ch.doublewhammy-第52部分

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tched　to　its　bumper。
　Two　men　leaned　impassively　against　the　truck；　one　was　tall　and　muscular　and　black；　the　other　roundish　and　Latin…looking。　The　rest　of　the　bass　fishermen　studied　the　unusual　newers　from　a　distance；　and　chuckled　in　low　tones。
　Charlie　Weeb　approached　the　men　and　said；　〃If　you're　looking　for　the　dump；　it's　out　Road　84。〃　He　pointed　west；　toward　the　dike。　〃That　way。〃
　Jim　Tile　said；　〃We're　here　for　the　bass　tournament。〃
　〃Is　that　right？〃　Weeb　eyed　the　rowboat　disdainfully。　〃Sorry；　son；　but　this　event's　not　open　to　the　general　public。〃
　Al　Garcia　said；　〃We're　not　the　general　public；　son。　We're　the　Tile　Brothers。〃　Coolly　he　handed　Charlie　Weeb　the　receipt　for　the　registration　fee。　Without　a　glance；　Weeb　passed　it　to　Deacon　Johnson。
　〃It's　them；　all　right；〃　Deacon　Johnson　reported。　〃Boat　number　fifty；　all　paid　up。〃
　〃You　don't　look　like　brothers；〃　Reverend　Weeb　said　accusingly。
　〃Si；　es　verdad；〃　Jim　Tile　said。
　〃Fo　sho；〃　added　Al　Garcia。　〃We　true　be　bros。〃
　They　had　practiced　the　routine　on　the　long　ride　down。　Jim　Tile　had　done　much　better　learning　Spanish　than　Al　Garcia　had　done　learning　jive。　Still；　it　achieved　the　desired　effect。
　Charlie　Weeb　puckered　his　cheeks　and　anxiously　ran　a　manicured　hand　through　his　perfect　blond　hair。　〃Gentlemen；　excuse　me　for　a　sec；〃　he　said；　and　took　Deacon　Johnson　aside。
　〃This　is　some　fucking　joke。〃
　〃It's　no　joke；　Charles。〃
　〃Spic　and　spade　brothers？　I'd　call　that　a　joke。〃　Weeb　was　spitting；　he　was　so　exasperated。　〃Izzy；　tonight　we're　flying　in　one　thousand　loyal　Christian　prospective　homesite　buyers。　I　promised　them　to　do　a　healing；　I　promised　them　to　have　some　world…class　bass　fishing；　and　I　promised　to　get　their　shining　faces　on　national　cable　TV。　All　this；　Izzy；　in　order　to　sell　some　fucking　lots。〃
　〃Keep　your　voice　down；　Charles。〃　Even　at　a　whisper；　Reverend　Weeb　could　rattle　the　china。
　Deacon　Johnson　took　him　by　the　arm　and　edged　away　from　the　newers。　Standing　in　the　rank　shadow　of　the　garbage　truck；　Deacon　Johnson　said；　〃We've　taken　their　money；　Charles；　we've　got　to　let　them　fish。〃
　〃Screw　the　entry　fee。　Give　it　back。〃
　〃Oh　fine；〃　Deacon　Johnson　said；　〃and　when　the　newspapers　call；　you　explain　why　you　did　it。〃
　The　thought　of　bad　publicity　sent　a　cold　razor　down　Charlie　Weeb's　spine。
　Almost　plaintively　he　said：　〃These　folks　I'm　bringing　down；　Izzy；　they　don't　want　to　see　a　spic　and　a　spade　in　this　family…oriented　development。　The　folks　at　home　who　watch　my　show；　they　don't　want　to　see　'em　either。　I'm　not　here　to　pass　judgment；　Izzy；　I'm　here　for　the　demographics。　Fact　is；　my　people　are　the　whitest　of　the　white。　Soon　as　they　spot　those　two　guys；　that's　the　ball　game。　They'll　think　everything　they　heard　about　South　Florida　is　true；　niggers　and　Cubans　everywhere。　Even　on　the　bass　lakes。〃
　Deacon　Johnson　said；　〃There's　forty…nine　other　boats　in　this　tournament；　Charles。　Just　tell　your　camermen　to　stay　off　the　little　wooden　one。　As　for　the　garbage　truck；　we'll　park　it　out　back　in　the　construction　lot。　Loan　these　guys　a　decent　rental　car　to　get　around　the　property。　Anyone　asks；　tell　'em　they　work　here。〃
　〃Good　idea；〃　Weeb　said。　〃Say　they　pour　asphalt　or　something。　Excellent。〃　Sometimes　he　didn't　know　what　he'd　do　without　Izzy。
　Deacon　Johnson　said；　〃Don't　worry；　Charles；　just　look　at　them…they　don't　have　a　chance。　It'll　be　a　holy　miracle　if　that　termite　bucket　doesn't　sink　at　the　dock。〃
