ch.doublewhammy-第40部分

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　Decker　checked　the　rearview。　〃Oh；　shit；〃　he　said。
　Skink　struggled　into　the　rainsuit；　adjusted　his　sunglasses；　and　said；　〃Well；　Miami；　what's　it　going　to　be？〃
　The　blue　light　on　the　Chrysler's　dashboard　was　flashing　now。　Hopelessly　Decker　scanned　the　traffic　on　the　causeway；　it　was　jammed　all　the　way　to　the　next　traffic　signal；　and　beyond。　There　was　nowhere　to　go。　Al　Garcia　was　up　on　his　bumper　and　flashing　his　brights。　Decker　figured　he　had　a　better　chance　one…on…one；　with　no　Fort　Lauderdale　cops。　He　decided　to　stop　before　it　turned　into　a　convoy。
　He　pulled　into　the　parking　lot　of　a　liquor　store。　With　the　big　Chrysler　Garcia　easily　blocked　off　the　little　Escort；　parked；　kept　the　blue　light　turning。　A　bad　sign；　Decker　thought。
　He　turned　to　Skink：　〃I　don't　want　to　see　your　gun。〃
　〃Relax；〃　Skink　said。　〃Mr。　Browning　sleeps　with　the　fishes。〃
　Al　Garcia　approached　the　car　in　a　bemused　and　almost　casual　manner。　At　the　driver's　window　he　bent　down　and　said；　〃R。J。；　you　are　the　king　of　all　fuckups。〃
　〃Sorry　I　stood　you　up　the　other　day；〃　Decker　said。
　〃Everyone　but　the　National　Guard　is　looking　for　you。〃
　〃Now　that　you　mention　it；　Al；　aren't　you　slightly　out　of　your　jurisdiction？　I　believe　this　is　Broward　County。〃
　〃And　you're　a　fleeing　felon；　asshole；　so　I　can　chase　you　wherever　I　want。　That's　the　law。〃　He　spit　out　his　cigarette　and　ground　it　into　the　asphalt　with　his　shoe。
　Decker　said；　〃So　what'd　you　do；　follow　Catherine　up　from　Miami？〃
　〃She's　a　slick　little　driver；　she　gave　it　her　best。〃
　Decker　said；　〃I　didn't　kill　anybody；　Al。〃
　〃How　about　Little　Stevie　Wonder　there？〃
　Skink　blinked　lizardlike　behind　his　sunglasses。
　〃e　on；　R。J。；　let's　all　of　us　go　for　a　ride。〃　Garcia　was　so　smooth　he　didn't　even　unholster　his　gun。　Decker　was　impressed；　you　had　to　be。　Now　if　only　Skink　behaved。
　Skink　retrieved　his　dead　seagull　from　the　glove　box　and　Decker　locked　up　the　rental　car。　Garcia　was　waiting　in　the　Chrysler。　〃Who　wants　to　ride　shotgun？〃　he　asked　affably。
　Decker　said；　〃I　thought　you'd　want　both　us　ruthless　murderers　to　sit　back　in　the　cage。〃
　〃Nah；〃　Al　Garcia　said；　unplugging　the　blue　light。　He　got　back　into　traffic；　turned　off　Seventeenth　Street　on　Federal　Highway；　then　cut　back　west　on　Road　84；　an　impossible　truck　route。　Decker　was　surprised　when　he　didn't　turn　south　at　the　Interstate　95　exchange。
　〃Where　are　you　going？〃
　〃The　Turnpike's　a　cleaner　shot；　isn't　it？〃　the　detective　said。
　〃Not　really；〃　Decker　said。
　〃He　means　north；〃　Skink　said　from　the　back　seat。　〃To　Harney。〃
　
　〃Right；〃　Al　Garcia　said。　〃On　the　way；　I　want　you　guys　to　tell　me　all　about　bass　fishing。〃
　The　news　from　Lunker　Lakes　was　not　good。
　〃They　died；〃　reported　Charlie　Weeb's　hydrologist；　some　pinhead　hired　fresh　out　of　the　University　of　Florida。
　〃Died？〃　said　the　Reverend　Weeb。　〃What　the　fuck　are　you　talking　about？〃
　He　was　talking　about　the　bass…two　thousand　yearling　large…mouths　imported　at　enormous　cost　from　a　private　hatchery　in　Alabama。
　〃They　croaked；〃　said　the　hydrologist。　〃What　can　I　say？　The　water's　very　bad；　Reverend　Weeb。　Tannic　acid　they　can　tolerate；　but　the　current　phosphate　levels　are　lethal。　There's　no　fresh　oxygen；　no　natural　water　flow。　Whoever　dredged　your　canals…〃
　〃Lakes；　goddammit！〃
　〃…they　dredged　too　deep。　The　fish　don't　last　more　than　two　days。〃
　〃Jesus　Christ　Almighty。　So　what're　we　talking　about　here…stinking　dead　bass　floating　all　over　the　place？〃
