“I didn’t win it,” Fast Eddie said, “not yet.”
“Gentlemen, read what it says on the trophy, look closely,” said Charlie Weeb. “This is probably the biggest trophy most of you ever saw, including Eddie here, who’s won some pretty big ones.”
“None this big,” Eddie Spurling said admiringly.
“Damn right,” Weeb said. ‘That’s because it’s the biggest trophy ever. And it’s the biggest trophy ever because it goes to the winner of the biggest fishing tournament ever. Three weeks from today, gentlemen, on the edge of the legendary Florida Everglades, fifty of the best bass anglers in the world will compete for a first prize of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Christ,” said one of the reporters. Finally something to scribble.
“The richest tournament ever,” Charlie Weeb said, glowing. “The Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic.”
Ed Spurling said, “At Lunker Lakes.”
“Oh yes,” said the Reverend Weeb, “how could I forget?”
Al Garcia was dog-tired. He’d been up since six, and even after four cups of coffee his tongue felt like mossy Styrofoam. His bum left shoulder was screaming for Percodans but Garcia stuck with plain aspirin, four at a pop. It was one of those days when he wondered why he hadn’t just retired on full disability and moved quietly to Ocala; one of those days when everything and everybody in Miami annoyed the shit out of him. The lady at the toll booth, for instance, when she’d snatched the dollar bill out of his hand—a frigging buck, just for the matchless pleasure of driving the Rickenbacker out to Key Biscayne. And the doorman at the Mayan high-rise condo. Let’s see some identification, please. How about a sergeant’s badge, asshole? The thing was, the doorman—dressed in a charcoal monkey suit that must have cost four bills—the doorman used to work for fucking Somoza. Used to pulverize peasant skulls on behalf of the Nicaraguan National Guard. Garcia knew this, and still he had to stand there, dig around for his shield and a driver’s license, before the goon would let him inside.
To top it off, the rich guy he’s supposed to interview comes to the door wearing one of those faggy thong bathing suits (candy-apple red) that make it look like you’ve got a python between your legs.
“Come on in, Sergeant,” said Dennis Gault. “Tell me the news.”
“What news?” Garcia looked the place over before he sat down.
Nice apartment. Thick, fluffy carpet—no rug-burn romances for this stud. Swell view of the Atlantic, too. Got to cost a million-three easy, Garcia thought. You can’t buy a toilet on the island for under two-fifty.
Gault said, “About Decker—didn’t you catch him?”
“Not yet.”
“Grapefruit juice? O.J.?”
“Coffee if you got it,” Garcia said. “You must be headed down to the beach.”
“No,” Gault said, “the sauna.” After he poured Garcia’s coffee, he said, “I thought that’s why you called—Decker, I mean. I figured you boys would’ve found him by now.”
“You boys. Fine, be that way, Garcia thought. “We almost had him last night, but he got away.”
“Got away?” Dennis Gault asked.
“As in, eluded us,” Garcia said. “Stole a boat and took off across the bay. By the time we got a chopper up, it was too late.”
“Sounds like you boys fucked up.”
“We prefer to think of it as a missed opportunity.” Garcia smiled. “Very good coffee. Colombian?”
“Yeah,” Dennis Gault said. He dumped a squirt of vodka into his grapefruit juice.
“The reason I’m here,” Garcia said, “is I need you to tell me everything about what happened with Decker.”
Gault sat down, tugged irritably at his cherry swimtrunks. Garcia figured they must be riding clear up the crack of his buttocks.
“Hell, I flew to New Orleans and gave a full statement,” Gault said. “How many times do I have to go over it?”
Garcia said, “I’ve read your statement, Mr. Gault. It’s fine as far as it goes. But, see, working the Miami angle, I need a few more details.”
“Such as?”
“Such as how did Decker choose you?” Garcia was admiring the empty coffee cup. It looked like real china.
Gault said, “My feelings about Dickie Lockhart were no secret, Sergeant. I’m sure Decker talked to some fishermen, heard the stories. Once he took those photographs, I was the logical choice for a buyer—he knew I hated Dickie, knew I wanted to see him discredited. Plus he knew I was a man of means. He knew I could afford his price, no matter how ludicrous.”