ch.doublewhammy-第24部分

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onspirators。　The　more　virulent　seed　of　Dennis　Gault's　resentment　was　knowing　that　a　dumb　hick　like　Dickie　was　part　of　the　bass　brotherhood…the　Good　Old　Boy　that　Gault　himself　could　never　be。　Dickie　was　the　champ；　the　TV　personality；　the　world…famous　outdoorsman；　he　could　scarcely　balance　a　checkbook　or　tie　a　Windsor；　but　he　knew　Curt　Gowdy　personally。　In　a　man's　world；　that　counted　for　plenty。
　Losing　to　Lockhart　in　a　bass　tournament　was　bad　enough；　but　watching　impotently　while　the　asshole　outsmarted　everybody　else　was　intolerable。　Dennis　Gault's　venom　toward　Dickie　and　his　crowd　spilled　from　a　deep　well。　It　was　the　way　they　looked　at　him　when　he　showed　up　for　the　tournaments；　he　was　the　outsider；　the　dilettante　with　the　money。　Their　eyes　said：　You　don't　belong　on　this　lake；　mister；　you　belong　on　a　golf　course。　He　was　constantly　referred　to　as　The　Rich　Guy　from　Miami。　Coral　Gables　would　have　been　fine；　but　Miami。　He　might　as　well　have　dropped　in　from　Bolivia　as　far　as　the　other　bassers　were　concerned。　To　a　man　they　were　rural　Deep　Southerners；　with　names　like　Jerry　and　Larry；　Chet　and　Greg；　Jeb　and　Jimmy。　When　they　talked　it　was　bubba…this　and　brother…that；　between　spits　of　chaw。　When　Dennis　Gault　opened　his　mouth　and　all　that　get…me…my…broker　stuff　came　out；　the　bassers　looked　at　him　as　if　he　were　a　peeling　leper。
　Naively　Gault　had　thought　this　antagonism　might　abate　as　his　angling　skills　improved　and　he　began　to　win　a　few　tournaments。　Things　only　got　worse；　of　course；　due　in　large　measure　to　his　own　absymal　judgment。　For　instance；　Dennis　Gault　insisted　on　driving　his　burgundy　Rolls　Corniche　to　ail　the　fishing　tournaments。　The　purple　vision　of　such　a　car　towing　a　bass　boat　down　the　Florida　Turnpike　was　enough　to　stop　traffic；　and　it　positively　ruined　the　bucolic　ambience　of　any　dockside　gathering。　Many　times　Gault　would　return　from　a　hard　day　of　fishing　to　find　his　tires　flattened；　or　see　that　some　mischiefmaker　had　parked　his　burgundy　pride　beneath　a　tree　filled　with　diarrhetic　crows。　But　Gault　was　a　peculiar　man　when　it　came　to　personal　tastes；　his　father　had　driven　a　Rolls　and　by　God　that's　what　Dennis　would　drive。　He　did　not　like　pickup　trucks；　but　a　pickup　would　have　helped　him　crack　the　bass　clique。　With　the　Corniche　he　stood　no　chance。
　The　incident　with　the　helicopters　is　what　sealed　his　exmunication。
　
　Long　before　he　had　collected　any　evidence　against　Dickie　Lockhart；　Dennis　Gault　had　proposed　a　monitoring　program　to　deter　cheating　in　the　big…money　tournaments。　Rumors　of　flagrant　bass…planting　had　surfaced　even　in　the　usually　booster…minded　outdoor　magazines；　and　a　few　unseemly　scandals　had　e　to　light。　Consequently；　professional　tournament　organizers　were　in　a　mood　to　mend　their　tarnished　image。　More　as　a　public…relations　gambit　than　anything；　they　had　agreed　to　try　Dennis　Gault's　unusual　experiment。
　This　was　his　plan：　to　have　independent　spotters　in　helicopters　follow　the　fishermen　and　keep　an　eye　on　them　during　the　petition。　Gault　even　offered　to　pay　for　the　chopper　rentals　himself；　an　offer　which　was　snapped　up　immediately。
