Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

“You’re probably curious what happened to yours.”

“They weren’t really mine,” Eddie said.

The man laughed thinly. “You just came all the way out here to say hello.”

Eddie said, “No, sir, I came to let ’em go.”

“How about I just shoot off your pecker and get it over with?”

“Please,” Eddie cried. “I mean it, I was about to set them fish free. Check the truck if you don’t believe it. If I was gonna take ’em, I’d have brung a livewell, right? I’d have brung the damn boat, wouldn’t I?”

The rifleman seemed to be thinking it over.

Eddie went on: “And why would I be here three hours before the tournament and risk having ’em croak on me?”

The man said, “You’re not one of the cheaters?”

“No, and I don’t aim to start. I couldn’t go through with it, so screw Charlie Weeb.”

The rifleman lowered his gun. “I let those ringer bass go.”

Eddie Spurting said, “Well, I’m glad you did.”

“Three hawgsters. One must’ve gone at least eleven-eight.”

“Well,” said Eddie, “maybe I’ll catch him someday, when he’s bigger.”

The man said: “What about Queenie? What would you have done about her?”

Without hesitating Eddie said, “I’d a let her go too ”

“I bet.”

“What would be the point of killing her, mister? Suppose I took that monster home and stuffed her. Every time I’d walk in the den she’d be staring down from the wall, the awful truth in those damn purple eyes. I couldn’t live with it, mister. That’s why I say, you didn’t need the gun. I’d a let her go anyway.”

The rifleman stood there, showing nothing. The sunglasses scared the hell out of Eddie.

“I’ve got a boy, mister, age nine,” Eddie said. “You think I could lie to my boy about a fish like that? Say I caught it when I didn’t?”

“Some men could.”

“Not me.”

The rifleman said: “I believe you, Mr. Spurling. Now, get the fuck out of here, please.”

Eddie obediently scrambled up the bank of the dike. He hopped in the Jeep without even brushing the broken glass off the seat.

“Can you turn this thing around okay?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, “I got four-wheel drive.” In the dark he groped nervously for the keys.

“The seam of the universe,” the rifleman mused. “This dike is like the moral seam of the universe.”

“It’s narrow, that’s for sure,” Eddie said.

“Evil on the one side, good on the other.” The man illustrated by pointing with the Remington.

Eddie stuck his head out the window and said very politely: “Can I ask what you plan to do with that big beautiful bass?”

“I plan to let her go,” the man said, “in about five minutes.” He didn’t say where, on which side of the seam.

Eddie knew he shouldn’t press his luck, knew he should just get the hell away from this lunatic, but he couldn’t help it. The fisherman in him just had to ask: “What’s she weigh, anyhow?”

“Twenty-nine even.”

“Holy moly.” Fast Eddie Spurling gasped.

“Now get lost,” said the rifleman, “and good luck in the tournament.”

After Eddie had gone, Skink hauled the big fish out of the pool. He propped the cage yoke-style across his shoulders and carried it across the dike to Lunker Lakes. He put it back in the water while he searched the banks until he found the two beer cans marking the spot where Jim Tile and Al Garcia had sunk the brushpile.

Skink hoisted the cage once more and moved it to the secret spot. This time he removed the big bass, pointed her toward the submerged obstruction, and gently let her go. The fish kicked once, roiled, and was gone. “See you tonight,” Skink said. “Then we go home.”

Rifle in hand, he stood on the dike for two hours and watched the night start to fade. On the Everglades side, a heron croaked and redwings bickered in the bulrushes; the other side of the dike lay mute and lifeless. Skink waited for something to show in Lunker Lake Number Seven—a turtle, a garfish, anything. He waited a long time.

Then, deep in worry, he trudged down the dike to where he’d left his truck. To the east, at the dirty rim of the city, the sun was coming up.

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