　The　hydrologist　said；　〃I　took　the　liberty　of　hiring　some　local　boats　to　scoop　up　the　kill。　With　this　cool　weather　it's　not　so　bad；　but　if　a　warm　front　pushes　through；　they'd　smell　it　all　the　way　to　Key　West。〃
　Weeb　slammed　down　the　phone　and　groaned。　The　woman　lying　next　to　him　said；　〃What　is　it；　Father？〃
　〃I'm　not　a　priest；〃　Weeb　snapped。　He　didn't　have　the　energy　for　a　theology　lesson；　it　would　have　been　a　waste　of　time　anyway。　The　girl　worked　at　Louie's　Lap…Dancing　Palace　in　Gretna。　She　said　her　whole　family　watched　him　every　Sunday　morning　on　television。
　〃I　never　been　with　a　TV　star　before；〃　she　said；　burrowing　into　his　chest。　〃You're　a　big　boy；　too。〃
　Charlie　Weeb　was　only　half…listening。　He　missed　Ellen　O'Leary；　no　one　else　looked　quite　as　fine；　topless　in　the　rubber　trout　waders。　No　one　soothed　him　the　way　Ellen　did；　either；　but　now　she　was　gone。　Took　off　after　Dickie　Lockhart's　murder。　One　more　disappointment　in　a　week　of　bleak　disappointments　for　the　Reverend　Charles　Weeb。
　〃How　much　do　I　owe　you？〃　he　asked　the　lap　dancer。
　〃Nothing；　Father。〃　She　sounded　confused。　〃I　brought　my　own　money。〃
　〃What　for？〃　Weeb　looked　down；　he　couldn't　see　her　face；　just　the　top　of　her　head　and　the　smooth　slope　of　her　naked　back。
　〃I　got　a　favor　to　ask；〃　the　lap　dancer　said；　whispering　into　his　chest　hair。　〃And　I　wanna　pay　for　it。〃
　〃What　on　earth　are　you　talking　about？〃
　〃I　want　you　to　heal　my　poppa。〃　She　looked　up　shyly。　〃He's　got　the　gout；　my　poppa　does。〃
　〃No；　child…〃
　〃Some　days　he　can't　barely　get　himself　out　of　bed。〃
　Weeb　shifted　restlessly；　glanced　at　his　wristwatch。　
　〃I'll　give　you　two　hundred　dollars；〃　the　girl　declared。　
　〃You're　serious？〃　
　〃Just　one　little　prayer；　please。〃　
　〃Two　hundred　bucks？〃　
　〃And　a　hum　job；　if　you　want　it；　Father。〃
　Charlie　Weeb　stared　at　her；　thinking：　It's　true　what　they　say　about　the　power　of　television。
　〃e；　child；〃　he　said　softly；　〃let's　pray。〃
　
　Later；　when　he　was　alone；　the　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　thought　about　the　girl　and　what　she'd　wanted。　Maybe　it　was　the　answer　he'd　been　looking　for。　It　had　worked　before；　in　the　early　years；　perhaps　it　would　work　again。
　Charlie　Weeb　drank　a　Scotch　and　tried　to　sleep；　but　he　couldn't。　In　recent　nights　he　had　been　kept　awake　by　the　chilling　realization　that　Lunker　Lakes；　his　dream　city；　was　in　deep　trouble。　The　first　blow　had　e　from　the　Federal　Deposit　Insurance　Corporation；　whose　auditors　had　swept　into　the　offices　of　First　Standard　Eurobank　of　Ohio　and　discovered　that　the　whole　damn　thing　was　on　the　verge　of　insolvency。　The　problem　was　bad　loans；　huge　ones；　which　First　Standard　Eurobank　apparently　handed　out　as　freely　as　desk　calendars。　The　Outdoor　Christian　Network；　doing　business　as　Lunker　Lakes　Ltd。；　had　been　the　beneficiary　of　just　such　unbridled　generosity…twenty…four　million　dollars　for　site　planning　and　construction。　On　paper　there　was　nothing　unusual　about　the　loan　or　the　terms　of　repayment　（eleven　percent　over　ten　years）；　but　in　reality　not　much　money　ever　got　repaid。　About　six　thousand　dollars；　to　be　exact。　Wanton　disorganization　ruled　First　Standard　Eurobank's　collections　department…as　patient　and　amiable　a　bunch　of　Christian　soldiers　as　Charlie　Weeb　had　ever　met。　He　kept　missing　the　bimonthly　payments　and　they　kept　saying　don't　worry　and　Charlie　Weeb　didn't　worry；　because　this　was　a　fucking　bank；　for　God's　sake；　and　banks　don't　go　under　anymore。　