ch.doublewhammy-第8章

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　Weeb　said；　〃Your　show　needs　a　damn　good　jolt。〃
　〃I　caught　three　ten…pounders　at　Lake　Jackson！〃
　〃Spurling's　got　a　new　theme　song；〃　Weeb　went　on。　〃Banjos。　Mac　Davis　on　the　vocals。　Have　you　heard　it？〃
　Lockhart　shook　his　head。　He　wasn't　much　for　arguing　with　the　boss；　but　sometimes　pride　got　the　best　of　him。　He　asked　Charles　Weeb；　〃Did　you　see　the　latest　BBRs？〃
　Published　by　Bass　Blasters　magazine；　the　Bass　Blasters　Ratings　（BBR）　ranked　the　country's　top　anglers。　The　BBR　was　to　bass　fishing　what　the　Nielsens　were　to　the　TV　networks。
　〃Did　you　notice　who's　number　one？〃　Dickie　Lockhart　asked。　〃Again？〃
　〃Yeah。〃　Weeb　took　his　sneakers　off　the　coffee　table　and　sat　up。　〃It's　a　good　fucking　thing；　too；　because　right　now　all　we　got　going　for　us　is　your　name；　Dickie。　You're　a　winner　and　viewers　like　winners。　'Course；　I　see　where　Mr。　Spurling　won　himself　a　tournament　in　mid…Tennessee…〃
　〃The　minor　leagues；　Reverend　Weeb。　I　smoked　him　at　the　Atlanta　Classic。　He　finished　eighth；　and　no　keepers。〃
　Weeb　stood　up　and　smoothed　the　wrinkles　from　his　expensive　jogging　suit。　Then　he　sat　down　again。　〃As　I　said；　we're　very　pleased　you're　on　top。　I　just　hate　to　see　you　slipping；　that's　all。　It　happens；　if　you're　not　careful。　Happens　in　business；　happens　in　fishing　too。　One　and　the　same。〃
　Weeb　tore　open　a　fruit　basket　and　tossed　Lockhart　an　apple。　Lockhart　felt　like　telling　Weeb　how　much　his　jogging　suit　looked　like　K…Mart　pajamas。
　The　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　said；　〃This　is　the　majors；　Dickie。　If　you　don't　win；　you　get　benched。〃　He　took　off　his　glasses。　〃I　truly　hope　you　keep　winning。　In　fact；　I　strongly　remend　it。〃
　On　this　matter；　of　course；　Dickie　Lockhart　was　way　ahead　of　him。
　
　Decker　honked　twice　as　he　drove　up　to　Skink's　shack。　Short；　polite　honks。　The　last　thing　he　wanted　to　do　was　surprise　a　man　in　a　shooting　mood。
　The　shack　had　a　permanent　lean；　and　looked　as　if　a　decent　breeze　could　flatten　it。　Except　for　the　buzz　of　horseflies；　the　place　stood　silent。　Decker　stuck　his　hands　in　his　pockets　and　walked　down　to　the　lake。　Across　the　water；　several　hundred　yards　away；　a　sleek　boat　drifted　with　two　fishermen；　plugging　the　shoreline。　Every　time　one　of　them　cast　his　lure；　the　shiny　monofilament　made　a　gossamer　arc　over　the　water　before　settling　to　the　surface。　The　pointed　raspberry　hull　of　the　fishermen's　boat　glistened　under　the　noon　sun。　Decker　didn't　even　bother　to　try　a　shout。　If　Skink　were　fishing；　he'd　be　alone。　And　never　in　a　boat　like　that。
　Decker　trudged　back　to　the　shack　and　sat　on　the　porch。　Seconds　later　he　heard　a　cracking　noise　overhead；　and　Skink　dropped　out　of　an　old　pine　tree。
　He　got　up　off　the　ground　and　said；　〃I'm　beginning　not　to　despise　you。〃
　〃Nice　to　hear；〃　Decker　said。
