Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

Soon the sky over Lunker Lakes throbbed in piercing aquamarine. On a forty-foot screen mounted behind the stage, the face of Reverend Charles Weeb appeared for the morning benediction; it was a taped message (for Charlie Weeb seldom rose before ten), but none of the contestants was in the mood to hear what the Old Testament said about fishing. They were riveted on what was slowly rolling toward them down the road.

It was a convoy of police cars.

Highway-patrol cruisers, to be exact; sixteen of them, their flashing blue lights slicing up the darkness. Dead last in the procession was a garbage truck with a rowboat hooked to the bumper.

Dennis Gault did not like the looks of things. He wondered if the cops had come to arrest somebody, possibly even him. He shot a worried glance at Lanie, who shrugged and shook her head.

The first eight troopers peeled off to one side of the boat ramp and parked bumper-to-bumper; the last eight parked in similar formation on the other side, forming a broad V-shaped alley for Al Garcia and Jim Tile in the garbage truck.

Each of the state troopers got out and stood by his car. They wore seriously neutral expressions, and showed no reaction to the OCN Minicams filming their arrival. To a man, the troopers were young, ramrod-straight, clean-cut, muscular, and heavily armed. They were some of Jim Tile’s best friends on the force, and they were white, which definitely made an impression.

The old wooden skiff was lowered into the lake without incident.

Deacon Johnson was up early. The importance of the day weighed heavily, and he had reason to be anxious. He put on his favorite desert-tan leisure suit, buffed his cream-colored shoes, and trimmed his nose hairs. At the breakfast table he chewed halfheartedly on raisin bagels, scanned the sports page to make sure they hadn’t screwed up the big display ad for the tournament, then called for the limousine.

He decided to give the VA hospital one more try.

This time, two doctors were waiting at the admissions desk.

Deacon Johnson smiled and stuck out his hand, but the doctors regarded it as if it were a rattlesnake.

“I’m sorry,” one said, “but you’ll have to leave.”

“You’ve been upsetting the patients,” said the other.

“Isn’t there one,” Deacon Johnson said, “who wants to be on TV?”

“They said you offered them money.”

“I had to,” Deacon Johnson lied. “FCC rules.”

“Money,” the doctor went on, “in exchange for lying about their illnesses.”

“Not lying—dramatizing. There’s a big difference.” Deacon Johnson folded his arms indignantly. “We run a thoroughly Christian enterprise at OCN.”

“Several of the patients became quite upset when you were here before.”

“I certainly meant no harm.”

“They’ve discussed violence,” said the other doctor, apparently a psychiatrist.

“Violence?” said Deacon Johnson.

“That’s why we can’t let you back inside.”

“But there was one, Corporal Clement. He expressed an interest in appearing with Reverend Weeb today.”

The two doctors traded glances.

“Clement,” Deacon Johnson repeated, spelling out the name. ‘The fellow with the trick knees.”

The psychiatrist said, Tm afraid Corporal Clement has been moved inpatient to the sixth floor.”

“It appears he got into the pharmacy last night,” the other doctor explained.

“He won’t be available for television appearances,” the psychiatrist added. “Please go now, Mr. Johnson, before we call for Security.”

Deacon Johnson got back in the limo and sulked.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“You know this town?”

“Born and raised,” the driver said.

“Good. Find me some bums.”

Charlie Weeb would be royally ticked off; he’d specifically said no street people, it was too risky. Lofty standards were fine and dandy, but Deacon Johnson was running out of time. The healing was only hours away.

The limousine driver took him to the dissolute stretch of Fort Lauderdale beach known as the Strip, but there all the bums had bleached hair and great tans. “Too healthy-looking,” Deacon Johnson decided.

“There’s a soup kitchen down Sunrise Boulevard,” the driver said.

“Let’s give it a try.”

Deacon Johnson saw that the driver was right about the soup kitchen: wall-to-wall winos; sallow, toothless, oily-haired vagabonds, the hardest of the hard-core. Some were so haggard that no makeup artist possibly could have rendered them presentable in time for the show. Worse, most of the men were too hung-over to comprehend Deacon Johnson’s offer; the money they understood just fine, it was the part about dressing up and rehearsing that seemed to sail over their heads.

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