As soon as Skink had leapt off the stage in pursuit of his eyeball, Charlie Weeb had cut to a commercial and gone searching for Deacon Johnson, who had presciently commandeered the limousine and struck out for parts unknown. Weeb’s principal inquiry—as enunciated in a gaseous torrent of obscenities—concerned the selection of Mr. Jeremiah Skink as a subject worthy of healing. It was Reverend Weeb’s opinion that Skink was more demented than disabled, and that his schizoid tendency toward self-mutilation should have been evident to Deacon Johnson (who, after all, was being paid two hundred thou a year to prevent such embarrassments).
Failing to locate Deacon Johnson, Charlie Weeb returned to the stage and tried to make the best of things. His image as a faith-healer was damaged, perhaps irreparably, but that concerned him less than the mounting specter of financial ruin. Word had filtered back to Weeb that many of the pilgrims who had signed new contracts for Lunker Lakes homesites were having second thoughts—a half-dozen had even demanded their deposits back. Weeb’s stomach had churned sourly at the news.
What he now needed—in fact, the only thing that would save the project—was a big warm Southern finish. Specifically: a beaming, tanned, lovable, good ole boy in the person of Eddie Spurling, with a string of lunker bass. That would put the mood right.
So Charlie Weeb seized the microphone and talked a blue streak as the boats roared in. He talked about sunshine, balmy climate, calm waters, central air, adjustable mortgages, bike paths, rec rooms, low maintenance fees, the Olympic-size swimming pool, everything but fish.
Because there weren’t any.
Every boat was coming back empty. The OCN sports reporter would stick a mike in front of the angler and the angler would straighten his cap and spit some chaw and grumble about it being one of those days, and then the sports reporter would smile lamely and say better luck next time.
Those gathered dockside—primarily the sponsors and tackle reps and devoted relatives of the contestants—could not recall such a dismal day of bass fishing, even in the weeks after Hurricane Camille had torn up the South.
Skink himself was worried by what he saw, but there was nothing to do but wait. Surely somebody had caught some fish.
As the pattern became clear to Charlie Weeb, he found it increasingly difficult to put a positive spin on the day’s events. A weigh-in with nothing to weigh was extremely dull television, even by cable standards. To fill air time until Fast Eddie Spurling arrived, Weeb ordered the director to run some how-to fishing videos supplied by the big tackle companies.
With only ten minutes until deadline, and the winter sun nearly gone, forty-seven bass boats had checked in at the ramp. The empty scoreboard mocked Charlie Weeb. He could no longer summon the courage to look at the Happy Gland entourage.
Where were Eddie Spurling and his ringers?
Backstage the young hydrologist approached Reverend Weeb and said, “Bad news—the water’s worse today than ever.”
“Get out of my sight,” Weeb said. He didn’t give a damn anymore about the water—Eddie’s fish would be fine, since they were coming out of the Everglades.
With a grave look, the hydrologist said, “You’re about to have a major problem.”
“And you’re about to get a size-ten Florsheim up your ass, so get lost.”
Weeb’s earpiece crackled and the TV director said: “How much longer?”
“We got three boats out,” the preacher said. “Sit tight, it’ll be worth it.”
It was.
Naturally Skink was first to hear them. He hopped off Decker’s car and ambled down to the dock. The other onlookers gave way, recognizing him instantly as the deranged Cyclops whom Reverend Weeb had tried to cure. Skink stood alone until Decker and Catherine came down, holding hands.
“Listen,” Skink said.
Decker heard the boat. Whoever it was, he was approaching very slowly-a behavior virtually unknown in professional bass-fishing circles.
“Engine trouble?” Decker said.
Skink shook his head. A mischievous grin split his face.
Catherine said, “This ought to be good.”
Suddenly the dock was washed in hot light as the kliegs came on. An OCN cameraman, a wiry young man with curly red hair, hustled across the boat ramp with the Minicam balanced on one shoulder. Without explanation he handed the camera and battery pack to R. J. Decker, and bounded away.