“Macon,” Weeb sighed. His tone was that of a disappointed parent. “We lost Macon to that shiteating cocksucker.”
“Spurling?”
“Who else!” Weeb crumpled the Nielsens.
Ed Spurling hosted a show called Fishin’ with Fast Eddie, which was broadcast by satellite to one hundred and seventeen television stations. One more, counting Macon.
In the fierce battle for TV bass-fishing supremacy, Ed Spurling was Dickie Lockhart’s blood rival.
“Macon,” Dickie said morosely. Georgia was damn good bass country, too.
“So it’s one hundred twenty-five stations to one-eighteen,” the Reverend Charles Weeb remarked. “Too damn close for comfort.”
“But we’ve got some overlap,” Lockhart noted. “Mobile, Gulfport, and Fort Worth.”
Weeb nodded. “Little Rock too,” he said.
These were cable systems that carried both bass programs; a few markets could easily support more than one.
“Guess I forgot to tell you,” Weeb said. “You lost the dinnertime slot in Little Rock. They bumped you to Sunday morning, after Ozark Bowling.”
Lockhart groaned. Spurling’s lead-in was Kansas City Royals baseball, a blockbuster. It didn’t seem fair.
“You see what’s happening,” the reverend said darkly.
“But the show’s doing good. Did you see the one from Lake Jackson?”
“Shaky lens work.” Weeb sneered. “Looked like your video ace had the DTs.”
“We do our best,” the fisherman muttered, “on a thousand lousy bucks per episode.” That was the Fish Fever budget, excluding Dickie Lockhart’s salary. Travel money was so tight that Lockhart drove a Winnebago between locations to save on motels.
Weeb said, “Your show needs a damn good jolt.”
“I caught three ten-pounders at Lake Jackson!”
“Spurling’s got a new theme song,” Weeb went on. “Banjos. Mac Davis on the vocals. Have you heard it?”
Lockhart shook his head. He wasn’t much for arguing with the boss, but sometimes pride got the best of him. He asked Charles Weeb, “Did you see the latest BBRs?”
Published by Bass Blasters magazine, the Bass Blasters Ratings (BBR) ranked the country’s top anglers. The BBR was to bass fishing what the Nielsens were to the TV networks.
“Did you notice who’s number one?” Dickie Lockhart asked. “Again?”
“Yeah.” Weeb took his sneakers off the coffee table and sat up. “It’s a good fucking thing, too, because right now all we got going for us is your name, Dickie. You’re a winner and viewers like winners. ‘Course, I see where Mr. Spurling won himself a tournament in mid-Tennessee—”
“The minor leagues, Reverend Weeb. I smoked him at the Atlanta Classic. He finished eighth, and no keepers.”
Weeb stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from his expensive jogging suit. Then he sat down again. “As I said, we’re very pleased you’re on top. I just hate to see you slipping, that’s all. It happens, if you’re not careful. Happens in business, happens in fishing too. One and the same.”
Weeb tore open a fruit basket and tossed Lockhart an apple. Lockhart felt like telling Weeb how much his jogging suit looked like K-Mart pajamas.
The Reverend Charles Weeb said, “This is the majors, Dickie. If you don’t win, you get benched.” He took off his glasses. “I truly hope you keep winning. In fact, I strongly recommend it.”
On this matter, of course, Dickie Lockhart was way ahead of him.
Decker honked twice as he drove up to Skink’s shack. Short, polite honks. The last thing he wanted to do was surprise a man in a shooting mood.
The shack had a permanent lean, and looked as if a decent breeze could flatten it. Except for the buzz of horseflies, the place stood silent. Decker stuck his hands in his pockets and walked down to the lake. Across the water, several hundred yards away, a sleek boat drifted with two fishermen, plugging the shoreline. Every time one of them cast his lure, the shiny monofilament made a gossamer arc over the water before settling to the surface. The pointed raspberry hull of the fishermen’s boat glistened under the noon sun. Decker didn’t even bother to try a shout. If Skink were fishing, he’d be alone. And never in a boat like that.
Decker trudged back to the shack and sat on the porch. Seconds later he heard a cracking noise overhead, and Skink dropped out of an old pine tree.