“Good work,” Garcia said. He turned to Ellen O’Leary. “What about you, miss?”
Ellen looked worriedly at Jim Tile. The trooper said, “She can put Tom Curl with Dickie Lockhart right before the murder.”
“Not bad,” Garcia said. “R.J., I can’t figure what you’re so worked up about. Sounds to me like an easy nolle prosse.”
“If you don’t mind,” Decker said. “Gault set me up on a murder charge. He also arranged to kill my friend Ott. At this very moment he’s got some halfwit redneck hitman out looking for me. I would prefer not to wait three or four months for the New Orleans district attorney to settle the issue.”
Garcia raised a fleshy brown hand. “Yeah, I hear you, chico. Why don’t I just pop big Mr. Gault at the fish tournament? Irritate the hell out of him, wouldn’t it?”
“Good TV, too,” Jim Tile remarked.
“Pop him for what?” Decker asked.
Garcia paused to light a cigarette. “Filing false information, for starters. He lied to me—I don’t like that. Obstruction, that’s another good one. I haven’t used it in years, so why not.”
Decker said, “It’s chickenshit, Al.”
“Better than nothing,” Jim Tile said.
Garcia watched a blue smoke ring float into the oaks. “Best I can do ” he said, “until we find Tom Curl and have a serious chat with the boy.”
“You think he’ll flip?” Decker said.
“Sure.” Al Garcia smiled. “If I ask real nice.”
Skink jacked the Corvette up to ninety on the Gilchrist. He felt obliged to do it, seeing as how he’d probably never get another chance. It truly was quite a car. He loved the way its snout sucked up the road.
In the passenger seat Lanie tucked her long legs beneath her bottom and turned sideways to watch him drive. Skink didn’t like being watched, but he said nothing. It had been a long time since he had shared a moment with a beautiful woman; that was one price of hermitage. He remembered how good judgment went out the window in such times, so he warned himself to be careful, there was work to do. His head was killing him, too; the pain had returned as soon as he’d gotten off the lake. A specialist was out of the question. There was no time.
Lanie popped a Whitney Houston tape in the cassette player and started keeping time with her bare feet. Without looking away from the road, Skink reached over and jerked the tape out of the dash. Then he threw it out the window.
“Got any Creedence?” he said.
In the seat Lanie whirled and, through the rear window, watched Whitney Houston bounce and shatter and unspool on the highway. “You’re crazy,” she snapped at Skink. “You’re buying me a new tape, buster.”
Skink wasn’t paying attention. He had spotted something far ahead in the road; a motionless brown lump. He started braking the sports car, pumping slowly so it wouldn’t leave rubber or spin out. When it finally came to a stop on the shoulder, he flicked on the emergency flashers and got out. He made sure to take the keys.
The thing in the road was a dead armadillo. After a brief examination Skink carried it by its scaly tail back to the Corvette.
Lanie was aghast. Skink tossed the carcass in the back and started the car.
“Ever had one?”
Lanie shook her head violently.
“Makes one hell of a gumbo,” he said. “Use the shell as a tureen, if you do it right. Holds about two gallons.”
Lanie leaned back to see where the armadillo had landed, how much of a mess had been made on the upholstery.
“It’s fresh, don’t worry,” Skink said. He wheeled the Corvette around and headed back.
“Okay, who are you? Really.”
Skink said, “You’ve seen who I am.”
“Before this,” Lanie said. “You must have been… somebody. I mean, you didn’t grow up on roadkills.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Lanie said, “I like you. Your hands especially. The day we first met I noticed them, when you were tying me with that plastic rope.”
“Fishing line,” Skink said, “not rope. I’m glad there’s no hard feelings.”
“You can’t blame me for being curious.”