Dennis Gault’s gaze fixed on Curl’s right arm. “What… what the fuck is that?” he stammered.
“Lucas is his name,” Curl said. “He good boy.”
“Oh, Christ.” Now Gault realized where the buzzing sound had come from. From the flies swarming around the dog head.
“I’s raised around puppies,” Curl said, “mostly mutts.”
Gault said, “It’s not good for you to be here.”
“But I got a few hours to kill.”
“Before you meet Decker?”
“Yep.” Curl spotted a decanter of brandy on a sideboard. Mechanically Gault handed it to him. Curl drew three hard swallows from the bottle. His eyes glowed after he put it down. “I’ll need a bass boat,” he said, smacking his lips.
Gault scribbled a phone number on a napkin. “Here, this guy’s got a Starcraft.”
“Anything’ll do.”
“You all right?” Gault asked.
“I’ll be fine. Clear this shit up once and for all.” Curl noticed Gault’s fishing gear laid out meticulously on the carpet. “Nice tackle, chief. Looks straight out of the catalog.”
“Tom, you’d better go. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”
“I ain’t been sleepin much, myself. Lucas, he always wants to play.”
Dennis Gault could scarcely breathe, the stink was so vile. “Call me day after tomorrow. I’ll have a little something for you.”
“Real good.”
“One more thing, Tom, it’s very important: everything’s set for tonight, right? With Decker, I mean.”
“Don’t you worry.”
Gault said, “You can handle it alone?”
“It’s my rightful obligation.”
At the door, Thomas Curl drunkenly thrust out his right hand. “Put her there, chief.” Gault shook the rotted thing without daring to look.
“Well, tight lines!” said Curl, with a sloppy but spirited sailor’s salute.
“Thank you, Tom,” said Dennis Gault. He closed the door, dumped the brandy, then bolted into a scalding shower.
The phone calls started as soon as they turned in.
When Al Garcia answered, the voice on the other end said: “Why don’t you go back to Miami, spic-face?”
When Jim Tile answered, the message was: “Don’t show your lips on the lake, nigger.”
After the fourth call, Garcia turned on the light and sat up in bed. “It’s bad enough they give us the worst damn room in the place, and now this.”
“Nice view of the dumpster, though,” Jim Tile said. When he swung his bare brown legs out from under the covers, Garcia noticed the bandage over Culver Rundell’s bullet hole.
“It’s nothing, just a through-and-through,” the trooper said.
“One of these bass nuts?”
Jim Tile nodded.
“Well, shit,” Garcia said, “maybe we oughta take the phone calls more seriously.”
“They’re just trying to scare us.”
The phone started ringing again. Jim Tile watched it for a full minute before picking up.
“You’re gator bait, spook,” the caller drawled.
The trooper hung up. His jaw was set and his eyes were hard. “I’m beginning to take this personally.”
“You and me both.” Garcia grabbed his pants off the chair and dug around for the cigarette lighter. When the phone rang again, the detective said, “My turn.”
Another Southern voice: “Lucky for you, grease floats.”
Garcia slammed down the receiver and said, “You’d think one of us would have the brains to pull the plug out of the wall.”
“No,” said Jim Tile. He was worried about Skink, and Decker. One of them might need to get through.
“I can’t imagine these jerks are actually worried about us winning, not after seeing the boat,” Garcia said. “Wonder what they’re so damn scared of.”
“The sight of us,” Jim Tile said. He lay back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling. Garcia lit a cigarette and thumbed through a Lunker Lakes sales brochure that some lady had given him at the barbecue.
It was half-past two when somebody outside fired a rifle through their window and ran.
Angrily Jim Tile picked up the phone and started dialing.
As he shook the broken glass out of his blanket, Al Garcia asked, “So who you calling, chico, the Fish and Game?”
“I think it’s important to make an impression,” the trooper said. “Don’t you?”
To get on the dike, Eddie Spurling had to drive to the west end of Road 84, then zig north up U.S. 27 to the Sawgrass Fish Camp. Here the dike was accessible, but wide enough for only one vehicle; at three in the morning Eddie didn’t anticipate oncoming traffic. He drove the Wagoneer at a crawl through a crystal darkness, insects whorling out of the swamp to cloud the headlights. Every so often he had to brake as the high-beams froze some animal, ruby-eyed, on the rutted track—rabbits, raccoons, foxes, bobcats, even a fat old female otter. Eddie marveled at so much wildlife, so close to the big city.