　The　problem　with　the　plan　was　that　largemouth　bass　don't　much　care　for　noise；　and　helicopters　make　plenty。　The　fish　didn't　like　the　penetrating　thrum　of　the　big　machines；　nor　the　waves　the　aircraft　kicked　up　on　the　water。　This　was　quickly　evident　in　the　Tuscaloosa　bass　tournament；　where　Gault's　airborne　scheme　was　tried　for　the　first　and　last　time。　Whenever　the　helicopters　would　appear　and　hover　over　the　bass　boats；　the　fish　would　go　deep　and　quit　eating。　The　wind　from　the　rotors　made　it　impossible　to　cast　a　lure；　and　blew　the　caps　and　forty…dollar　Polaroid　sunglasses　off　several　irritated　contestants。　The　whole　thing　was　a　truly　terrible　idea；　and　on　the　second　day　of　the　experiment　two　of　the　helicopters　were　actually　shot　out　of　the　sky　by　angry　bass　fishermen。　Because　no　one　was　seriously　injured；　the　offenders　were　assessed　only　ten　penalty　pounds　apiece　off　their　final　stringers。　Dennis　Gault　finished　in　fourteenth　place　and　was　banished　from　the　national　petition　mittee　forever。
　Which　was　probably　just　as　well。　Soon　afterward　Gault　had　e　to　suspect　Dickie　Lockhart　of　cheating；　and　his　obsession　took　root　like　a　wild　and　irrational　vine。　It　twisted　itself　so　ferociously　around　Gault's　soul　that　even　knowing　of　R。　J。　Decker's　progress　in　Louisiana　only　agitated　him；　Gault　itched　to　be　there　to　share　in　the　stalk；　though　he　knew　it　would　have　been　a　grave　mistake。　On　the　telephone　Decker　had　addressed　him　in　the　same　cold　tones　as　the　fishermen　always　did；　as　if　he　were　a　spoiled　wimp；　and　this　began　to　bother　Gault　too。　Sometimes　Decker　seemed　to　forget　he　was　hired　help。
　The　way　this　is　going；　Gault　thought；　I'll　be　the　last　to　know　if　something　shakes　loose。
　So　he　made　a　call　and　asked　Lanie　for　another　favor。
　
　Decker　got　up　before　dawn；　struggled　into　his　blue　jeans；　and　threw　on　a　musty　blue　pea　jacket。　The　DJ　on　the　clock　radio　announced　that　it　was　forty…eight　degrees　in　downtown　Hammond。　Decker　shivered；　and　put　on　two　pairs　of　socks；　living　in　the　South　Florida　heat　turned　your　blood　to　broth。
　Skink　sat　on　the　floor　of　the　motel　room　and　flossed　his　teeth。　He　wore　only　Jockey　shorts；　sunglasses；　and　the　flowered　bathcap。　Decker　asked　if　he　wanted　to　go　along　but　Skink　shook　his　head　no。　The　twang　of　the　floss　against　gleaming　bicuspids　sounded　like　a　toy　ukulele。
　〃Want　me　to　bring　back　some　coffee？〃　Decker　asked。
　〃A　rabbit　would　be　good；〃　Skink　said。
　Decker　sighed　and　said　he'd　be　back　before　ten。　He　got　in　the　rental　car　and　headed　for　the　dock　at　Pass　Manchac。　On　old　Route　51　he　encountered　a　steady　stream　of　well…buffed　Jeeps；　Broncos；　and　Blazers；　all　towing　bass　boats　to　Lake　Maurepas。　Many　of　the　trucks　had　oversize　tires；　tinted　windows；　and　powerful　fog　lights　that　shot　amber　spears　through　the　soupy…dark　bayous。　These　vehicles　served　as　the　royal　carriages　of　the　top　bass　pros；　who　had　won　them　in　various　fishing　tournaments；　a　tournament　wasn't　even　worth　entering　unless　a　four…wheel…drive　was　one　of　the　prizes。　Many　of　the　bassers　won　three　or　four　a　year。
　At　the　fish　camp　the　mood　was　solemn　and　businesslike　as　the　sleek　boats　were　backed　off　galvanized　trailers　into　the　milky…green　water。　The　anglers　all　wore　caps；　vests；　and　jumpsuits　plastered　with　colorful　patches　advertising　their　sponsors'　products；　everything　from　bug　spray　to　chewing　tobacco　to　worms　was　smiled　in　this　manner。　Most　of　the　fishermen　wore　Lucite　goggles　to　protect　their　faces　during　the　breakneck　race　to　the　bass　hole。　This　innovation　had　recently　been　introduced　to　the　bassing　world　after　one　unlucky　angler　died　hitting　a　swarm　of　junebugs　at　fifty　knots；　one　of　the　brittle　beetles　had　gone　through　his　left　eyeball　like　a　bullet　and　tunneled　straight　into　his　brain。
