ch.doublewhammy-第6章

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　boy。　You　and　Skink　going　out　for　bass？〃
　〃Not　this　morning。〃　Skink　had　left　the　proposition　in　the　air。　Decker　planned　to　meet　him　later。
　Ott　Pickney　said；　〃Why　don't　you　ride　along　with　me？〃
　〃To　a　funeral？〃
　〃The　whole　town's　closing　down　for　it；〃　Ott　said。　〃Besides；　I　thought　you　might　want　to　see　some　big…time　bassers　up　close。　Bobby　had　loads　of　friends。〃
　〃Give　me　a　second　to　shower。〃
　
　Decker　hated　funerals。　Working　for　the　newspaper；　he'd　had　to　cover　too　many　grim　graveside　services；　from　a　cop　shot　by　some　coked…up　creep　to　a　toddler　raped　and　murdered　by　her　babysitter。　Child　murders　got　plenty　of　play　in　the　papers；　and　a　shot　of　the　grieving　parents　was　guaranteed　to　run　four　columns；　minimum。　A　funeral　like　that　was　the　most　dreaded　assignment　in　journalism。　Decker　didn't　know　quite　what　to　expect　in　Harney。　For　him　it　was　strictly　business；　a　casual　surveillance。　Maybe　even　Dickie　Lockhart　would　show　up；　Decker　thought　as　he　toweled　off。　He　was　eager　to　get　a　glimpse　of　the　town　celebrity。
　They　rode　to　the　graveyard　in　Ott　Pickney's　truck。　Almost　everyone　else　in　Harney　owned　a　Ford　or　a　Chevy；　but　Ott　drove　a　new　Toyota　flatbed。　〃Orchids；〃　he　explained；　a　bit　defensively；　〃don't　take　up　much　space。〃
　〃It's　a　fine　truck；〃　Decker　offered。
　Ott　lit　a　Camel　so　Decker　rolled　down　the　window。　It　was　a　breezy　morning　and　the　air　was　cold；　blowing　dead　from　the　north。
　〃Can　I　ask　something？〃　Ott　said。　〃It's　personal。〃
　〃Fire　away。〃
　〃I　heard　you　got　divorced。〃
　〃Right；〃　Decker　said。
　〃That's　a　shame；　RJ。　She　seemed　like　a　terrific　kid。〃
　〃The　problem　was　money；〃　Decker　said。　〃He　had　some；　I　didn't。〃　His　wife　had　run　off　with　a　timeshare…salesman…turned…chiropractor。　Life　didn't　get　any　meaner。
　〃Jesus；　I'm　sorry。〃　The　divorce　wasn't　really　what　Ott　wanted　to　talk　about。　〃I　heard　something　else；〃　he　said。
　〃Probably　true；〃　Decker　said。　〃I　did　ten　months　at　Apalachee；　if　that's　what　you　heard。〃
　Pickney　was　sucking　so　hard　on　the　cigarette　that　the　ash　was　three　inches　long。　Decker　was　afraid　it　would　drop　into　Ott's　lap　and　set　his　pants　on　fire；　which　is　what　had　happened　one　day　in　the　newsroom　of　the　Miami　Sun。　None　of　the　fire　extinguishers　had　been　working；　so　Ott　had　been　forced　to　straddle　a　drinking　fountain　to　douse　the　flames。
　〃Do　you　mind　talking　about　it？〃　Ott　said。　〃I　understand　if　you'd　rather　not。〃
　Decker　said；　〃It　was　after　one　of　the　Dolphin　games。　I　was　parked　about　four　blocks　from　the　stadium。　ing　back　to　the　car；　I　spotted　some　jerkoff　breaking　into　the　trunk；　trying　to　rip　off　the　cameras。　I　told　him　to　stop；　he　ran。　He　was　carrying　two　Nikons　and　a　brand…new　Leka。　No　way　was　I　going　to　let　him　get　away。〃
　〃You　caught　up　with　him？〃
　〃Yeah；　he　fell　and　I　caught　up　to　him。　I　guess　I　got　carried　away。〃
