Which left Dickie Lockhart.
Weeb thought the first episode of Fish Fever was the worst piece of television he had ever seen. Dickie was incoherent, the camera work palsied, and the tape editors obviously stoned. Still Dickie had hauled in three huge largemouth bass, and the advertisers had loved every dirt-cheap minute. Baffled, Weeb stuck with the show. In three years, Fish Fever became a top earner for the Outdoor Christian Network, though in recent months it had lost ground in several important markets to Ed Spurling’s rival bass show. Spurling’s program was briskly edited and slickly packaged, which appealed to Charlie Weeb, as did anything that made wads of money and was not an outright embarrassment. Sensing that Dickie Lockhart’s days as the Baron of Bass might be numbered, the Reverend Weeb had quietly approached Fast Eddie Spurling to see if he could be bought. The two men were still haggling over salaries by the time the Cajun Invitational fishing tournament came along, when Dickie found the preacher with two nearly naked women.
Lockhart’s demand for a lucrative new contract was an extortion that Reverend Weeb could not afford to ignore; competition had grown cutthroat among TV evangelicals—the slightest moral stain and you’d be off the air.
As he had vowed, Dickie Lockhart won the New Orleans tournament easily. Charlie Weeb didn’t bother to show up at the victory party. He scheduled a press conference for the next morning to announce Dickie Lockhart’s new cable deal, and phoned the TV writer of the Times-Picayune to let him know. Then he called a couple of hookers.
At five-thirty in the morning, a city policeman knocked on the double door to Charlie Weeb’s hotel suite. The cop recognized one of the hookers but didn’t mention it. “I’ve got bad news, Reverend,” the policeman said. “Dickie Lockhart’s been murdered.”
“Jesus help us,” Charlie Weeb said.
The cop nodded. “Somebody beat him over the head real good. Stole his truck, his boat, all his fishing gear. The cash he won in the tournament, too.”
“This is terrible,” said Reverend Weeb. “A robbery.”
“We’ll know more tomorrow, when the lab techs are done,” the cop said on his way out. “Try to get some rest.”
“Thank you,” said Charlie Weeb.
He was wide-awake now. He paid off the hookers and sat down to write his Sunday sermon.
R. J. Decker was not exactly flabbergasted to wake up in the motel room and find that Skink had not returned. Decker had every reason to suspect that it was he who had murdered Dickie Lockhart—first of all, because Skink had talked so nonchalantly about doing it; second, the perverse details of the crime seemed to carry his stamp.
Decker showered in a daze and shaved brutally, as if pain would drive the fog from his brain. The case had turned not only more murderous but also more insane. The newspapers would go nuts with this stuff; it was probably even a national story. It was a story from which Decker fervently wished to escape.
After checking out of the motel, he packed his gear into the rental car and drove toward Pass Manchac. It was nine in the morning—surely somebody had discovered the gruesome scene by now.
As he drove across the water Decker’s heart pounded; he could see blue lights flashing near the boat ramp. He pulled in at the Sportsman’s Hideout, got out of the car, and wedged into the crowd that encircled the huge bass aquarium. There were five police cruisers, two ambulances, and a fire truck, all for one dead body. It had been three whole hours since Dickie’s remains had been fished from the tank, strapped to a stretcher, and covered with a green woolen blanket; no one seemed in a hurry to make the trip to the morgue.
The crowd was mostly men, some of whom Decker recognized even without their caps as contestants from the bass tournament. Two local detectives with pads and pencils were working the spectators, hoping to luck into a witness. A pretty young woman leaned against one of the squad cars. She was sobbing as she talked to a uniformed cop, who was filling out a pink report. Decker heard the girl say her name was Ellen. Ellen O’Leary. She had a New Orleans accent.