“I’m going to go sit in the helicopter,” the brunette woman whined.
“Stay right here,” Weeb growled. “How’m I supposed to see the lake system without the binoculars?”
“We can fly over it on the way back,” the vice-president said. “The canals are almost done.”
Vigorously Weeb shook his head. “Dammit, Billy, you did it again. People don’t buy townhouses on canals. ‘Canal’ is a dirty word. A canal is where raw sewage goes. A canal is where ducks fuck and cattle piss. Who wants to live on a damn canal! Would you pay a hundred-fifty grand to do that? No, you’d want to live on a lake, a cool scenic lake, and lakes is what we’re selling here.”
“I understand,” said the vice-president. Lakes it is. Straight, narrow lakes. Lakes you could toss a stone across. Lakes of identical fingerlike dimensions.
The company that OCN had hired was a marine dredging firm whose foremen were, basically, linear-minded. They had once dredged the mouths of Port Everglades and Government Cut, and a long stretch of the freighter route in Tampa Bay. They had worked with impressive speed and efficiency, and they had worked in a perfectly straight line—which is desirable if you’re digging a ship channel but rather a handicap when you’re digging a lake. This problem had been mentioned several times to Reverend Charles Weeb, who had merely pointed out the fiscal foolishness of having big round lakes. The bigger the lake, the more water. The more water, the less land to sell. The less land to sell, the fewer townhouses to build.
“Lakes don’t have to be round,” the Reverend Weeb said. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Weeb turned to the west and stared out at the Glades. “Reminds me of the fucking Sahara,” he said, “except with muck.”
“The water rises in late spring and early summer,” the vice-president reported.
“Dickie promises bass.”
“Yes, sir, some of the best fishing in the South.”
“He’d better be right.” Weeb walked along the dike, admiring the spine of the new highway. The vice-president walked a few steps behind him while the secretary stayed where she was, casting glances toward the blue-tinted cockpit of the Jet-Ranger.
“Twenty-nine thousand units,” Weeb was saying, “twenty-nine thousand families. Our very own Christian city!”
“Yes,” the vice-president said. It was the name of the development that gnawed at him. Lunker Lakes. The vice-president felt that the name Lunker Lakes presented a substantial marketing problem; too colloquial, too red behind the neck. The Reverend Charles Weeb disagreed. It was his audience, he said, and he damn well knew what they would and would not buy. Lunker Lakes was perfect, he insisted. It couldn’t miss.
Charlie Weeb was heading back to the chopper. “Billy, we ought to start thinking about shooting some commercials,” he said. “Future Bass Capital of America, something like that. Fly Dickie down and get some tape in the can. He can use his own crew, but I’d like you or Deacon Johnson to supervise.”
The vice-president said, “There’s no fish in the lakes yet.”
Weeb climbed into the chopper and the vice-president squeezed in beside him. The secretary was up front next to the pilot. Weeb didn’t seem to care.
“I know there’s no fucking fish in the lakes. Tell Dickie to go across the dike and shoot some tape on the other side. He’ll know what to do.”
The Jet-Ranger lifted off and swung low to the east.
“Head over that way,” the vice-president told the pilot, “where they’re digging those lakes.”
“What lakes?” the pilot asked.
Skink was late to the airport. R. J. Decker was not the least bit surprised. He slipped into a phone booth and called the Harney Sentinel to see if anything had broken loose about the shootings. He had a story all made up about going to meet Ott at the pancake house but Ott never showing up.
Sandy Kilpatrick got on the phone. He said, “I’ve got some very bad news, Mr. Decker.”
Decker took a breath.
“It’s about Ott,” Kilpatrick said. His voice was a forced whisper, like a priest in the confessional.
“What happened?” Decker said.
“A terrible car accident early this morning,” Kilpatrick said. “Out on the Gilchrist Highway. Ott must have gone to sleep at the wheel. His truck ran off the road and hit a big cypress.”