Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

“And, Jeremiah, do you believe he watches over his children?”

“He loves us all,” Skink said.

“You have been blind, lo, for how long?”

“Lo, for quite a while,” Skink said. “And the doctors have given up on you?”

“Totally, Reverend Weeb.”

“And you’ve even given up on yourself, haven’t you, brother?”

“Amen,” Skink said, as a Minicam zoomed in on the sunglasses. He was mad at himself for caving in about the straw hat and sharkskin suit.

Reverend Weeb dabbed his forehead with a kerchief and rested a pudgy pink hand on Skink’s shoulder.

“Jeremiah,” he said momentously, “on this glorious tropical day that God has given us, on a day when Christian sportsmen are reaping fortunes from these pristine waters behind us, on such a day it is God’s wish that you should see again. You should see the glory of his sunshine and his sky and the breathtaking natural beauty of his modestly priced family town-home community. Would you like to see that, Jeremiah? Would you like to see again?”

“You bet your ass,” Skink said, deviating slightly from the script.

Reverend Weeb’s eyebrows jumped, but he didn’t lose tempo. “Jeremiah,” he went on, “I’m going to ask these good Christian people who are witnessing with us today at Lunker Lakes to join hands with one another. And all of you at home, put down your Bibles and join hands in your living room. And I myself will take your hands, Jeremiah, and together we will beseech Almighty Jesus to bless you with the gift of sight.”

“Amen,” Skink said.

“Amen!” echoed the crowd.

“Make this sinner see!” Reverend Weeb cried to the heavens.

“See!” the crowd shouted. “See! See!”

Skink was getting into the act, in spite of himself. “See me, feel me!” he hollered.

“See him, feel him!” the audience responded. A strange new verse, but it had a pleasing cadence.

Hastily Reverend Weeb steered the prayer chant back to more conventional exhortations. “God, save this wretched sinner!”

“Save him!” echoed the crowd.

Like a turtle suddenly caught on the highway, Reverend Weeb retracted his neck, drew in his extremities, and blinked his eyes. The trance lasted a full minute before he snapped out. Raising his arms above his head, he declared: “The time is nigh. Jesus is coming to our living room!”

The audience waited rapturously. The Minicam was so close you could have counted the pores on Charlie Weeb’s nose.

“Jeremiah?” he said. “Repeat after me: ‘Jesus, let me see your face.'”

Skink repeated it.

“And, ‘Jesus, let me see the sunshine.’ ”

“Jesus, let me see the sunshine.”

“And, ‘Jesus, let me see the pure Christian glory of your newest creation, Lunker Lakes.'”

“Ditto,” Skink said. Now came the fun part.

“The Lord has spoken,” Weeb declared. “Jeremiah, my dear Christian brother, remove thy Wayfarers!”

Skink took off the sunglasses and tucked them in the top pocket of the suit. A ripple of shock passed through the audience. Skink had not allowed the makeup girls near his face. The Minicams backed off fast.

Averting his eyes, Reverend Weeb bellowed: “Jeremiah, are you truly healed?”

“Oh yes, Brother Weeb.”

“And what is it you see?”

“A great man in a raspberry suit.”

The audience applauded. Many shouted febrile praises to the heavens.

Beaming modestly, Reverend Weeb pressed on: “And, Jeremiah, above my head there is a joyous sign—a sign invisible to your eyes only a few short moments ago. Tell us what it says.”

This was Skink’s big cue, the lead-in to the live tournament coverage. Since it was assumed he would still be mostly blind after the healing, Skink had been asked to memorize the banner and pretend to be reading it on the air. The banner said: “Lunker Lakes Presents the Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic.”

But those were not the words that Skink intended to say into the microphone.

Charlie Weeb waited three long beats. “Jeremiah?”

Skink raised his eyes to the banner.

“Jeremiah, please,” Weeb said, “what does the sign say?”

“It says: ‘Squeeze My Lemon, Baby.’ ”

A hot prickly silence fell over the stage. Terror filled the face of the Reverend Charles Weeb. His mouth hung open and his gleaming bonded caps clacked vigorously, but no spiritual words issued forth.