Decker wondered what she knew, what she might have seen.
In the back of his mind Decker harbored a fear that Skink might show up at the dock to admire his own handiwork, but there was no sign of him. Decker slipped into a phone booth and called Dennis Gault at home in Miami. He sounded half-asleep.
“What do you want?”
What do you want? All charm, this guy.
“Your pal Dickie’s landed his last lunker,” Decker said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s dead.”
“Shit,” Gault said. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Don’t leave New Orleans,” Gault said. “Stay put.”
“No way.” Just what I need is that asshole jetting up for brunch at Brennan’s, Decker thought. He’s probably icing a Dom Perignon already.
In an oddly stiff tone Gault asked, “Do you have those pictures?” As if it made a difference now.
Decker didn’t answer. Through the pane in the phone booth he was watching Thomas Curl and the Rundell brothers in the parking lot of the marina. One of the local detectives was interviewing the three men together; when Ozzie talked, his head bobbed up and down like a dashboard puppy. The cop was scribbling energetically in his notebook.
“What number you at?” Dennis Gault asked over the phone.
“Seventy,” Decker replied. “As in miles per hour.”
The tire blew on Interstate 10, outside of Kenner. The spare was one of those tiny toy tires now standard equipment on new cars. To get to the spare Decker had to empty the trunk of his duffel and camera gear, which he stacked neatly by the side of the highway. He had gotten the rental halfway jacked when he heard another car pull up behind him in the emergency lane; by the emphysemic sounds of the engine, Decker knew it wasn’t a cop.
Not even close. It was a brown 1974 Cordoba, its vinyl roof puckered like a sun blister. Two-for-four on the hubcaps. Three men got out of the rusty old tank; judging by their undershirts and tattoos, Decker assumed they were not from the Triple-A. He pried the crowbar out of the jack handle and held it behind him.
“Gentlemen,” he said.
“Whatsamatter here?” said the largest of the trio.
“Flat tire,” Decker said. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Thanks anyway.”
The men didn’t exactly take the hint. Two of them ambled over to where Decker had laid the camera bag, tripod, and galvanized lens cases. One of the jerks poked at the cameras with the toe of his boot.
“Whatsis?” he said.
“Beer money,” said the other.
Decker couldn’t believe it. Broad daylight, cars and trucks and Winnebagos cruising by on the interstate—and these pussbuckets were going to roll him anyway. Damned Nikons, he thought; sometimes they seemed to be the root of all his troubles.
“I’m a professional photographer,” Decker said. “Want me to take your picture?”
The two thinnest men looked expectantly toward the bigger one. Decker knew the idea appealed to them, although their leader needed a little convincing. “A nice eight-by-ten,” Decker said affably, “just for fun.” He knew what the big guy was thinking: Well, why not—we’re going to steal the damn things anyway.
“Stand in front of the car and I’ll get a shot of all three of you together. Go ahead, now.”
Decker walked over to the camera bag and inconspicuously set the crowbar inside. He picked up a bare F-3 camera body, didn’t even bother to screw on a lens. These morons wouldn’t know the difference. Shrugging, murmuring, slicking their hair with brown bony hands, the highwaymen struck a pricelessly idiotic pose in front of the dented Cordoba. As he pressed the shutter, Decker almost wished there were film in the camera.
“That’s just great, guys,” he said. “Now let’s try one from the side.”
The big man scowled.
“Just a joke,” Decker said. The two thin guys didn’t get it anyway.
“Enough a this shit,” the leader of the trio said. “We want your goddamn car.”
“What for?”
“To go to Florida.”
Of course, Decker thought, Florida. He should have known. Every pillhead fugitive felon in America winds up in Florida eventually. The Human Sludge Factor—it all drips to the South.