　〃You　didn't　go　inside。〃
　〃It's　not　my　house；〃　Decker　said。
　〃Precisely；〃　Skink　grumped；　clomping　onto　the　porch。　〃Some　people　would've　gone　in　anyway。〃
　Daylight　added　no　nuances　or　definition　to　Skink's　appearance。　Today　he　wore　camouflage　fatigues；　sunglasses；　and　a　flowered　shower　cap　from　which　sprouted　the　long　braid　of　silver…gray　hair。
　He　poured　coffee　for　Decker；　but　none　for　himself。
　〃I　got　fresh　rabbit　for　lunch；〃　Skink　said。
　〃No　thanks。〃
　〃I　said　fresh。〃
　〃I　just　ate；〃　Decker　said　unconvincingly。
　〃How　was　the　funeral？〃
　Decker　shrugged。　〃Did　you　know　Robert　Clinch？〃
　〃I　know　them　all；〃　Skink　said。
　〃Lanie　Gault？〃
　〃Her　brother's　the　big　tycoon　who　hired　you。〃
　〃Right。〃　Decker　had　been　relieved　when　Ott　had　told　him　that　Dennis　Gault　was　Lanie's　brother。　A　husband　would　have　been　disconcerting　news　indeed。
　Decker　said；　〃Miss　Gault　thinks　there's　something　strange　about　the　way　Bobby　Clinch　died。〃
　Skink　was　on　his　haunches；　working　on　the　fire。　He　didn't　answer　right　away。　Once　the　tinder　was　lit；　he　said；　〃Good　rabbit　is　tough　to　e　by。　They　tend　to　get　all　the　way　smushed　and　there's　no　damn　meat　left。　The　best　ones　are　the　ones　that　just　barely　get　clipped　and　knocked　back　to　the　shoulder　of　the　road。　This　one　here；　you'd　hardly　know　it　got　hit。　Meat's　perfect。　Might　as　well　dropped　dead　of　a　bunny　heart　attack。〃　Skink　was　arranging　the　pieces　on　a　frypan。
　〃I'll　try　a　bite　or　two；〃　Decker　said；　surrendering。
　Only　then　did　Skink　smile。　It　was　one　of　the　unlikeliest　smiles　Decker　had　ever　seen；　because　Skink　had　perfect　teeth。　Straight；　flawless；　blindingly　white　ivories；　the　kind　nobody　is　born　with。　TV…anchorman…type　teeth…Skink's　were　that　good。
　Decker　wasn't　sure　if　he　should　be　forted　or　concerned。　He　was　still　thinking　about　those　teeth　when　Skink　said：　〃I　was　at　the　Coon　Bog　Saturday　morning。〃
　〃When　it　happened？〃
　〃Right　before。〃
　〃They　said　he　must've　been　doing　sixty　knots　when　the　boat　flipped。〃
　Skink　basted　the　sizzling　rabbit　with　butter。　He　looked　up　and　said；　〃When　I　saw　the　boat；　it　wasn't　moving。〃
　〃Was　Clinch　alive？〃
　〃Hell；　yes。〃
　Decker　said；　〃Then　the　accident　must　have　happened　after　you　left。〃
　Skink　snorted。
　〃Did　he　see　you？〃　Decker　asked。
　〃Nope。　I　was　kneeling　in　the　trees；　skinning　out　a　rattler。　Nobody　saw　me。〃　He　handed　Decker　a　hunk　of　fried　meat。
　Decker　blew　on　it　until　it　cooled；　then　took　a　small　bite。　It　was　really　very　good。　He　asked；　〃What　made　you　notice　Clinch？〃
　〃Because　he　wasn't　fishing。〃
　Decker　swallowed　the　meat；　and　out　came　a　quizzical　noise。
　〃He　wasn't　fishing；〃　Skink　repeated；　〃and　I　thought　that　was　damn　strange。　Get　up　at　dawn；　race　like　mad　to　a　fishing　hole；　then　just　poke　around　the　lily　pads　with　a　paddle。　I　was　watching　because　I　wanted　to　see　if　he'd　find　what　he　was　looking　for。〃
