“What’s going on, jungle man?”
“Change of plans,” Skink said. “Late-breaking brainstorm.”
Jim Tile was thinking about it. “The Starcraft isn’t one of the tournament boats.”
“No,” Skink said, “it’s not. Ask Decker about that one.”
Garcia said, That means there’s another guy still out on the water.”
“Right,” said Jim Tile. “Dennis Gault.”
Skink looked pleased. “You boys are pretty sharp, even for cops.”
Al Garcia remembered what Skink had taught him about the huge fish. “Just what the hell have you done?” he asked.
“It’s not me, senor. I just arranged things.” Skink flipped open the lid of the Igloo and saw Garcia’s little bass, darting in the clean water. “I’ll be damned, Sergeant, I’m proud of you.”
Jim Tile said, “Sir, there’s something you ought to know.”
“In a minute, Trooper Jim. First let’s get this little scupper to the weigh station.” By himself Skink hoisted the heavy cooler and elbowed his way through the crowd. “You won’t believe this,” he was saying over his shoulder to Tile and Garcia, “but I believe you’re the only boat that caught fish.”
“That’s what we’re trying to tell you,” Garcia said, huffing behind.
Skink climbed the stage and carried the cooler to the scale. He took out the little bass and carefully set him in the basket. Behind them onstage the digital scale lighted up with glowing six-foot numerals: “14 oz.”
“Ha-ha!” Skink cawed. He found the stage mike and boomed into the PA system: “Attention, K-Mart shoppers! We’ve got a winner.”
“Shitfire,” Charlie Weeb muttered. The voice on the PA sounded just like the blind man. First a boatload of buzzards, and now what?
As the queasy preacher followed the OCN camerman to the weigh station, it occurred to him it wasn’t red-haired Rudy, but someone else with the Minicam, someone Weeb didn’t recognize. It made little sense, but in the unremitting chaos of the day it seemed a negligible mystery.
The blind man was not onstage when Charlie Weeb got there, but another nightmare awaited him.
The Tile Brothers.
“Hola,” Jim Tile said to Charlie Weeb. “muy grande fish, no?”
“Check it out, bro,” Al Garcia said.
Charlie Weeb got a bilious taste in his throat. “It appears that you are indeed the winner,” he said. The Minicam was right in his face—all America was watching. Somehow Weeb composed himself and raised the puny bass for the camera. Two girls in orange bikinis rolled out the immense trophy, and two more carried out a giant cardboard facsimile of the check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
“That’s righteous,” Al Garcia said, causing Jim Tile to wince, “but where be the real thing?”
“Ah,” Weeb said. How could he go on TV and say that, after all this, the check was missing? That he and Deacon Johnson were the only two human beings with the combination to the safe, and now Deacon Johnson was gone?
Sensing trouble, Jim Tile asked, “Donde esta el cheque?”
“I’m sorry,” Reverend Weeb said, “but I don’t speak Cubish.”
By way of translation, Al Garcia said: “Where’s the fucking bread, por favor?”
Weeb attempted several explanations, none persuasive and none contradicting the fact that he had promised to present the check to the winners on national television on the day of the tournament. The crowd, especially the other bass anglers, became unruly and insistent; as much as they resented the Tile Brothers, they resented even more the idea of any fisherman getting stiffed. Even the sulking Happy Gland contingent joined the fracas.
“I’m sorry,” Weeb said finally, raising his palms, “there’s been a slight problem.”
Al Garcia and Jim Tile looked at one another irritably.
“You do the honors,” Garcia said.
Jim Tile dug a badge and some handcuffs out of his jacket.
Charlie Weeb’s lushly forested eyebrows seemed to wilt. A buzz went through the audience.
“Cut, Rudy, cut!” the director was hollering into R. J. Decker’s ear, but Decker let it roll.
In perfect English, Jim Tile said, “Mr. Weeb, you’re under arrest for fraud—”
“And grand larceny,” Garcia interjected. “And any other damn thing I can think of.”
“And grand larceny,” Jim Tile continued. “You have the right to remain silent—”