ch.doublewhammy-第12部分

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　that　somebody　had　bee　homicidal　over　a　largemouth　bass　was　perversely　appealing　to　Decker；　and　it　made　him　want　very　much　to　get　a　picture　of　the　guys　who　did　it。
　First　he　needed　to　meet　with　Gault　again；　a　distasteful　prospect。　He　could　do　it　this　evening；　back　in　Miami；　it　wouldn't　take　long。　From　the　motel　room　Decker　called　and　made　reservations　for　the　following　night　on　a　seven…P。M。　United　flight　to　New　Orleans。　The　Cajun　Invitational　Bass　Classic　was　this　week's　stop　on　the　professional　fishing　tour；　and　a　good　place　for　Decker　to　get　his　first　glimpse　of　Dickie　Lockhart　in　action。　He　had　seen　the　famous　TV　angler's　face　on　a　billboard　across　from　a　bait　shop　on　Route　222：　〃Dickie　Lockhart　Loves　Happy　Gland　Fish　Scent！　So　Do　Lunker　Bass！〃　Decker　had　been　so　intrigued　by　the　billboard　that　he'd　asked　a　man　at　the　bait　shop　if　the　Happy　Gland　pany　made　a　formula　for　humans。　The　man　at　the　bait　shop　dutifully　checked　behind　the　counter　and　said　no。
　Before　leaving　Harney；　Decker　tried　to　call　Ott　Pickney　at　the　newspaper。　Sandy　Kilpatrick；　the　birdlike　editor；　said　Ott　had　gone　out　early　to　do　some　interviews。　The　note　of　concern　in　Kilpatrick's　voice　suggested　that　pre…lunchtime　enterprise　was　uncharacteristic　behavior　for　Ott。　Decker　left　a　message　to　have　Ott　call　him　that　night　in　Miami。
　
　At　that　moment　Ott　Pickney　was　slurping　down　black　coffee　at　Culver　Rundell's　bait　shop　on　the　southern　shore　of　Lake　Jesup。　Culver　Rundell　was　behind　the　counter　and　his　brother　Ozzie　was　out　back　dipping　shiners。　Ott　was　trying　to　strike　up　a　conversation　about　Bobby　Clinch。　Ott　had　set　his　reporter's　notebook　on　the　counter　twenty　minutes　earlier；　and　the　pages　were　still　blank。
　〃Sorry　I'm　not　much　help；〃　Culver　Rundell　said。　〃Bobby　was　a　nice　guy；　a　pretty　good　basser。　That's　about　all　I　can　tell　you。　Also；　he　favored　spinnerbaits。〃
　〃Spinnerbaits。〃
　〃Over　plastic　worms；〃　Culver　Rundell　explained。
　Ott　Pickney　could　not　bring　himself　to　transcribe　this　detail。
　〃I　understand　you　were　here　when　they　brought　in　the　body；〃　Ott　said。
　〃I　was。　The　Davidson　boys　found　him。　Daniel　and　Desi。〃
　〃How　awful；〃　Ott　said。
　〃It　was　my　truck　that　took　him　to　the　morgue。〃
　Ott　said　nothing　about　the　autopsy。　Dr。　Pembroke　was　third　on　his　list　of　interview　subjects。
　〃I　hated　to　miss　the　funeral；〃　Culver　Rundell　said；　〃but　we　had　one　hellacious　busy　morning。〃
　〃The　casket　was　made　out　of　Bobby's　boat。〃
　〃So　I　heard！〃　Culver　said。　〃What　a　neat　idea。　I　wisht　I　coulda　seen　it。〃
　Ott　tapped　his　Bic　pen　on　the　counter　and　said　amiably；　〃I　was　amazed　how　handsomely　they　did　it。〃
　〃What　I　heard；〃　said　Culver　Rundell；　〃is　they　got　a　regular　oak　coffin　from　Pearl　Brothers；　sanded　off　the　finish；　and　paneled　it　with　long　strips　from　the　hull　of　the　boat。　Cost　another　two　grand；　I　know　for　a　fact。　The　bass　club　is　paying。〃
　Ott　Pickney　said；　〃And　who　would　have　done　the　work；　the　funeral　home？〃
　〃Naw；　it　was　Larkin's　shop。〃
　Larkin　was　a　carpenter。　He　had　done　all　the　benches　at　the　Harney　County　Courthouse；　and　also　the　front　doors　on　the　new　U。S。　Post　Office。
　〃He's　the　best　in　town；〃　Culver　Rundell　remarked。　He　thought　he　was　doing　Larkin　a　favor；　a　little　free　publicity　for　the　business。
　〃Well；　he　did　a　damn　fine　job　with　the　coffin；〃　Ott　said。　He　left　two　one…dollar　bills　on　the　countertop；　said　good…bye；　and　drove　immediately　to　Larkin's　shop。　Ott　hoped　there　would　be　something　left　to　see；　though　he　had　no　idea　exactly　what　to　look　for。