　〃Did　he？〃
　〃Don't　know。　I　left；　had　to　get　the　snake　on　ice。〃
　〃Christ；〃　Decker　said。　He　reached　into　the　frypan　and　gingerly　picked　out　another　piece　of　rabbit。　Skink　nodded　approvingly。
　Decker　asked；　〃What　do　you　make　of　it？〃
　Skink　said：　〃I'm　working　for　you；　is　that　right？〃
　〃If　you'll　do　it；　I　sure　need　the　help。〃
　〃No　shit。〃　The　pan　was　empty。　Skink　poured　the　gloppy　grease　into　an　old　milk　carton。
　〃Bass　were　slapping　over　that　morning；〃　he　said；　〃and　not　once　did　that　fucker　pick　up　a　rod　and　cast。　Do　you　find　that　strange？〃
　〃I　suppose；〃　Decker　said。
　〃God；　you　need　a　lesson　or　two；〃　Skink　muttered。　〃Guys　like　Clinch　love　to　catch　bass　more　than　they　love　to　screw。　That's　the　truth；　Miami。　You　put　'em　on　a　good　bass　lake　at　dawn　and　they　get　hard。　So　the　question　is；　why　wasn't　Bobby　Clinch　fishing　on　the　Coon　Bog　last　Saturday？〃
　Decker　had　nothing　to　offer。
　〃You　want　to　hear　something　even　stranger？〃　Skink　said。　〃There　was　another　boat　out　there　too；　and　not　far　away。　Two　guys。〃
　Decker　said；　〃And　they　weren't　fishing　either；　were　they；　captain？〃
　〃Ha…ha！〃　Skink　cawed。　〃See　there…those　rabbit　glands　went　straight　to　your　brain！〃
　Decker's　coffee　had　cooled；　but　it　didn't　matter。　He　gulped　the　rest　of　it。
　Skink　had　bee　more　animated　and　intense；　the　cords　in　his　neck　were　tight。　Decker　couldn't　tell　if　he　was　angry　or　ecstatic。　Using　a　pocket　knife　to　pick　strings　of　rabbit　meat　from　his　perfect　teeth；　Skink　said：　〃Well；　Miami；　aren't　you　going　to　ask　me　what　this　means？〃
　〃It　was　on　my　list　of　questions；　yeah。〃
　〃You'll　hear　my　theory　tonight；　on　the　lake。〃
　〃On　the　lake？〃
　〃Your　first　munion；〃　Skink　said；　and　scrambled　noisily　back　up　into　the　big　pine。
　
　Ott　Pickney　had　left　Miami　in　gentle　retreat　from　big…city　journalism。　He　knew　he　could　have　stayed　at　the　Sun　for　the　rest　of　his　life；　but　felt　he　had　more　or　less　made　his　point。　Having　written　virtually　nothing　substantial　in　at　least　a　decade；　he　had　nonetheless　departed　the　newspaper　in　a　triumphant　state　of　mind。　He　had　survived　the　conversion　to　cold　type；　the　advent　of　unions；　the　onslaught　of　the　preppy　cubs；　the　rise　of　the　hotshot　managers。　Ott　had　watched　the　stars　and　starfuckers　arrive　and；　with　a　minimum　of　ambition；　outlasted　most　of　them。　He　felt　he　was　living　proof　that　a　successful　journalist　need　not　be　innately　cunning　or　aggressive；　even　in　South　Florida。
　In　Ott's　own　mind；　Harney　was　the　same　game；　just　a　slower　track。
　Which　is　why　he　half…resented　R。　J。　Decker's　infernal　skepticism　about　the　death　of　Bobby　Clinch。　A　foolhardy　fisherman　wrecks　his　boat　and　drowns…so　what？　In　Miami　it's　one　crummy　paragraph　on　page　12…D；　no　one　would　look　twice。　Ott　Pickney　was　peeved　at　Decker's　coy　insinuation　that　something　sinister　was　brewing　right　under　Ott's　nose。　This　wasn't　Dade　County；　he　thought；　and　these　weren't　Dade　County　people。　The　idea　of　an　organized　cheating　ring　at　the　fish　tournaments　struck　Ott　as　merely　farfetched；　but　the　suggestion　of　foul　play　in　Robert　Clinch's　death　was　a　gross　insult　to　the　munity。　Ott　resolved　to　show　R。　J。　Decker　how　wrong　he　was。