　All　Charlie　Weeb　could　say　was：　〃Whoever　heard　of　a　spic　and　a　spade　in　a　pro　bass　tournament？〃
　But　the　mysterious　Tile　Brothers　were　already　putting　their　boat　in　the　water。
　
　The　next　day　was　practice　day；　and　in　keeping　with　tradition　the　anglers　gathered　early　at　the　boat　ramp　to　exchange　theories　and　cultivate　possible　excuses。　Because　no　one　had　fished　Lunker　Lakes　before；　the　talk　was　basically　bullshit　and　idle　speculation。　The　bass　would　be　schooled　by　the　culverts。　No；　they'd　be　holding　deep。　No；　they'd　be　bedded　in　the　shallows。
　Only　Charlie　Weeb　and　his　men　knew　the　truth：　there　were　no　bass　except　dead　ones。　The　new　ones　were　on　the　way。
　Eddie　Spurling　realized　that　something　was　terribly　wrong；　but　he　didn't　say　a　word。　Instead　of　mingling　with　his　pals　over　coffee　and　biscuits；　he　strolled　the　shore　alone　in　the　predawn　pitch。　A　couple　of　the　other　pros　sidled　up　to　make　conversation；　but　Eddie　was　unresponsive　and　gloomy。　He　didn't　show　the　least　interest　in　Duke　Puffin's　deep…sonic　crankbait　or　Tom　Jericho's　new　weedless　trolling　motor。
　While　the　mockingbirds　announced　sunrise；　Eddie　Spurling　just　stared　out　at　the　still　brown　canals　and　thought：　This　waters　no　damn　good。
　Al　Garcia　and　Jim　Tile　were　the　last　to　get　started。　They'd　been　briefly　delayed　when　Billie　Radcliffe；　a　very　white　young　man　from　Waycross；　Georgia；　said　to　Jim　Tile：　〃Where's　your　cane　pole；　Uncle　Remus？〃　Jim　Tile　had　felt　pelled　to　explain　the　importance　of　good　manners　to　Billie　Radcliffe；　by　way　of　breaking　every　single　fishing　rod　in　Billie　Radcliffe's　custom…made　bass　boat。　This　had　been　done　in　a　calm　and　methodical　way；　and　with　no　interference；　since　Al　Garcia　and　his　Colt　Python　had　supervised　the　brief　ceremony。　From　then　on；　the　other　fishermen　steered　clear　of　the　Tile　Brothers。
　It　was　just　as　well。　All　the　practice　at　Lake　Jesup　had　been　in　vain：　Al　Garcia　proved　to　be　the　world's　most　dangerous　bass　angler。　On　four　occasions　he　snagged　Jim　Tile's　scalp　with　errant　casts。　Three　other　times　he　hooked　himself；　once　so　severely　that　Jim　Tile　had　to　cut　the　barbs　off　the　hooks　just　to　remove　them　from　Garcia's　thigh。
　Casting　a　heavy　plug　rod　required　a　sensitive　thumb；　but　invariably　Garcia　would　release　the　spool　too　early　or　too　late。　Either　he　would　fire　the　lure　straight　into　the　bottom　of　the　boat；　where　it　shattered　like　a　bullet；　or　he　would　launch　it　straight　up　in　the　air；　so　it　could　plummet　dangerously　down　on　their　heads。　In　the　few　instances　when　the　detective　actually　managed　to　hit　the　water；　Jim　Tile　put　down　his　fishing　rod　and　applauded。　They　both　agreed　that　Al　Garcia　should　concentrate　on　steering　the　boat。
　With　the　puny　six…horse　outboard；　it　took　them　longer　to　get　around　the　canals；　but　by　midday　they　reached　the　spot　Skink　had　told　them　about；　at　the　far　western　terminus　of　Lunker　Lake　Number　Seven。　Charlie　Weeb's　landscapers　had　not　yet　reached　this　boundary　of　the　development；　so　the　shores　remained　as　barren　white　piles　of　dredged…up　fill。　The　canal　ended　at　the　old　earthen　dike　that　separated　the　lush　watery　Florida　Everglades　from　concrete　civilization。　Charlie　Weeb　had　pushed　it　to　the　brink。　This　was　the　final　barrier。
　Jim　Tile　and　Al　Garcia　had　the　Number　Seven　hole　to　themselves；　as　Skink　had　predicted　they　would。　It　was　too　sparse；　too　bright；　and　too　remote　for　the　other　bassers。
