Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

“Ichabod,” Skink said. “Icky for short.”

Decker suspected, and fervently hoped, that Ichabod was not Skink’s real name. He hoped that Skink had not chosen this particular moment, in front of these particular people, to bare the murky secrets of his soul. Catherine was known to have that effect on a man.

Inanely Decker said to James, “This is quite a place. Your practice must be going great guns.”

“Actually,” James said, “I picked up this house before I became a doctor.” He seemed relieved not to be talking about the poodle or his wife’s good looks. “Back when I was in real estate,” he said, “that’s when I lucked into the place.”

“What kinda real estate?” Skink asked.

“Interval-ownership units,” James replied, without looking at him.

“Timeshares,” Catherine added helpfully.

On the sofa Skink shifted with an audible crinkle. ‘Timeshares,” he said. “Wherebouts?”

Catherine pointed to several small plaques hanging on one of the walls. “James was the top salesman three years in a row,” she said. It didn’t sound like she was bragging; it sounded like she said it to get it out of the way, knowing James would have mentioned it anyway.

“And where was this?” Skink pressed.

“Up the coast north of Smyrna,” James said. “We did very well for a stretch in the late seventies. Then Tallahassee cracked down, the media went sour on us, and the interval market dried up. Same old tune. I figured it was time to move along to something else.”

“Boom and bust,” Decker played along. “That’s the story of Florida.” Was it purely the money, he wondered, that had attracted Catherine to this lanky twit? In a way he hoped it was that simple, that it was nothing more.

Skink got up and crunched over to examine the plaques. Catherine and James couldn’t take their eyes off him; they had never had such a wild-looking person roaming their house.

“What was the name of your project?” Skink asked, toying with his silvery braid.

“Sparrow Beach,” James said. “The Sparrow Beach Club. Seems like ancient history now.”

Skink gave no reply, but let out a soft and surprising noise. It sounded to R. J. Decker like a sigh.

“Is your friend all right?” Catherine asked later.

“Sure,” Decker said. “He prefers to sleep outdoors, really.”

In the middle of James’s monologue about his sales triumphs at Sparrow Beach, Skink had turned to Catherine and asked if he could spend the night in the backyard. Decker could tell he was brooding, but had no private moment to ask what was wrong. Catherine had loaned Skink an old blanket and in a flat voice Skink had thanked her for the hospitality and lumbered out the back door. He had ignored James completely.

Skink settled in under a tall avocado tree, and from the window Decker could see him sitting upright against the trunk, facing the narrow waterway that ran behind Catherine’s house. Decker had an urge to join him there, under the stars.

“Let James have a look at your neck,” Catherine said.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Lie down here,” James instructed, making room on the sofa. “Lie down on your stomach.”

The next thing Decker knew, James was hunched over him with one knee propped on the sofa for leverage. Intently he kneaded and probed the back of Decker’s neck, while Catherine watched cross-legged on an ottoman.

“That hurt?” James asked.

Decker grunted. It did hurt, but the rubbing helped; James seemed to know what he was doing.

“Brother, you’re really out of alignment,” he said.

“That’s a medical term?”

“Full traction is what you need. Slings and weights. Thermal therapy. Ultrasound. You’re too young for Medicare, otherwise I’d fix you right up with a twelve-week program.” James worked his fingers along Decker’s spine. He seemed at ease now, enjoying the role of expert. “Have you got any insurance?” he asked.

“Nope,” Decker said.

“Workmen’s comp? Maybe you’re in an HMO.”

“Nope.” The guy was unbelievable; the pitchman’s spark was probably left over from his days of peddling condos.

“I must caution you,” James went on, “that injuries such as this should never go untreated. Your neck has been wrenched badly.”

“I’m aware of that,” Decker said, wincing under the chiropractor’s explorations. “Tell me, what’s the difference between this and a massage?”

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