“Good idea,” Weeb said. “Say they pour asphalt or something. Excellent.” Sometimes he didn’t know what he’d do without Izzy.
Deacon Johnson said, “Don’t worry, Charles, just look at them—they don’t have a chance. It’ll be a holy miracle if that termite bucket doesn’t sink at the dock.”
All Charlie Weeb could say was: “Whoever heard of a spic and a spade in a pro bass tournament?”
But the mysterious Tile Brothers were already putting their boat in the water.
The next day was practice day, and in keeping with tradition the anglers gathered early at the boat ramp to exchange theories and cultivate possible excuses. Because no one had fished Lunker Lakes before, the talk was basically bullshit and idle speculation. The bass would be schooled by the culverts. No, they’d be holding deep. No, they’d be bedded in the shallows.
Only Charlie Weeb and his men knew the truth: there were no bass except dead ones. The new ones were on the way.
Eddie Spurling realized that something was terribly wrong, but he didn’t say a word. Instead of mingling with his pals over coffee and biscuits, he strolled the shore alone in the predawn pitch. A couple of the other pros sidled up to make conversation, but Eddie was unresponsive and gloomy. He didn’t show the least interest in Duke Puffin’s deep-sonic crankbait or Tom Jericho’s new weedless trolling motor.
While the mockingbirds announced sunrise, Eddie Spurling just stared out at the still brown canals and thought: This waters no damn good.
Al Garcia and Jim Tile were the last to get started. They’d been briefly delayed when Billie Radcliffe, a very white young man from Waycross, Georgia, said to Jim Tile: “Where’s your cane pole, Uncle Remus?” Jim Tile had felt compelled to explain the importance of good manners to Billie Radcliffe, by way of breaking every single fishing rod in Billie Radcliffe’s custom-made bass boat. This had been done in a calm and methodical way, and with no interference, since Al Garcia and his Colt Python had supervised the brief ceremony. From then on, the other fishermen steered clear of the Tile Brothers.
It was just as well. All the practice at Lake Jesup had been in vain: Al Garcia proved to be the world’s most dangerous bass angler. On four occasions he snagged Jim Tile’s scalp with errant casts. Three other times he hooked himself, once so severely that Jim Tile had to cut the barbs off the hooks just to remove them from Garcia’s thigh.
Casting a heavy plug rod required a sensitive thumb, but invariably Garcia would release the spool too early or too late. Either he would fire the lure straight into the bottom of the boat, where it shattered like a bullet, or he would launch it straight up in the air, so it could plummet dangerously down on their heads. In the few instances when the detective actually managed to hit the water, Jim Tile put down his fishing rod and applauded. They both agreed that Al Garcia should concentrate on steering the boat.
With the puny six-horse outboard, it took them longer to get around the canals, but by midday they reached the spot Skink had told them about, at the far western terminus of Lunker Lake Number Seven. Charlie Weeb’s landscapers had not yet reached this boundary of the development, so the shores remained as barren white piles of dredged-up fill. The canal ended at the old earthen dike that separated the lush watery Florida Everglades from concrete civilization. Charlie Weeb had pushed it to the brink. This was the final barrier.
Jim Tile and Al Garcia had the Number Seven hole to themselves, as Skink had predicted they would. It was too sparse, too bright, and too remote for the other bassers.
Garcia nudged the skiff to shore, where Jim Tile got out and collected several armfuls of dead holly branches from a heap left by the bulldozers. Hidden under a tarp in the boat were three wooden orange crates, which they had brought from Harney in the bin of the garbage truck. Garcia tied the crates together while Jim Tile stuffed the dead branches between the slats. Together they lowered the crates into the water. With a fishing line, Al Garcia measured the depth at thirteen feet. He marked the secret spot by placing two empty Budweiser cans on the bank.