ch.doublewhammy-第1部分

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d　rubbed　the　sleep　from　his　eyes。　He　put　on　three　pairs　of　socks；　a　blue　flannel　shirt；　olive　dungarees；　a　Timex　waterproof　watch；　and　a　burgundy　cap　with　a　patch　stitched　to　the　crown。　The　patch　said：　〃Mann's　Jelly　Worms。〃
　Clinch　padded　to　the　kitchen　and　fixed　himself　a　pot　of　coffee；　four　eggs　scrambled　（with　ketchup）；　a　quarter…pound　of　Jimmy　Dean　sausage；　and　two　slices　of　whole…wheat　toast　with　grape　jam。　As　he　ate；　he　listened　to　the　radio　for　a　weather　report。　The　temperature　outside　was　forty…one　degrees；　humidity　thirty…five　percent；　wind　blowing　from　the　northeast　at　seven　miles　per　hour。　According　to　the　weatherman；　thick　fog　lay　on　the　highway　between　Harney　and　Lake　Jesup。　Robert　Clinch　loved　to　drive　in　the　fog　because　it　gave　him　a　chance　to　use　the　amber　fog　lights　on　his　new　Blazer　truck。　The　fog　lights　had　been　a　455　option；　and　his　wife；　Clarisse；　now　asleep　in　the　bedroom；　was　always　bitching　about　what　a　waste　of　money　they　were。　Clinch　decided　that　later；　when　he　got　home　from　the　lake；　he　would　tell　Clarisse　how　the　fog　lights　had　saved　his　life　on　Route　222；　how　a　wall…eyed　truck　driver　with　a　rig　full　of　Valencia　oranges　had　crossed　the　center　line　and　swerved　back　just　in　time　because　he'd　seen　the　Blazer's　fancy　fog　lights。　Robert　Clinch　was　not　sure　if　Clarisse　would　bite　on　the　story；　in　fact；　he　wasn't　sure　if　she'd　be　all　too　thrilled　that　the　truck　hadn't　plowed　into　him；　vanquishing　in　one　fiery　millisecond　the　expensive　Blazer；　the　sleek　bass　boat；　and　Robert　Clinch　himself。　Clarisse　did　not　think　much　of　her　husband's　hobby。
　Robert　Clinch　put　on　a　pair　of　soft…soled　Gore…Tex　boots　and　slipped　into　a　vivid　red　ski　vest　that　was　covered　with　emblems　from　various　fishing　tournaments。　He　went　out　to　the　garage　where　the　boat　was　kept　and　gazed　at　it　proudly；　running　his　hand　along　the　shiny　gunwale。　It　was　a　Ranger　390V；　nineteen　and　one…half　feet　long。　Dual　livewells；　custom　upholstery　and　carpeting　（royal　blue）；　and　twin　tanks　that　held　enough　fuel　to　run　all　the　way　to　Okeechobee　and　back。　The　engine　on　the　boat　was　a　two…hundred…horsepower　Mercury；　one　of　the　most　powerful　outboards　ever　manufactured。　A　friend　had　once　clocked　Bobby　Clinch's　boat　at　sixty…two　miles　per　hour。　There　was　no　earthly　reason　to　go　so　fast；　except　that　it　was　fun　as　hell　to　show　off。
　Robert　Clinch　loved　his　boat　more　than　anything　else　in　the　world。　Loved　it　more　than　his　wife。　More　than　his　kids。　More　than　his　girlfriend。　More　than　his　double…mortgaged　home。　Even　more　than　the　very　largemouth　bass　he　was　pursuing。　Riding　on　the　lake　at　dawn；　Robert　Clinch　often　felt　that　he　loved　his　boat　more　than　he　loved　life　itself。
　On　this　special　morning　he　decided；　for　appearance'　sake；　to　bring　along　a　fishing　rod。　From　a　rack　on　the　wall　he　picked　a　cheap　spinning　outfit…why　risk　the　good　stuff？　As　he　tried　to　thread　the　eight…pound　monofilament　through　the　guides　of　the　rod；　Clinch　noticed　that　his　hands　were　quivering。　He　wondered　if　it　was　the　coffee；　his　nerves；　or　both。　Finally　he　got　the　rod　rigged　and　tied　a　plastic　minnow　lure　to　the　end　of　the　line。　He　found　his　portable　Q…Beam　spotlight；　tested　it；　and　stored　it　under　a　bow　hatch　inside　the　boat。　Then　he　hitched　the　trailer　to　the　back　of　the　Blazer。