　Pickney　shook　his　head　and　spit　the　dead　Camel　butt　out　the　window。　〃Ten　months！　I　can't　believe　they'd　give　you　that　much　time　for　slugging　a　burglar。〃
　〃Not　just　any　burglar…a　football　star　at　Palmetto　High；〃　Decker　said。　〃Three　of　his　sisters　testified　that　they'd　witnessed　the　whole　thing。　Said　Big　Brother　never　stole　the　cameras。　Said　he　was　minding　his　own　business；　juking　on　the　corner　when　I　drove　up　and　asked　where　I　could　score　some　weed。　Said　Big　Brother　told　me　to　get　lost；　and　I　jumped　out　of　my　car　and　pounded　him　into　dog　meat。　All　of　which　was　a　goddamn　lie。〃
　〃So　then？〃
　〃So　the　state　attorney's　office　dropped　the　burglary　charge　on　Mr。　Football　Hero；　and　nailed　me　for　agg　assault。　He　gets　a　scholarship　to　USC；　I　get　felony　arts…and…crafts。　That's　the　whole　yarn。〃
　Pickney　sighed。　〃And　you　lost　your　job。〃
　〃The　newspaper　had　no　choice；　Ott。〃　Not　with　the　boy's　father　raising　so　much　hell。　The　boy's　father　was　Levon　Bennett；　big　wheel　on　the　Orange　Bowl　mittee；　board　chairman　of　about　a　hundred　banks。　Decker　had　always　thought　the　newspaper　might　have　rehired　him　after　Apalachee　if　only　Levon　Bennett　wasn't　in　the　same　Sunday　golf　foursome　as　the　executive　publisher。
　〃You　always　had　a　terrible　temper。〃
　〃Luck；　too。　Of　all　the　thieves　worth　stomping　in　Miami；　I've　got　to　pick　a　future　Heisman　Trophy　winner。〃　Decker　laughed　sourly。
　〃So　now　you're　a　。。。　〃
　〃Private　investigator；〃　Decker　said。　Obviously　Ott　was　having　a　little　trouble　getting　to　the　point。
　The　point　being　what　in　the　hell　Decker　was　doing　as　a　P。I。　〃I　burned　out　on　newspapers；〃　he　said　to　Ott。
　〃With　your　portfolio　you　could　have　done　anything；　R。J。　Magazines；　free…lance；　the　New　York　agencies。　You　could　write　your　own　ticket。〃
　〃Not　with　a　rap　sheet；〃　Decker　said。
　It　was　a　fortable　lie。　A　lawyer　friend　had　arranged　for　Decker's　criminal　record　to　be　legally　expunged；　wiped　off　the　puter；　so　the　rap　sheet　wasn't　really　the　problem。
　The　truth　was；　Decker　had　to　get　away　from　the　news　business。　He　needed　a　divorce　from　photography　because　he　had　started　to　see　life　and　death　as　a　sequence　of　frames；　Decker's　mind　had　started　to　work　like　his　goddamn　cameras；　and　it　scared　him。　The　night　he　made　up　his　mind　was　the　night　the　city　desk　had　sent　him　out　on　what　everybody　figured　was　a　routine　drug　homicide。　Something　stinky　dripping　from　the　trunk　of　a　new　Seville　parked　on　the　sky　level　of　the　Number　Five　Garage　at　Miami　International。　Decker　got　there　just　as　the　cops　were　drilling　the　locks。　Checked　the　motor　drive　on　the　Leica。　Got　down　on　one　knee。　Felt　the　cold　dampness　seep　through　his　trousers。　Raining　like　a　bitch。　Trunk　pops　open。　A　young　woman；　used　to　be；　anyway。　Heels；　nylons；　pretty　silk　dress；　except　for　the　brown　stains。　Stench　bad　enough　to　choke　a　maggot。　