Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

“It’s television, for Christ’s sake,” Deacon Johnson implored.

The men just grinned and scratched themselves.

In desperation, Deacon Johnson selected a skinny bum named Clu, who was in a wheelchair. The driver lifted Clu into the back seat of the limo and folded the wheelchair into the trunk.

As they rode back to Lunker Lakes, Deacon Johnson said: “Are you sure you can rise up?”

“You bet.”

“On command?”

“You bet.”

Clu wore a mischievous smile that made Deacon Johnson wonder. “So what’s wrong with your legs?” he asked.

“Not a thing,” Clu replied.

“Then why the wheelchair?”

“I got it on a trade,” Clu said. “Three cans of Sterno and a wool sock. Pretty good deal, I’d say.”

“Indeed,” Deacon Johnson said. “And how long ago was this?”

“Nineteen and eighty-one,” said Clu, still smirking.

“And you’ve been in the chair ever since?”

“Every minute,” Clu said. “No need to get up.”

Deacon Johnson leaned forward and told the limo driver to pull over.

“Get out,” he said to Clu.

“What for?”

“It’s just a test,” Deacon Johnson said. “Get out and walk around the car.”

When the driver opened the door, Clu tumbled facedown onto the pavement. The driver reached down to help him, but Deacon Johnson shook his finger.

He said, “Can you rise up, son?”

Clu tried with all his might until he was pink in the face, but his skinny legs would not work. “I don’t believe this,” he whined.

“Just as I thought,” said Deacon Johnson stiffly.

On the ground Clu continued to grunt and squirm. “Let me work on this a minute,” he pleaded.

“Give him back the damn wheelchair,” Deacon Johnson snapped at the driver, “and let’s go.”

Just when he was certain that the grand TV mega-healing would have to be called off, or at least scaled back to a sheep or a cat, Deacon Johnson spotted the blind man.

The man was alone on a bus bench outside the entrance to Lunker Lakes; beneath the big cedar billboard, in fact, directly under the second L. That he would be sitting right there at such a crucial moment seemed like a heavenly miracle, except that Deacon Johnson didn’t believe in miracles. Plain old dumb luck was more like it. He told the limo driver to stop.

The blind man did not have a guide dog or a white cane, so Deacon Johnson was hopeful that they could do business.

He walked up to him and said hello. The man didn’t move one bit, just stared straight ahead. Deacon Johnson could see nothing but his own natty reflection in the dark glasses.

“May I ask,” Deacon Johnson said, “are you blind?”

“I suppose,” the man said.

“May I ask how blind?”

“Depends what you mean.”

“Can you see what that billboard says?” Deacon Johnson pointed to a big Toyota sign a quarter-mile down the road.

The man said, “Not hardly.”

Deacon Johnson held a hand in front of the man’s face. “Can you see that?”

The man nodded yes.

“Very good.” Thank God, Deacon Johnson thought. For coaching purposes, partly blind was perfect. As a telegenic bonus, the man appeared sickly but not morbidly sunken, like some of the bums at the soup kitchen.

Deacon Johnson introduced himself and said, “Have you heard of the Outdoor Christian Network?”

“Yes,” the blind man said.

“Then you’ve heard of the Reverend Charles Weeb, how he heals people on national television?”

“I watch no television.”

“Yes, I understand, but at least have you heard of Reverend Weeb’s healings? The reason I ask, he’s having one today. Right here, inside this gate.”

“A healing.”

“On live satellite television,” Deacon Johnson said. “Would you be interested?”

The man toyed with his beard.

“For five hundred dollars,” Deacon Johnson said.

“And would I be healed?”

“Let me say, Reverend Weeb gets excellent results. With the Lord’s help, of course.” Deacon Johnson circled the blind man and assessed his camera presence. “I think the Lord would probably like us to shave you,” he said. “And possibly cut your hair—the braid could be a distraction.”

The blind man raised a middle digit in front of Deacon Johnson’s face. “Can you see that?” he said.

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