Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

Gault arranged them lovingly; there was plenty of room.

The most critical decision, the one over which he pondered longest, was what strength fishing line to put on the reels. Good line is paramount; the slenderest of plastic threads, it is all that ties the angler to his wild and precious trophy. The longer a bass stays on the line, the greater its chances of escape. Since every fish that breaks off or throws the hook is money down the drain, the goal of the professional bass angler is to lose no fish whatsoever. Consequently, in tournaments there is not even the pretense of an actual battle between fisherman and fish. The brutish deep dives and graceful acrobatics of a hooked largemouth bass are not tolerated in the heat of serious angling competition. In fact, the standard strategy is to strike the fish with all your might and then drag the stunned creature into the boat as rapidly as possible. In tournaments it is not uncommon to see five-pound bass being skipped helplessly across the water in this manner.

Obviously, heavy line was essential. For the Dickie Lockhart Memorial Classic, Dennis Gault selected a twenty-pound pink Andes monofilament—limp enough to cast the lure a modest distance in a light wind, yet sturdy enough to straighten the spine of any mortal largemouth.

Gault was ironing a Bass Blasters patch onto the crown of his cap when the phone rang. It was Lanie, calling from a truck stop halfway between Harney and Fort Lauderdale.

“Ellen O’Leary is gone,” she said. “Decker came to the condo and got her.”

“Nice work,” her brother said snidely.

“What’d you expect me to do? He had that big black guy with him, the trooper.”

Gault was determined not to let anything spoil the tournament for him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“What about New Orleans?” Lanie asked.

“Forget about it,” Gault said, “and forget about Decker. Tom Curl is taking care of it.”

Lanie knew what that meant, but she swept the thought from her mind. She pretended it meant nothing. “Dennis, I told them about the affidavit, about how I lied.”

She thought he would be furious, but instead he said: “It doesn’t really matter.”

Lanie wanted Dennis to say something more, but he didn’t. She wanted to hear all about the tournament, what tackle he planned to use, where he’d be staying. She wanted him at least to sound pleased that she’d called, but he sounded only bored. With Dennis, everything was business.

“I’ve got to pack,” he said.

“For the tournament?”

“Right.”

“Could I come along?”

“Not a good idea, Elaine. Lots of tension, you know.”

“But I have a surprise.”

“And what might that be?”

“Not much, big brother. Just a tip that’ll guarantee you win the Lockhart Memorial.”

“Really, Elaine.” But she had him hooked.

Lanie said, “You know of a man they call Skink?”

“Yes. He’s crazy as a bedbug.”

“I don’t think so.”

There was an edgy pause on the other end of the line. Dennis Gault was thinking sordid and unpleasant thoughts about his sister and the hermit. He wondered where his mother had gone wrong raising Elaine.

“Dennis, he’s got a huge fish.”

“Is that what he calls it? His fish?”

Lanie said, “Be that way. Be an asshole.”

“Finish your fairy tale.”

“He’s raised this giant mutant bass, he’s very proud of it. He makes it sound like a world record or something.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

Lanie said, ‘Then later he mentions he’s got friends fishing in this

tournament.”

“Later? You mean after tea and crumpets?”

“Drop it, Dennis. It wasn’t exactly easy getting this guy to open up. He’d make Charles Bronson seem like the life of the party.”

“What else did he say?”

“That he and the fish were going on a trip this weekend.”

Gault snorted. “He and the fish. You mean like a date?”

Lanie let him think about it. Dennis Gault didn’t take a long time.

“He’s going to plant the bass at Lunker Lakes,” he said, “so his friends can win the tournament.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Not a bad day’s work, even if you’ve got to split the prize money three ways.”