“Then let’s get him to a hospital.”
“It’s not the eye, Decker. Or what those kids did to him. He’s all beat up inside. He’s done it to himself, you understand? Been doing it for years.”
Al Garcia leaned forward in the back seat and said, “What’s the harm, R.J.? The man wants to make a point.”
Decker said, “Skink I almost understand. But why are you guys going along?”
“Maybe we got a point to make, too,” Jim Tile said.
After that, Decker left it alone.
“Relax,” Garcia told him. “Couple old road cops like us need a break in the monotony, that’s all.”
At the Zippy Mart, Jim Tile waited in the car while Garcia went to buy his cigarettes and Decker used the pay phone. It had been several days since he had left Miami and, assuming he’d still have to make a living when this case was over, he thought it a wise idea to check his messages. He dialed his number, then punched the playback code for the tape machine.
The first voice made him wince. Lou Zicutto from the insurance company: “Hey, douche-bag, you’re lucky Nuñez came down with mono. We got a two-week postponement from the judge, so this time no excuses—be there with your negatives. Otherwise just go ahead and buy yourself some fucking crutches, got it?”
What a prince to work for.
Decker didn’t recognize the second voice, didn’t need to: “I got your wife, Mr. Decker, and she’s just as pretty as the pitchers. So we’re gonna trade: her tight little ass for yours. Call me… make it Friday at the Holiday Inn, Coral Springs. We’ll be registered Mr. and Mrs. Juan Gomez.”
Decker hung up and sagged against the wall.
Al Garcia, who’d come out of the store whistling, grabbed Decker by the arm. “What is it, man?”
Jim Tile came up and took the other side.
“He’s got Catherine,” Decker said tonelessly.
“Fuck.” Garcia spit on the pavement.
“It’s Tom Curl,” said the trooper.
R. J. Decker sat on the fender of Jim Tile’s car and said nothing for five minutes, just stared at the ground. Finally he looked up at the other two men.
“Is there a place around here to buy a camera?” he asked.
When they got back to Lake Jesup, Jim Tile told Skink what Thomas Curl had done.
The big man sat down heavily on the tailgate of the truck and wrapped his arms around his head. R. J. Decker took a step forward but Jim Tile motioned him back.
After a few moments Skink looked up and said, “It’s my fault, Miami.”
“It’s nobody’s fault.”
“I’m the one who shot—”
“It’s nobody’s fault,” Decker said again, “so shut up.” The less said about Lemus Curl, the better. Especially in the presence of cops.
Skink pulled painfully at his beard. “This could screw up everything,” he said hoarsely.
“I would say so,” Al Garcia grunted.
Skink took off the sunglasses. His good eye was red and moist. He gazed at Decker, and in a small brittle voice, said: “The plan can’t be changed, it’s too late.”
“Do what you have to,” Decker said.
“I’ll kill him afterward,” Skink said, “I promise.”
“Thanks anyway, but it won’t come to that.”
“This thing—” Skink paused, raked feverishly at his beard. He was boiling inside. He pounded his fists against the fender of the truck. “This thing I have to do—it’s so important.”
Decker said, “I know, captain.”
“You’d understand better if you knew everything.” Skink spoke solemnly. “If you knew it all, then you’d see the point.”
“It’s all right,” Decker said. “Go ahead with your plan. I’ve got one of my own.”
Skink grinned and clapped his hands. “That’s the spirit!” he said. ‘That’s what I like to hear.”
Al Garcia and Jim Tile exchanged doubtful glances. In its own way, R. J. Decker’s scheme was every bit as loony as Skink’s.
Like a surgeon inspecting his instruments, Dennis Gault laid out his tournament bass tackle on the pile carpet and took inventory: six Bantam Magnumlite 2000 GT plugging reels, eight Shimano rods, four graphite Ugly Stiks, three bottles of Happy Gland bass scent, a Randall knife, two cutting stones, Sargent stainless pliers, a diamond-flake hook sharpener, Coppertone sunblock, a telescopic landing net, two pairs of Polaroid sunglasses (amber and green), a certified Chatillion scale and, of course, his tacklebox. The tacklebox was the suitcase-size Piano Model 7777, with ninety separate compartments. As was everything in Dennis Gault’s tournament artillery, his bass lures were brand-new. For top-water action he had stocked up on Bang-O-Lures, Shad Raps, Slo Dancers, Hula Poppers, and Zara Spooks; for deep dredging he had armed himself with Wee Warts and Whopper Stoppers and the redoubtable Lazy Ike. For brushpiles he had unsheathed the Jig-N-Pig and Double Whammy, the Bayou Boogie and Eerie Dearie, plus a rainbow trove of Mister Twisters. As for that most reliable of bass rigs, the artificial worm, Dennis Gault had amassed three gooey pounds. He had caught fish on every color, so he packed them all: the black-grape crawdad, the smoke-sparkle lizard, the flip-tail purple daddy, the motor-oil moccasin, the blueberry gollywhomper, everything.