　After　the　funeral；　Ott　went　back　to　the　newsroom　and　stewed　awhile。　The　Sentinel's　deadlines　being　what　they　were；　he　had　two　days　to　play　with　the　Clinch　piece。　As　he　flipped　through　his　notebook；　Ott　figured　he　had　enough　to　bang　out　fifteen　or　twenty　inches。　Barely。
　In　an　uncharacteristic　burst　of　tenacity；　he　decided　to　give　Clarisse　Clinch　another　shot。
　
　He　found　the　house　in　chaos。　A　yellow　moving　van　was　parked　out　front；　a　crew　of　burly　men　was　emptying　the　place。　Clarisse　had　set　up　a　mand　post　in　the　kitchen；　and　under　her　scathing　direction　the　movers　were　working　very　swiftly。
　〃Sorry　to　intrude；〃　Ott　said　to　her；　〃but　I　remembered　a　couple　more　questions。〃
　〃I　got　no　answers；〃　Clarisse　snapped。　〃We're　on　our　way　to　Valdosta。〃
　Ott　tried　to　picture　Clarisse　in　a　slinky；　wet…looking　dress；　sliding　long…legged　into　a　tangerine　sports　car。　He　couldn't　visualize　it。　This　woman　was　a　different　species　from　Lanie　Gault。
　〃I　just　need　a　little　more　about　Bobby's　hobby；〃　Ott　said。　〃A　few　anecdotes。〃
　〃Anecdotes！〃　Clarisse　said　sharply。　〃You　writing　a　book？〃
　〃Just　a　feature　story；〃　Ott　said。　〃Bobby's　friends　say　he　was　quite　a　fisherman。〃
　〃You　saw　the　coffin；〃　Clarisse　said。　〃And　you　saw　his　friends。〃　She　clapped　her　hands　twice　loudly。　〃Hey！　Watch　the　ottoman；　Pablo；　unless　you　want　to　buy　me　a　new　one！〃
　The　man　named　Pablo　mumbled　something　obscene。
　Clarisse　turned　back　to　Ott。　〃Do　you　fish？〃
　He　shook　his　head。
　〃Thank　God　there's　at　least　one　of　you；〃　she　said。
　Her　eyes　flickered　to　a　bookcase　in　the　living　room。　Ott　noticed　that　there　were　no　books　on　the　shelves；　only　trophies。　Each　of　the　trophies　was　crowned　with　a　cheap　gold…painted　replica　of　a　jumping　fish。　Bass；　Ott　assumed。　He　counted　up　the　trophies　and　wrote　the　number　〃18〃　in　his　notebook。　One　of　the　movers　unfolded　a　big　cardboard　box　and　began　wrapping　and　packing　the　trophies。
　〃No！〃　Clarisse　said。　〃Those　go　in　the　dumpster。〃
　The　mover　shrugged。
　Ott　followed　the　widow　to　the　garage。　〃This　junk　in　here；〃　she　was　saying；　〃I've　got　to　sell。〃
　Bobby　Clinch's　fishing　gear。　Cane　poles；　spinning　rods；　flipping　rods；　bait…casting　rods；　popping　rods；　fly　rods。　Ott　Pickney　counted　them　up　and　wrote　〃22〃　in　his　notebook。　Each　of　the　outfits　seemed　to　be　in　immaculate　condition。
　〃These　are　worth　a　lot　of　money；〃　Ott　said　to　Clarisse。
　〃Maybe　I　should　take　out　an　ad　in　your　newspaper。〃
　〃Yes；　good　idea。〃　All　Harney　Sentinel　reporters　were　trained　in　the　paperwork　of　classified　advertising；　just　in　case　the