　
　The　shop　was　more　of　an　old　A…frame　barn　with　a　fancy　new　electric　garage　door；　the　kind　used　on　those　big　import…export　warehouses　in　western　Dade　County。　The　door　to　the　wood　shop　was　up。　Ott　saw　plenty　of　raw　furniture　but　no　carpenters。　It　turned　out　Larkin　wasn't　there；　it　was　a　slow　morning；　so　he'd　gone　fishing。　Naturally。
　A　young　black　apprentice　carpenter　named　Miller　asked　the　reporter　what　he　wanted。
　〃I'm　doing　a　story　about　Bobby　Clinch；　the　young　man　who　died　in　that　terrible　boating　accident　at　the　Bog。〃
　〃Yeah；〃　Miller　said。　His　workshirt　was　soaked。　Sawdust　and　curlicued　pine　shavings　stuck　to　his　coal…black　arms。　He　looked　as　if　he　were　in　the　middle　of　a　project；　and　wanted　to　get　back　to　it。
　Pushing　things；　Ott　Pickney　said；　〃This　shop　did　the　custom　work　on　the　coffin；　right？〃
　〃Yeah；〃　Miller　said；　〃the　boat　job。〃
　〃It　was　really　something；〃　Ott　said。　〃How　did　you　guys　do　that？　You　won't　mind　if　I　take　some　notes…〃
　〃Mr。　Larkin　did　it　all　by　himself；〃　Miller　said。　〃I　guess　he　knew　the　deceased。〃
　That　last　word　rattled　Ott。　He　glanced　up　from　the　notebook　to　catch　the　cutting　look　in　Miller's　eye。　The　look　said：　Don't　patronize　me；　pal；　I　got　better　things　to　do。
　〃Blue　metal…flake　casket；　man。　Looked　like　a　giant　fucking　cough　drop。〃
　Ott　cleared　his　throat。　〃I'm　sure　they　meant　well　。。。　I　mean；　it　was　supposed　to　be　symbolic。　Sort　of　a　farewell　gesture。〃
　〃I'll　give　you　a　farewell　gesture…〃　Miller　said；　but　then　the　phone　rang　in　the　far　corner　of　the　workshed。　The　apprentice　hurried　off；　and　Ott　quietly　poked　through　the　shop。　He　wondered　why　he'd　never　gotten　the　hang　of　talking　to　black　people；　why　they　always　looked　at　him　as　if　he　were　a　cockroach。
　Miller　was　talking　in　a　loud　voice　into　the　phone。　Something　about　a　walnut　dining　table　and　an　unpaid　bill。
　Ott　Pickney　slipped　out　the　front　way；　then　walked　around　to　the　back　of　the　shop　where　Miller　couldn't　see　him。　Against　one　wall　stood　two　long　green　dumpsters　filled　with　fresh…cut　lumber　remnants。　They　were　the　sweetest…smelling　dumpsters　Ott　had　ever　e　across。　He　stood　on　his　tiptoes　and　looked　inside。　In　the　first　he　saw　a　pile　of　wooden　chips；　blocks；　odd　triangles　and　rectangles；　a　broken　sawhorse；　a　hogshead；　empty　cans　of　resin　and　varnish；　Mr。　Larkin's　predictable　junk。
　At　the　second　dumpster　Ott　found　a　similar　jumble　of　pulp；　plywood；　and　two…by…fours；　but　also　something　else：　molded　chunks　of　blue…sparkled　fiberglass。　It　was　the　remains　of　Bobby　Clinch's　Ranger　bass　boat；　sawed　to　pieces　in　the　customizing　of　the　fisherman's　coffin。
　Ott　boosted　himself；　using　an　empty　gallon　can　of　Formsby's　turned　upside　down。　He　stuffed　the　notebook　into　the　back　pocket　of　his　trousers　and　stretched　over　the　rim　of　the　dumpster　so　his　arms　could　reach　the　wreckage。　As　he　sifted　through　the　fiberglass　scraps；　Ott　realized　it　was　impossible　to　tell　how　these　jigsawed　pieces　had　ever　prised　a　nineteen…foot　boat。
　The　one　fragment　he　recognized　was　the　console。　Ott　found　it　in　the　bottom　of　the　dumpster。
　Every　expensive　bass　boat　has　a　console；　a　recessed　cockpit　designed　to　give　anglers　the　same　sensation　as　if　they　were　racing　the　Daytona　500　instead　of　merely　demolishing　the　quietude　of　a　lake。