Then　the　FDIC　swooped　in　and　discovered　that　First　Standard　Eurobank　had　been　just　as　patient　and　flexible　with　all　its　mercial　customers；　to　the　extent　that　virtually　nobody　except　farmers　were　being　made　to　repay　their　loans　on　time。　Suddenly　the　president　of　the　bank　and　three　top　assistants　all　moved　to　Barbados；　leaving　Uncle　Sam　to　sort　out　the　mess。　Pretty　soon　the　bad　news　trickled　out：　First　Standard　Eurobank　was　calling　in　its　bad　loans。　All　over　the　country　big…time　land　developers　headed　for　the　tall　grass。　Charlie　Weeb　himself　had　been　dodging　some　twit　from　The　Wall　Street　Journal　for　five　days。
　What　aggravated　Weeb　was　that　he　had　intended　all　along　to　pay　back　the　money；　but　at　a　pace　mensurate　with　advance　sales　at　Lunker　Lakes。　Unfortunately；　sales　were　going　very　slowly。　Charlie　Weeb　couldn't　figure　it　out。　He　fired　his　marketing　people；　fired　his　advertising　people；　fired　his　sales　people…yet　nothing　improved。　It　was　maddening。　The　lakefront　models　were　simply　beautiful。　Three　bedrooms；　sunken　bath　and　sauna；　cathedral　ceilings；　solar　heating；　microwave　kitchens…〃Christian　town…home　living　at　its　finest！〃　Charlie　Weeb　was　fanatical　about　using　the　term　〃town　home；〃　which　was　a　fancy　way　of　saying　two…story　condo。　The　problem　with　using　the　word　〃condo〃　was；　as　every　idiot　in　Florida　knew；　you　couldn't　charge　a　hundred　and　fifty　thousand　for　a　〃condo〃　fourteen　miles　away　from　the　ocean。　For　this　reason　any　Lunker　Lakes　salesman　who　spoke　the　word　was　immediately　terminated。　Condos　carried　a　hideous　connotation；　Charlie　Weeb　had　lectured…this　wasn't　a　cheesy　high…rise　full　of　nasty　old　farts；　this　was　a　wholesome　family　munity。　With　fucking　bike　paths！
　And　still　the　dumb　shits　couldn't　sell　it。　A　hundred…sixty　units　in　the　first　four　months。　A　hundred…sixty！　Weeb　was　beside　himself。　Phase　One　of　the　project　called　for　eight　thousand　units。　Without　Phase　One　there　would　be　no　Phase　Two；　and　without　Phase　Two　you　could　scrap　the　build…out　projections　of　twenty…nine　thousand。　While　you're　at　it；　scrap　the　loans；　the　equity；　even　the　zoning　permits。　The　longer　the　project　lagged；　the　greater　the　chances　that　all　the　county　missioners　who　had　so　graciously　accepted　Charlie　Weeb's　bribes　would　die　or　be　voted　out　of　office；　and　a　whole　new　set　would　have　to　be　paid　off。　One　white　knight　could　gum　up　the　works。
　The　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　had　even　deeper　concerns。　He　had　been　so　confident　of　Lunker　Lakes　that　he　had　broken　a　cardinal　rule　and　sunk　three　million　dollars　of　his　own　personal；　Bahamian…sheltered　money　into　the　project。　The　thought　of　losing　it　made　him　sick　as　a　dog。　Lying　in　bed；　juggling　the　ghastly　numbers　in　his　head；　Weeb　also　realized　that　the　Outdoor　Christian　Network　itself　was　probably　not　strong　enough　to　survive　if　Lunker　Lakes　were　to　go　under。
　So　he　had　to　do　something　to　raise　money；　lots　of　it。　And　fast。　This　was　the　urgency　behind　scheduling　the　new　Dickie　Lockhart　Memorial　Bass　Blasters　Classic　on　such　short　notice。　Lunker　Lakes　was　starving　for　publicity；　and　the　TV　coverage　of　the　tournament　was　bound　to　boost　sales…provided　they　could　paint　some　of　the　buildings　and　get　a　few　palm　trees　planted　in　time。
　Trucking　in　two　thousand　young　bass　had　been；　Weeb　thought；　dastardly　clever。　For　authenticity　he　had　also　planned　to　salt　the　lakes　with　a　dozen　big　Florida　hawgs　a　few　days　before　the　tournament。　And；　of　course；