　R。　J。　Decker　sipped　coffee　from　a　Styrofoam　cup　and　stood　among　a　throng　of　wives；　girlfriends；　and　mechanics　waiting　for　the　tournament　to　begin。　A　tall　chalk　scoreboard　posted　outside　the　Sportsman's　Hideout　displayed　the　roster　of　forty　entrants；　which　included　some　of　the　most　famous　bass　fishermen　of　all　time：　Jimmy　Houston　of　Oklahoma；　Larry　Nixon　of　Texas；　Orlando　Wilson　of　Georgia；　and　of　course　the　legendary　Roland　Martin　of　Florida。　Revered　in　the　world　of　fishing；　these　names　meant　absolutely　nothing　to　R。　J。　Decker；　who　recognized　only　one　entry　on　the　Cajun　Invitational　chalkboard：　Dickie　Lockhart。
　But　where　was　the　sonofabitch？　As　the　headlights　of　the　trucks　sporadically　played　across　the　water；　Decker　scrutinized　the　faces　of　the　anglers；　now　hunkered　behind　the　consoles　of　their　boats。　They　looked　virtually　identical　with　their　goggles　and　their　caps　and　their　puffed　ruddy　cheeks。　Dickie's　boat　was　out　there　somewhere；　Decker　knew；　but　he'd　have　to　wait　until　the　weigh…in　to　see　him。
　At　precisely　five…thirty　a　bearded　man　in　khaki　trousers；　a　flannel　shirt；　and　a　string　tie　strode　to　the　end　of　the　dock　and　announced　through　a　megaphone：　〃Bass　anglers；　prepare　for　the　blast…off！〃　In　unison　the　fishermen　turned　their　ignitions；　and　Lake　Maurepas　boiled　and　rumbled　and　swelled。　Blue　smoke　from　the　big　outboards　curled　skyward　and　collected　in　an　acrid　foreign　cloud　over　the　marsh。　The　boats　inched　away　from　the　crowded　ramp　and　crept　out　toward　where　the　pass　opened　its　mouth　to　the　lake。　The　procession　came　to　a　stop　at　a　lighted　buoy。
　〃Now　the　fun　starts；〃　said　a　young　woman　standing　next　to　R。　J。　Decker。　She　was　holding　two　sleeping　babies。
　The　starter　raised　a　pistol　and　fired　into　the　air。　Instantly　a　wall　of　noise　rose　off　Maurepas：　the　race　was　on。　The　bass　boats　hiccuped　and　growled　and　then　whined；　pushing　for　more　speed。　With　the　throttles　hammered　down；　the　sterns　dug　ferociously　and　the　bows　popped　up　at　such　alarming　angles　that　Decker　was　certain　some　of　the　boats　would　flip　over　in　midair。　Yet　somehow　they　planed　off　perfectly；　gliding　flat　and　barely　creasing　the　crystal　texture　of　the　lake。　The　song　of　the　big　engines　was　that　of　a　million　furious　bees；　it　tore　the　dawn　all　to　hell。
　It　was　one　of　the　most　remarkable　moments　Decker　had　ever　seen；　almost　military　in　its　high…tech　absurdity：　forty　boats　rocketing　the　same　direction　at　sixty　miles　per　hour。　In　darkness。
　Most　of　the　spectators　applauded　heartily。
　〃Doesn't　anyone　ever　get　hurt？〃　Decker　asked　the　woman　with　the　two　babies；　who　were　now　yowling。
　〃Hurt？〃　she　said。　〃No；　sir。　At　that　speed　you　just　flat…out　die。〃
　
　Skink　was　waiting　outside　the　motel　when　Decker　returned。　〃You　got　the　cameras？〃　he　asked。
　〃All　ready；〃　Decker　said。
　They　drove　back　to　the　Sportsman's　Hideout　and　rented　the　same　johnboat　from　the　night　before。　This　time　Decker　asked　for　a　paddle。　The　cashier　said　brightly　to　Skink：　〃Are　you　finding　enough　of　those　eels；　Mr。　Cousteau？〃
　〃Si；〃　Skink　replied。
　〃Oui！〃　Decker　whispered。
　〃Oui！〃　Skink　said。　〃Many　many　eels。〃
　〃I'm　so　glad；〃　the　cashier　said。
　Hastily　they　loaded　the　boat。　Decker's　camera　gear　was　packed　in　waterproof　aluminum　carriers。　Skink　took　special　care　to　distribute　the　weight　evenly；　so　the　johnboat　wouldn't　list。　After　the　morning's　parade　of　lightning…fast　bass　rigs；　the　puny　fifteen…horse　outboard　seemed　slow　and　anemic　to　Decker。　By