　To　Ott　Pickney；　the　cockpit　of　Bobby　Clinch's　fishing　boat　more　closely　resembled　the　pilot's　deck　of　a　747。　Among　the　concave　dials　were　a　pass；　a　sonic　depth　recorder；　a　digital　tachometer；　an　LED　gauge　showing　water　temperature　at　five　different　depths；　power…tilt　adjusters；　trim　tabs；　a　marine　radio　and　an　AM…FM　stereo；　with　a　tape　deck。　All　these　electronics　obviously　were　ruined　from　being　submerged　in　the　lake；　but　Ott　was　fascinated　anyway。　He　hoisted　the　console　out　of　the　dumpster　to　take　a　closer　look。
　He　set　the　heavy　piece　on　his　lap　and　imagined　himself　at　the　controls　of　a　two…hundred…horsepower　speedboat。　He　pretended　to　hunker　behind　the　Plexiglas　windshield　and　aim　the　boat　along　a　winding　creek。　The　only　trouble　was；　the　steering　wheel　wouldn't　budge　in　his　hands。
　Ott　turned　the　console　over；　thinking　the　shaft　had　gotten　snarled　in　all　the　loose　wiring。　But　that　wasn't　the　problem；　the　problem　was　a　short　length　of　black　nylon　rope。　The　rope　had　been　wrapped　tightly　around　the　base　of　the　steering　column　beneath　the　console；　where　it　wouldn't　be　seen。　Ott　plucked　fruitlessly　at　the　coils；　the　rope　had　been　tied　on　with　authority。　The　steering　was　pletely　jammed。
　Which　meant；　of　course；　that　the　direction　of　Bobby　Clinch's　boat　had　been　fixed。　It　meant　that　Clinch　himself　needn't　have　been　at　the　wheel　at　the　instant　of　the　crash。　It　meant　that　the　fisherman　probably　was　already　dying　or　injured　when　the　ghost…driven　bass　boat　flipped　over　and　tunneled　bow…first　into　the　chilly　water。
　Ott　Pickney　did　not　grasp　this　scenario　as　swiftly　as　he　might　have。　It　was　dawning　on　him　slowly；　but　he　became　so　engrossed　in　the　contemplation　that　he　lost　track　of　his　surroundings。　He　heard　footsteps　and　looked　up；　expecting　to　see　Miller；　the　carpenter's　black　apprentice。　Instead　there　were　three　other　men；　dressed　in　the　standard　local　garb…caps；　jeans；　flannel　shirts。　One　of　the　visitors　carried　a　short　piece　of　lumber；　a　second　carried　a　loop　of　heavy　wire；　the　other　just　stood　dull…eyed；　fists　at　his　side。　Ott　started　to　say　something　but　his　greeting　died　beneath　the　grinding　whine　of　a　carpenter's　table　saw；　Miller　back　at　work　inside　the　shed。　The　three　men　stepped　closer。　Only　one　was　a　local；　but　he　recognized　Ott　Pickney　and　knew　that　the　reporter　could　identify　him。　Unfortunately　for　Ott；　none　of　the　men　wished　to　see　their　names　in　the　paper。
　
　Dennis　Gault　was　holding　a　stack　of　VCR　cassettes　when　he　answered　the　door。　He　was　wearing　salmon　shorts　and　a　loose　mesh　top　that　looked　like　it　would　have　made　an　excellent　mullet　seine。　Gault　led　R。　J。　Decker　to　the　living　room；　which　was　filled　with　low　flat…looking　furniture。　The　predominant　hue　was　cranberry。
　Gault　put　a　cassette　in　the　video　recorder　and　told　Decker　to　sit　down。　〃Want　a　drink？〃　Gault　asked。　He　smelled　like　he　was　on　his　tenth　Smirnoff。
　Decker　took　a　cold　beer。
　A　fishing　show　came　on　the　television　screen。　Gault　used　the　remote　control　to　fast…forward　the　tape。　Two　guys　in　a　bass　boat；　Decker　could　tell；　casting　and　reeling；　casting　and　reeling；　occasionally　hauling　in　a　small　fish。　Fast…forward　was　the　only　way　to　endure　this；　Decker　decided。
　A　mercial　came　on　and　Gault　abruptly　hit　the　freeze　button。　〃Theeeeere's　Dickie！〃　he　sang　derisively。
　On　the　screen　Dickie　Lockhart　stood　by　the　side　of　a　lake；　squinting　into　the　sun。　He　was　wearing　a　crisply　pressed　bassets　jumpsuit；　desert　tan；　his　cap　was　off　and　his　hair　was　blow…dried　to　perfection。　He　was　hold