He'd　been　expecting　the　usual　Juan　Doe…Latin　male；　mid…twenties；　dripping　gold；　no　ID；　multiple　gunshot　wounds。　Not　a　girl　with　a　coat　hanger　wrapped　around　her　neck。　Not　Leslie。　Decker　refocused。　Leslie。　Jesus　Christ；　he　knew　this　girl；　worked　with　her　at　the　paper。　Decker　fed　the　Leica　more　film。　She　was　a　fashion　writer…who　the　fuck'd　want　to　murder　a　fashion　writer？　Her　husband；　said　a　homicide　guy。　Decker　bracketed　the　shots；　changed　angles　to　get　some　of　the　hair；　but　no　face。　Paper　won't　print　faces　of　the　dead；　that's　policy。　He　fired　away；　thinking：　I　know　this　girl；　so　why　can't　I　stop？　Leica　whispering　in　the　rain；　click…click…click。　Oh　God；　she's　a　friend　of　mind　so　why　the　fuck　can't　I　stop。　Husband　told　her　they　were　flying　to　Disney　World；　big　romantic　weekend；　said　the　homicide　man。　Decker　reloaded；　couldn't　help　himself。　Strangled　her　right　here；　stuffed　her　in　the　trunk；　grabbed　his　suitcase；　and　hopped　a　plane　for　Key　West　with　a　barmaid　from　North　Miami　Beach。　She'd　only　been　married　what；　three　months？　Four；　said　the　homicide　guy；　wele　to　the　Magic　Kingdom。　Haven't　you　got　enough　pictures　for　Chrissakes？　Sure；　Decker　said；　but　he　couldn't　look　at　Leslie's　body　unless　it　was　through　the　lens；　so　he　ran　back　to　his　car　and　threw　up　his　guts　in　a　puddle。
　Three　days　later；　Levon　Bennett's　son　tried　to　steal　R。　J。　Decker's　cameras　outside　the　stadium；　and　Decker　chased　him　down　and　beat　him　unconscious。　Those　are　my　eyes；　he'd　said　as　he　slugged　the　punk。　Without　them　I'm　fucking　blind；　don't　you　understand？
　
　At　Apalachee　he'd　met　a　very　nice　doctor　doing　four　years　for　Medicare　fraud；　who　gave　him　the　name　of　an　insurance　pany　that　needed　an　investigator。　Sometimes　the　investigator　had　to　take　his　own　pictures…〃sometimes〃　was　about　all　Decker　figured　he　could　handle。　Besides；　he　was　broke　and　never　wanted　to　see　the　inside　of　a　newsroom　again。　So　he　tried　one　free…lance　job　for　the　insurance　pany…took　a　picture　of　a　forty…two…foot　Bertram　that　was　supposed　to　be　sunk　off　Cat　Island　but　wasn't…and　got　paid　two　thousand　dollars。　Decker　found　the　task　to　be　totally　painless　and　profitable。　Once　his　rap　sheet　was　purged；　he　applied　for　his　P。I。　license　and　purchased　two　cameras；　a　Nikon　and　a　Canon；　both　used。　The　work　was　small　potatoes；　no　Pulitzers　but　no　pain。　Most　important；　he　had　discovered　with　more　and　more　cases　that　he　still　loved　the　cameras　but　could　see　just　fine　without　them…no　blood　and　gore　in　the　darkroom；　just　mug　shots　and　auto　tags　and　grainy　telescopic　stills　of　married　guys　sneaking　out　of　motels。
　None　of　this　he　told　Ott　Pickney。　Being　a　private　detective　isn't　so　bad；　is　what　he　said；　and　the　pay's　good。　〃It's　just　temporary；〃　Decker　lied；　〃until　I　figure　out　what　I　want　to　do。〃
　Ott　managed　a　sympathetic　smile。　He　was　trying　to　be　a　pal。　〃You　were　a　fine　photographer；　R。J。〃