　Clinch　started　the　truck　and　let　it　warm。　The　air　in　the　cab　was　frosty　and　he　could　see　his　breath。　He　turned　up　the　heater　full　blast。　He　thought　about　one　more　cup　of　coffee　but　decided　against　it；　he　didn't　want　to　spend　all　morning　with　a　bursting　bladder；　and　it　was　too　damn　cold　to　unzip　and　hang　his　pecker　over　the　side　of　the　boat。
　He　also　thought　about　bringing　a　gun；　but　that　seemed　silly。　Nobody　took　a　gun　to　the　lake。
　Robert　Clinch　was　about　to　pull　out　of　the　driveway　when　he　got　an　idea；　something　that　might　make　his　homeing　more　bearable。
　He　slipped　back　into　the　house　and　wrote　a　note　to　Clarisse。　He　put　it　on　the　dinette；　next　to　the　toaster：　〃Honey；　I'll　be　home　by　noon。　Maybe　we　can　go　to　Sears　and　look　for　that　shower　curtain　you　wanted。　Love；　Bobby。〃
　
　Robert　Clinch　never　returned。
　By　midafternoon　his　wife　was　so　angry　that　she　drove　to　Sears　and　purchased　not　only　a　shower　curtain　but　some　electric　hair　curlers　and　a　pink　throw　rug　too。　By　suppertime　she　was　livid；　and　tossed　her　husband's　portion　of　Kentucky　fried　chicken　over　the　fence　to　the　Labrador　retriever　next　door。　At　midnight　she　phoned　her　mother　in　Valdosta　to　announce　that　she　was　packing　up　the　kids　and　leaving　the　bum　for　good。
　The　next　morning；　as　Clarisse　rifled　her　husband's　bureau　for　clues　and　loose　cash；　the　county　sheriff　phoned。　He　had　some　lousy　news。
　From　the　air　a　cropduster　had　spotted　a　purplish　slick　on　a　remote　corner　of　Lake　Jesup　known　as　Coon　Bog。　On　a　second　pass　the　cropduster　had　spotted　the　sparkled　hull　of　a　bass　boat；　upside　down　and　half…submerged　about　fifty　yards　from　shore。　Something　big　and　red　was　floating　nearby。
　Clarisse　Clinch　asked　the　sheriff　if　the　big　red　thing　in　the　water　happened　to　have　blond　hair；　and　the　sheriff　said　not　anymore；　since　a　flock　of　mallard　ducks　had　been　pecking　at　it　all　night。　Clarisse　asked　if　any　identification　had　been　found　on　the　body；　and　the　sheriff　said　no；　Bobby's　wallet　must　have　shaken　out　in　the　accident　and　fallen　into　the　water。　Mrs。　Clinch　told　the　sheriff　thank　you；　hung　up；　and　immediately　dialed　the　Visa　Card　headquarters　in　Miami　to　report　the　loss。
　
　〃What　do　you　know　about　fishing？〃
　〃A　little；〃　said　R。　J。　Decker。　The　interview　was　still　at　the　stage　where　Decker　was　supposed　to　look　steady　and　taciturn；　the　stage　where　the　prospective　client　was　sizing　him　up。　Decker　knew　he　was　pretty　good　in　the　sizing…up　department。　He　had　the　physique　of　a　linebacker：　five…eleven；　one　hundred　ninety　pounds；　chest　like　a　drum；　arms　like　cable。　He　had　curly　dark　hair　and　sharp　brown　eyes　that　gave　nothing　away。　He　often　looked　amused　but　seldom　smiled　around　strangers。　At　times　he　could　be　a　very　good　listener；　or　pretend　to　be。　Decker　was　neither　diffident　nor　particularly　patient；　he　was　merely　on　constant　alert　for　jerks。　Time　was　too　short　to　waste　on　them。　Unless　it　was　absolutely　necessary；　like　now。
　〃Are　you　an　outdoorsman？〃　Dennis　Gault　asked。
　Decker　shrugged。　〃You　mean　can　I　start　a　campfire？　Sure。　Can　I　kill　a　Cape　buffalo　barhanded？　Probably　not。〃
　Gault　poured　himself　a　gin　and　tonic。　〃But　you　can　handle　yourself；　I　presume。〃
　〃You　presume　right。〃
　〃Size　doesn't　mean　a　damn　thing｜；〃　Gault　said。　〃You　could　still　be　a　wimp。〃
　Decker　sighed。　Another　macho　jerk。
　Gault　asked；　〃So　what　kind　of　fishing　do　you　know　about？〃
　〃Offshore　stuff；　nothing　exotic。　Grouper；　snapper；　dolphin。〃
　〃Pussy　fish；〃　Gault　snorted。　〃For　tourists。〃
　〃Oh；〃　Decker　said；　〃so　you　must　be　the　new　Zane　Grey。〃
