“But I ain’t gone cheat.”
Reverend Weeb smiled patiently. “Eddie, you just bought that big place outside Tuscaloosa—what, sixty acres, something like that. And I notice your wife’s driving a new Eldorado… well, Eddie, I look at you and see a man who’s enjoying himself, am I right? I see a man who likes being number one, for a change. Some men get a chance like this and they blow it—think of Dickie Lockhart.”
Eddie Spurling didn’t want to think about that fool Dickie Lockhart. What happened to Dickie Lockhart was a damn fluke. Eddie ground his Red Man to a soggy pulp. “You got a place I could spit this?” he asked.
“The sink is fine,” Weeb said. Angrily Eddie Spurling drilled the wad straight into the disposal.
“So what’s it gonna be,” Charlie Weeb said. “You want to be a star, or not?”
Later that afternoon, Deacon Johnson knocked on the door to Reverend Weeb’s private office. Inside, Reverend Weeb was getting a vigorous back rub and dictating a Sunday sermon for transcription.
“Who you got lined up for the healing?” Weeb grunted, the masseuse kneading his freckled shoulder blades.
“No kids,” Deacon Johnson reported glumly. “Florida’s different from Louisiana, Charles. The state welfare office threatened to shut us down if we use any kids on the show.”
“Pagan assholes!”
Charlie Weeb had planned a grand healing for the morning of the big bass tournament. A lavish pulpit was being constructed as part of the weigh station.
“Now what?” he said.
“I’m going down to the VA tomorrow to look for some cripples,” Deacon Johnson said.
“Not real cripples?”
“No,” said the deacon. “With some of the vets, it comes and goes. They stub their toe, they get a wheelchair—it’s all in their head. I think we can find one to play along.”
“Be careful,” Reverend Weeb said. “All we need is some fruitcake Rambo flashing back to Nam on live TV.”
“Don’t worry,” Deacon Johnson said. “Charles, I thought you’d like to hear some good news.”
“Absolutely.”
Deacon Johnson said, “The tournament’s full. Today we got our fiftieth boat.”
“Thank God.” The hundred-fifty grand in entry fees would almost cover costs. “Anybody famous?” Weeb asked.
“No, couple of brothers,” Deacon Johnson said. “In fact, Eddie said he never even heard of them. Tile is the name. James and Chico.”
The preacher chuckled and rolled over on his back. “Long as the check cleared,” he said.
Catherine was astonished when they went through the Golden Glades interchange and the toll-booth lady hardly looked twice at Lucas.
“I can’t believe it,” Catherine said as they drove away.
Behind the wheel, Thomas Curl scowled. “What the hell would she say?”
When they had pulled up to the booth, Curl had reached out with his dog-headed arm to get the ticket. The toll-booth lady glanced benignly at the pit bull, which was decomposing rather noticeably.
“Have a nice day,” the toll-booth lady said. “I’m all out of Milk-bones.”
“Thanks just the same,” said Thomas Curl, driving on.
He had named the dead dog head Lucas.
“Why not Luke?” Catherine asked.
“What a dumb name for a dog.”
Thomas Curl held the pistol tightly with his left hand; that’s why he’d had to reach for the toll ticket with his right arm, the dog arm. That’s the one he steered with. Catherine could see that it was grossly swollen with infection. The pus-lathered flesh had turned gray, with lightning streaks of crimson.
“You should see a doctor.”
“After I see Dennis,” Thomas Curl said. “And after I see your goddamn husband.” Curl was sweating like a pig.
Catherine said, “He’s not my husband anymore.”
“I still plan to kill him, on account of Lemus.”
“See if I care,” said Catherine, staring out the window, seemingly enjoying the ride.
Thomas Curl didn’t know what to make of her. The girl should have been frightened to death.
“Wait’ll he finds out where you are.”
“Decker? What makes you think he still cares?” she bluffed.
Thomas Curl laughed coarsely. “He’s only got about a million fucking pitchers.”
“Of me?”
“Fucking A. Under the bed, in the closet, probably in his underpants drawer too. Didn’t you know that?”