　With　Decker；　I　mean。〃
　〃Don't　you　worry。〃
　Gault　said；　〃You　can　handle　it　alone？〃
　〃It's　my　rightful　obligation。〃
　At　the　door；　Thomas　Curl　drunkenly　thrust　out　his　right　hand。　〃Put　her　there；　chief。〃　Gault　shook　the　rotted　thing　without　daring　to　look。
　〃Well；　tight　lines！〃　said　Curl；　with　a　sloppy　but　spirited　sailor's　salute。
　〃Thank　you；　Tom；〃　said　Dennis　Gault。　He　closed　the　door；　dumped　the　brandy；　then　bolted　into　a　scalding　shower。
　
　The　phone　calls　started　as　soon　as　they　turned　in。
　When　Al　Garcia　answered；　the　voice　on　the　other　end　said：　〃Why　don't　you　go　back　to　Miami；　spic…face？〃
　When　Jim　Tile　answered；　the　message　was：　〃Don't　show　your　lips　on　the　lake；　nigger。〃
　After　the　fourth　call；　Garcia　turned　on　the　light　and　sat　up　in　bed。　〃It's　bad　enough　they　give　us　the　worst　damn　room　in　the　place；　and　now　this。〃
　〃Nice　view　of　the　dumpster；　though；〃　Jim　Tile　said。　When　he　swung　his　bare　brown　legs　out　from　under　the　covers；　Garcia　noticed　the　bandage　over　Culver　Rundell's　bullet　hole。
　〃It's　nothing；　just　a　through…and…through；〃　the　trooper　said。
　〃One　of　these　bass　nuts？〃
　Jim　Tile　nodded。
　〃Well；　shit；〃　Garcia　said；　〃maybe　we　oughta　take　the　phone　calls　more　seriously。〃
　〃