　Gault　looked　up　sharply　from　his　gin。　〃I　don't　care　for　your　attitude；　mister。〃
　Decker　had　heard　this　before。　The　mister　was　kind　of　a　nice　touch；　though。
　Dennis　Gault　said；　〃You　look　like　you　want　to　punch　me。〃
　〃That's　pretty　funny。〃
　〃I　don't　know　about　you；〃　Gault　said；　stirring　his　drink。　〃You　look　like　you're　itching　to　take　a　swing。〃
　〃What　for？〃　Decker　said。　〃Anytime　I　want　to　punch　an　asshole　I　can　stroll　down　to　Biscayne　Boulevard　and　take　my　pick。〃
　He　guessed　that　it　would　take　Gault　five　or　six　seconds　to　e　up　with　some　witty　reply。　Actually　it　took　a　little　longer。
　〃I　guarantee　you　never　met　an　asshole　like　me；〃　he　said。
　Decker　glanced　at　his　wristwatch　and　looked　very　bored…a　mannerism　he'd　been　practicing。
　Gault　made　a　face。　He　wore　a　tight　powder…blue　pullover　and　baggy　linen　trousers。　He　looked　forty；　maybe　older。　He　studied　Decker　through　amber　aviator　glasses。　〃You　don't　like　me；　do　you？〃　he　said。
　〃I　don't　know　you；　Mr。　Gault。〃
　〃You　know　I'm　rich；　and　you　know　I've　got　a　problem。　That's　enough。〃
　〃I　know　you　kept　me　suffocating　in　your　neo…modern　earth…tone　lobby　for　two　hours；〃　Decker　said。　〃I　know　your　secretary's　name　is　Ruth　and　I　know　she　doesn't　keep　any　Maalox　tablets　in　her　desk　because　I　asked。　I　know　your　daddy　owns　this　skyscraper　and　your　granddad　owns　a　sugar　mill；　and　I　know　your　T…shirt　looks　like　hell　with　those　trousers。　And　that's　all　I　know　about　you。〃
　Which　was　sort　of　a　lie。　Decker　also　knew　about　the　two　family　banks　in　Boca　Raton；　the　shopping　mall　in　Daytona　Beach；　and　the　seventy…five　thousand　acres　of　raw　cane　west　of　Lake　Okeechobee。
　Dennis　Gault　sat　down　behind　a　low　Plexiglas　desk。　The　desk　looked　like　it　belonged　in　a　museum；　maybe　as　a　display　case　for　Mayan　pottery。　Gault　said；　〃So　I'm　a　sugar　daddy；　you're　right。　Want　to　know　what　I　know　about　you；　Mr。　Private　Eye；　Mr。　Felony　Past？〃
　Oh　boy；　thought　R。　J。　Decker；　this　is　your　life。　'Tell　me　your　problem　or　I'm　laying。〃
　〃Tournament　fishing；〃　Gault　said。　〃What　do　you　know　about　tournament　fishing？〃
　〃Not　a　damn　thing。〃
　Gault　stood　up　and　pointed　reverently　to　a　fat　blackish　fish　mounted　on　the　wall。　〃Do　you　know　what　that　is？〃
　〃An　oil　drum；〃　〃Decker　replied；　〃with　eyes。〃　He　knew　what　it　was。　You　couldn't　live　in　the　South　and　not　know　what　it　was。
　〃A　largemouth　bass！〃　Gault　exclaimed。
　He　gazed　at　the　stuffed　fish　as　if　it　were　a　sacred　icon。　It　was　easy　to　see　how　the　bass　got　its　name；　its　maw　could　have　engulfed　a　soccer　ball。
　〃Fourteen　pounds；　four　ounces；〃　Gault　announced。　〃Got　her　on　a　crankbait　at　Lake　Toho。　Do　you　have　any　idea　what　this　fish　was　worth？〃
　Decker　felt　helpless。　He　felt　like　he　was　stuck　in　an　elevator　with　a　Jehovah's　Witness。
　〃Seventy…five　thousand　dollars；〃　Gault　said。
　〃Christ。〃
　〃Now　I　got　your　attention；　don't　I？〃　Gault　grinned。　He　patted　the　flank　of　the　plastic　bass　as　if　it　were　the　family　dog。
　〃This　fish；〃　he　went　on；　〃won　the　Southeast　Regional　Bass　Anglers　Classic　two　years　ago。　First　place　was　seventy…five　large　and　a　Ford　Thunderbird。　I　gave　the　car　to　some　migrants。〃
　〃All　that　for　one　fish？〃　Decker　was　amazed。　Civilization　was　in　serious　trouble。
　〃In　1985；〃　Gault　went　on；　〃I　fished　seventeen　tournaments　and　made　one　hundred　and　seven　thousand　dollars；　Mr。　Decker。　Don't　look　so　astounded。　The　prize　money　es　from　sponsors…boat　makers；　tackle　manufacturers；　bait　panies；　the　outboard　marine　industry。　Bass　fishing