　〃Still　am；〃　Decker　said　with　a　wink。　〃I　waltzed　out　of　that　newspaper　with　a　trunkload　of　free　Ektachrome。〃
　
　The　funeral　was　like　nothing　R。　J。　Decker　had　ever　seen；　and　he'd　been　to　some　beauties。　Jonestown。　Beirut。　Benghazi。
　But　this　was　one　for　the　books。　The　L。　L。　Bean　catalog；　to　be　exact。
　They　were　burying　Bobby　Clinch　in　his　bass　boat。
　Actually；　part　of　the　boat。　The　blue　metal…flake　hull　had　been　sawed　up　and　hewn　into　a　coffin。　It　wasn't　a　bad　job；　either；　especially　on　short　notice。
　Clarisse　Clinch　thought　it　a　ghastly　idea　until　the　Harney　County　Bass　Blasters　Club　had　offered　to　pay　the　bill。　The　funeral　director　was　a　dedicated　fisherman；　which　made　it　easier　to　overlook　certain　state　burial　regulations　concerning　casket　material。
　R。　J。　Decker　resisted　the　urge　to　grab　an　F…l　and　shoot　some　pictures。　The　last　thing　he　needed　in　the　viewfinder　was　a　shrieking　widow。
　The　thirty…acre　cemetery　was　known　locally　as　Our　Lady　of　Tropicana；　since　it　had　been　carved　out　of　a　moribund　citrus　grove。　The　mourners　stood　in　the　sunshine　on　a　gentle　green　slope。　The　preacher　had　finished　the　prayer　and　was　preparing　to　lay　Bobby　Clinch's　soul　to　rest。
　〃I　know　some　of　you　were　out　on　Lake　Jesup　this　morning　and　missed　the　church　service；〃　the　preacher　said。　〃Clarisse　has　been　kind　enough　to　let　us　open　the　casket　one　more　time　so　you　boys…Bobby's　fishing　buddies…can　pay　your　eternal　respects。〃
　Decker　leaned　over　to　Ott　Pickney。　〃Which　one　is　Lockhart？〃
　〃Don't　see　him；〃　Ott　said。
　A　line　of　men；　many　dressed　in　khaki　jumpsuits　or　bright　flotation　vests；　a　few　still　sloshing　in　their　waders；　filed　by　the　sparkly　blue　casket。　The　undertaker　had　done　a　miraculous　job；　all　things　considered。　The　bloatedness　of　the　body's　features　had　been　minimized　by　heavy　pink　makeup　and　artful　eye　shadows。　Although　the　man　in　the　casket　did　not　much　resemble　the　Bobby　Clinch　that　his　pals　had　known；　it　could　easily　have　been　an　older　and　chubbier　brother。　While　some　of　the　fishermen　reached　in　and　tugged　affectionately　at　the　bill　of　Bobby's　cap　（which　concealed　what　the　ducks　had　done　to　his　hair）；　others　placed　sentimental　tokens　in　the　coffin　with　their　dead　panion；　fishing　lures；　mostly：　Rapalas；　Bombers；　Jitterbugs；　Snagless　Sallies；　Gollywompers；　Hula　Poppers；　River　Runts。　Some　of　the　lures　were　cracked　or　faded；　the　hooks　bent　and　rusted；　but　each　represented　a　special　memory　of　a　day　on　the　water　with　Bobby　Clinch。　Clarisse　made　an　effort　to　appear　moved　by　this　fraternal　ceremony；　but　her　thoughts　were　drifting。　She　already　had　a　line　on　a　buyer　for　her　husband's　Blazer。
　Ott　Pickney　and　R。　J。　Decker　were　among　the　last　to　walk　by　the　casket。　By　now　the　inside　looked　like　a　display　rack　at　a　tackle　shop。　A　fishing　rod　lay　like　a　sword　at　the　dead