Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

“What the hell are you doing?” Decker shouted, but his voice died in the roar of a passing gasoline tanker. He looked both ways before jogging across the highway to join Skink on the other side.

Skink was kneeling next to a plump, misshapen lump of gray fur.

Decker saw it was a dead opossum. Skink ran a hand across its furry belly. “Still warm,” he reported.

Decker said nothing.

“Road kill,” Skink said, by way of explanation. He took a knife out of his belt. “You hungry, Miami?”

Decker said uneasily, “How about if we just stop someplace and I buy you supper?”

“No need,” Skink said, and he sawed off the opossum’s head. He lifted the carcass by its pink tail and stalked back to the truck. Decker now understood the reason for the fluorescent rainsuit; a speeding motorist could see Skink a mile away. He looked like a neon yeti.

“You’ll like the flavor,” Skink remarked as Decker got in the truck beside him.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Nope.”

“What?”

“We both eat, that’s the deal. Then you get the hell out. Another day we’ll talk fish.”

Skink pulled the rainhat down tight on his skull.

“And after that,” he said, turning the ignition, “we might even talk about cheaters.”

“So you know about this?” Decker said.

Skink laughed bitterly. “I do, sir, but I wisht I didn’t.”

Clouds of insects swirled in and out of the high-beams as the truck jounced down the dirt road. Suddenly Skink killed the lights and cut the ignition. The pickup coasted to a stop.

“Listen!” Skink said.

Decker heard an engine. It sounded like a lawn mower.

Skink jumped from the truck and ran into the trees. This time Decker was right behind him. ^

“I told the bastards,” Skink said, panting.

“Who?” Decker asked. It seemed as if they were running toward the noise, not away from it.

“I told them,” Skink repeated. They broke out of the pines, onto a bluff, and Skink immediately shrank into a crouch. Below them was a small stream, with a dirt rut following the higher ground next to the water. A single headlight bobbed on the trail.

Decker could see it clearly—a lone rider on a dirt bike. Up close the motorcycle sounded like a chainsaw, the growl rising and falling with the hills. Soon the rider would pass directly beneath them.

Decker saw that Skink had a pistol in his right hand.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Quiet, Miami.”

Skink extended his right arm, aiming. Decker lunged, too late. The noise of the gun knocked him on his back.

The dirt bike went down like a lame horse. The rider screamed as he flew over the handlebars.

Dirt spitting from its rear tire, the bike tumbled down the embankment and splashed into the stream, where the engine choked and died in bubbles.

Up the trail, the rider moaned and began to extricate himself from a cabbage palm.

“Christ!” Decker said, his breath heavy.

Skink tucked the pistol in his pants. “Front tire,” he reported, almost smiling. “Told you I was in the mood to shoot.”

Back at the shack, Skink barbecued the opossum on an open spit and served it with fresh corn, collards, and strawberries. Decker focused on the vegetables because the opossum tasted gamy and terrible; he could only take Skink’s word that the animal was fresh and had not lain dead on the highway for days.

As they sat by the fire, Decker wondered why the ferocious mosquitoes were concentrating on his flesh, while Skink seemed immune. Perhaps the captain’s blood was lethal.

“Who hired you?” Skink asked through a mouthful of meat.

Decker told him who, and why.

Skink stopped chewing and stared.

“You know Mr. Gault?” Decker asked.

“I know lots of folks.”

“Dickie Lockhart?”

Skink bit clean through a possum bone. “Sure.”

“Lockhart’s the cheater,” Decker said.

“You’re getting close.”

“There’s more?” Decker asked.

“Hell, yes!” Skink tossed the bone into the lake, where its splash startled a mallard.

“More,” Skink muttered. “More, more, more.”

“Let’s hear it, captain,” Decker said.

“Another night.” Skink spit something brown into the fire and scowled at nothing in particular. “How much you getting paid?”