This was to be Queenie’s home away from home.
“Oldest trick in the book,” Skink had told the detective two nights before. “These big hawgs love obstructions. Lay back invisible in the bush, sucking down dumb minnows. Find the brushpile, you find the fish. Make the brushpile, you win the damn tournament.”
That was the plan.
Jim Tile and Al Garcia felt pretty good about pulling it off; there wasn’t another boat in sight.
There was, however, a private helicopter.
The Tile Brothers hadn’t bothered to look up, since it flew over only once.
But once was all that Dennis Gault’s pilot needed to mark his map. Then he flew back to the heliport to radio his boss.
That evening, after the practice day, the mood at the boat ramp ranged from doubtful to downhearted. No one had caught a single bass, though none of the fishermen would admit it. It was more than a matter of pride—it was the mandatory furtiveness of competition. With two hundred and fifty thousand dollars at stake, lifelong friendships and fraternal confidences counted for spit. No intelligence was shared; no strategies compared; no secrets swapped. As a result, nobody comprehended the full scope of the fishless disaster that was named Lunker Lakes. While scouting the shoreline, a few anglers had come across dead yearling bass, and privately mulled the usual theories—nitrogen runoff, phosphate dumping, algae blooms, pesticides. Still, it wasn’t the few dead fish as much as the absence of live ones that disturbed the contestants; as the day wore on, optimism evaporated. These were the best fishermen in the country, and they knew bad water when they saw it. All morning the men tried to mark fish on their Humminbird sonars, but all that showed was a deep gray void. The banks were uniformly steep, the bottom uniformly flat, and the lakes uniformly lifeless. Even Dennis Gault was worried, though he had an ace up his L. L. Bean sleeve.
At dusk the anglers returned to the boat ramp to find banners streaming, canned country music blaring, and an elaborate rectangular stage rising—a pink pulpit at one end, the bass scoreboard at the other. The whole stage was bathed by hot kliegs while the OCN cameramen conducted their lighting checks. Over the pulpit hung a red-lettered banner that said: “jesus in your living room—live at five!” And over the scoreboard hung a blue-lettered banner that said: “Lunker Lakes Presents the Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic.” Every possible camera angle was cluttered with the signs and logos of the various sponsors who had put up the big prize money.
Once all the bass boats had returned to the dock, the Reverend Charles Weeb ambled centerstage with a cordless microphone.
“Greeting, sportsmen!”
The tired anglers grumbled halfheartedly.
“Understand it was tough fishing out there today, but don’t you worry!” shouted Charlie Weeb. “The Lord tells me tomorrow’s gonna be one hell of a day!”
The PA system amplified the preacher’s enthusiasm, and the fishermen smiled and applauded, though not energetically.
“Yes, sir,” Charlie Weeb said, “I talked to the Lord this afternoon, and the Lord said: Tomorrow will be good. Tomorrow the hawgs will be hungry!'”
Duke Puffin shouted, “Did he say to use buzzbaits or rubber worms?”
The bass fishermen roared, and Reverend Weeb grinned appreciatively. Anything to loosen the jerks up.
“As you know,” he said, “tonight is barbecue night at Lunker Lakes. Ribs, chicken, Okeechobee catfish, and all the beer you can drink!”
The free-food announcement drew the first sincere applause of the evening.
“So,” Reverend Weeb continued, “I got two air-conditioned buses ready to take y’all to the clubhouse. Have a good time tonight, get plenty of rest, and tomorrow you put some big numbers on that bass board, because the whole country’ll be watching!”
Eagerly the anglers filed onto the buses. Jim Tile and Al Garcia made a point of sitting in the very front. No one spoke a word to them.
As soon as the buses pulled away, Weeb tossed the microphone to an OCN technician, grabbed the young hydrologist backstage, and said: “It’s here, I hope.”
“Yes, sir, just give the word.”
To the grips Weeb yelled: “Turn those kliegs around! Light the ramp—hurry up, asshole, while we’re still young!”