Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

Thomas Curl had been drinking ferociously since before dawn, and she surmised that this alone had kept the pain of infection from consuming him. He drove the boat slowly, steering with his knees and squinting against the sun. They passed several fishermen on the canal, but apparently none could see the pistol poking Catherine’s left breast. If they noticed the pit bull’s head, they didn’t let on.

“I’m a rich man, Lucas,” Thomas Curl said to the dog. “I got enough money for ten of these speedboats.”

Catherine said, “Tom, we’re almost there.” She felt the muzzle of the gun dig harder.

“Lucas, boy, we’re almost there,” Thomas Curl said.

With this announcement he threw himself against the throttle and the Starcraft shot forward, plowing aimlessly through a stand of thick sawgrass. Catherine let out a cry as the serrated stalks raked her cheeks, drawing blood. The boat broke out of the matted grass, leapt the water, and climbed a mudbank. The prop stuck hard, and there they sat.

“This is the place,” Thomas Curl declared.

“Not quite,” Catherine said.

“He’ll find us, don’t you worry,” Curl said. “He’s got a nose for your little pussy, I bet.”

“Cute,” Catherine said. “You ought to work for Hallmark, writing valentines.”

She used the hem of her skirt to dab the cuts on her face. Half-staggering, Curl got himself out of the boat. The pistol was still in his good hand.

“Don’t bother with the leash,” he said to Catherine.

“Right,” she said. There was no leash, of course. She climbed out of the beached Starcraft and instantly cursed Thomas Curl for not letting her wear any shoes.

While she stooped to pick the nettles from her feet, Curl cocked his head and cupped an ear with his gun hand. “What is it?” he said excitedly.

“What is what?” Catherine asked, but he wasn’t speaking to her.

“What is it, boy?”

Somewhere in the deep rotting bog of Thomas Curl’s brain, his dog was barking. Curl dropped to a crouch and lowered his voice.

“Lucas hears something comin’,” he said.

Catherine heard it too. Her heart raced when she spotted R. J. Decker, hands in his pockets, walking along the bank of the canal.

She waved and tried to shout, but nothing came out. Decker waved back and grinned, the way he always did when he hadn’t seen her for a while. Grinned like nothing was wrong, like no gangrenous madman was jabbing a loaded pistol into Catherine’s nipple while shouting at a severed dog head on his arm: “Heel, boy, heel!”

“Easy, Tom,” said R. J. Decker.

“Shut up, fuckhead.”

“Did we get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“I said shut up, and don’t come no closer.” Decker stood ten feet away. Jeans, flannel shirt, tennis shoes. A camera hung from a thin strap around his neck.

“You remember the deal,” he said to Curl. “A straight-up trade: Me for her.”

“What kind of deal you offer Lemus?”

Decker said, “I didn’t shoot your brother, but I will say he had it coming.”

“So do you, fuckhead.”

“I know, Tom.”

R. J. Decker could see that something was monstrously wrong with Thomas Curl, that he was a sick man. He could also see that something ghastly had happened to Curl’s right arm, and that this might be a cause of his distress.

Decker said, “That a dog, Tom?”

“The hell does it look like?”

“It’s definitely a dog,” Catherine said. “A pit bull, I believe.”

“I used to know a dog like that,” Decker said affably. “Lived in my trailer park. Poindexter was its name.”

Thomas Curl said, “This one is Lucas.”

“Does he do any tricks?”

“Yeah, he chews the balls off fuckheads like you.”

“I see.”

Catherine said, “You’re hurting me, Tom.”

“Take the gun out of there.” Decker spoke calmly. “Let her go now, that was the deal.”

“I’ll show you the deal,” said Thomas Curl. With his tumid red tongue he licked the tip of the gun barrel and placed it squarely between Catherine’s light brown eyebrows. He twisted the muzzle back and forth, leaving a wet round imprint on her forehead.

“That’s the deal Lemus got,” said Thomas Curl. “Dead-center bull’s-eye.” He poked the gun back in her breast.