Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

Decker closed one eye and expertly focused on the strand of mono-filament tied to the concrete piling.

“How long do we wait?” he asked.

Skink grunted. “Long as it takes. They’ll be here soon.”

“How can you be sure?”

“The fish,” Skink said. He meant the two bass he had left in the fish trap, the ones he had marked with the pliers. “The longer you leave ’em, the worse they look. Bang their heads against the wire, get all fucked up. They’d stand out bad at the weigh-in. The trick is to get ’em fresh.”

“Makes sense,” Decker said.

“Well, these boys aren’t stupid.”

On this point Decker and Skink disagreed.

After fifteen minutes they heard the sound of another boat. Skink slid to his knees and Decker took his position at the tripod camera. A boat with a glittering green metal-flake hull drifted into the Nikon’s frame; the man up front held a fishing rod and used a foot pedal to control a small electric motor. The motor made a purring sound; it was designed to maneuver the boat silently, so as not to frighten the bass. The angler seated in the stern was casting a purple rubber worm and working the lure as a snake, the way Skink had showed Decker that night on Lake Jesup.

Unfortunately, neither of the men in the green boat happened to be Dickie Lockhart searching for his traps; they were just ordinary fishermen. After a while they glided away, still working the shoreline intently, seldom speaking to one another. Decker didn’t know if the men were contestants in the big tournament, but thought they probably must be, judging by the grim set to their jawlines.

An hour passed and no other boats went by. Skink leaned back, propping his shoulders against the plastic cowling of the outboard motor. He looked thoroughly relaxed, much happier than he had seemed in the motel room. A blue heron joined them in the shade of the highway. Head cocked, it waded the shallows in slow motion, finally spearing a small bluegill. Skink laughed out loud and clapped his hands appreciatively. “Now, that’s fishing!” he exclaimed, but the noise startled the gangly bird, which squawked and flapped away, dropping the bluegill. No bigger than a silver dollar, the wounded fish swam in addled circles, flashing in the brown water. Skink leaned over and snatched it with one sure swipe.

“Please,” Decker protested.

Skink shrugged. “Gonna die anyway,”

“I promise, we’ll get a big lunch at Middendorf’s—”

But it was too late. Skink gulped the fish raw.

“Christ.” Decker looked away. He hoped like hell they wouldn’t see any snakes.

“Protein,” Skink said, muffling a burp.

“I’ll stick to Raisin Bran.”

Stiffly Decker stood up to stretch his legs. He was beginning to think Dickie Lockhart wouldn’t show up. What if he’d gotten spooked by finding the other traps empty? What if he’d decided to play it safe and fish honestly? Skink had assured him that no such change of plans was possible, too much was at stake. Not just first-place prize money but crucial points in the national bass standings—and don’t forget the prestige. Damn egos, Skink had said, these boys make Reggie Jackson seem humble by comparison.

“Any sign of the Rundell brothers this morning?” Skink asked.

“Not that I saw,” Decker said.

“You can bet your ass they’ll show up at the weigh-in. We’ll have to be careful. You look worried, Miami.”

“Just restless.”

Skink sat forward. “You been thinking about the dead guy back in Harney, am I right?”

“Dead guys, plural.”

“See why Bobby Clinch got killed in the Coon Bog,” Skink said. “He was looking for fish cages, same as we were last night. Only Bobby wasn’t too careful. The Bog is probably where Dickie hides some big mother hawgs.”

Decker said, “It’s not just Clinch that bothers me, it’s the other two.”

Skink propped his chin in his hands. He was doing his best to appear sympathetic. “Look at it like this: the creep I killed probably killed your pal the Armadillo.”

“Is that how you look at it?”

“I don’t look at it,” Skink said, “period.”

“He shot at us first,” Decker said, almost talking to himself.

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