　Garcia　nudged　the　skiff　to　shore；　where　Jim　Tile　got　out　and　collected　several　armfuls　of　dead　holly　branches　from　a　heap　left　by　the　bulldozers。　Hidden　under　a　tarp　in　the　boat　were　three　wooden　orange　crates；　which　they　had　brought　from　Harney　in　the　bin　of　the　garbage　truck。　Garcia　tied　the　crates　together　while　Jim　Tile　stuffed　the　dead　branches　between　the　slats。　Together　they　lowered　the　crates　into　the　water。　With　a　fishing　line；　Al　Garcia　measured　the　depth　at　thirteen　feet。　He　marked　the　secret　spot　by　placing　two　empty　Budweiser　cans　on　the　bank。
　This　was　to　be　Queenie's　home　away　from　home。
　〃Oldest　trick　in　the　book；〃　Skink　had　told　the　detective　two　nights　before。　〃These　big　hawgs　love　obstructions。　Lay　back　invisible　in　the　bush；　sucking　down　dumb　minnows。　Find　the　brushpile；　you　find　the　fish。　Make　the　brushpile；　you　win　the　damn　tournament。〃
　That　was　the　plan。
　Jim　Tile　and　Al　Garcia　felt　pretty　good　about　pulling　it　off；　there　wasn't　another　boat　in　sight。
　There　was；　however；　a　private　helicopter。
　The　Tile　Brothers　hadn't　bothered　to　look　up；　since　it　flew　over　only　once。
　But　once　was　all　that　Dennis　Gault's　pilot　needed　to　mark　his　map。　Then　he　flew　back　to　the　heliport　to　radio　his　boss。
　
　That　evening；　after　the　practice　day；　the　mood　at　the　boat　ramp　ranged　from　doubtful　to　downhearted。　No　one　had　caught　a　single　bass；　though　none　of　the　fishermen　would　admit　it。　It　was　more　than　a　matter　of　pride…it　was　the　mandatory　furtiveness　of　petition。　With　two　hundred　and　fifty　thousand　dollars　at　stake；　lifelong　friendships　and　fraternal　confidences　counted　for　spit。　No　intelligence　was　shared；　no　strategies　pared；　no　secrets　swapped。　As　a　result；　nobody　prehended　the　full　scope　of　the　fishless　disaster　that　was　named　Lunker　Lakes。　While　scouting　the　shoreline；　a　few　anglers　had　e　across　dead　yearling　bass；　and　privately　mulled　the　usual　theories…nitrogen　runoff；　phosphate　dumping；　algae　blooms；　pesticides。　Still；　it　wasn't　the　few　dead　fish　as　much　as　the　absence　of　live　ones　that　disturbed　the　contestants；　as　the　day　wore　on；　optimism　evaporated。　These　were　the　best　fishermen　in　the　country；　and　they　knew　bad　water　when　they　saw　it。　All　morning　the　men　tried　to　mark　fish　on　their　Humminbird　sonars；　but　all　that　showed　was　a　deep　gray　void。　The　banks　were　uniformly　steep；　the　bottom　uniformly　flat；　and　the　lakes　uniformly　lifeless。　Even　Dennis　Gault　was　worried；　though　he　had　an　ace　up　his　L。　L。　Bean　sleeve。
　At　dusk　the　anglers　returned　to　the　boat　ramp　to　find　banners　streaming；　canned　country　music　blaring；　and　an　elaborate　rectangular　stage　rising…a　pink　pulpit　at　one　end；　the　bass　scoreboard　at　the　other。　The　whole　stage　was　bathed　by　hot　kliegs　while　the　OCN　cameramen　conducted　their　lighting　checks。　Over　the　pulpit　hung　a　red…lettered　banner　that　said：　〃JESUS　IN　YOUR　LIVING　ROOM…LIVE　AT　FIVE！〃　And　over　the　scoreboard　hung　a　blue…lettered　banner　that　said：　〃Lunker　Lakes　Presents　the　Dickie　Lockhart　Memorial　Bass　Blasters　Classic。〃　Every　possible　camera　angle　was　cluttered　with　the　signs　and　logos　of　the　various　sponsors　who　had　put　up　the　big　prize　money。
　Once　all　the　bass　boats　had　returned　to　the　dock；　the　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　ambled　centerstage　with　a　cordless　microphone。
　〃Greeting；　sportsmen！〃
　The　tired　anglers　grumbled　halfheartedly。
　〃Understand　it　was　tough　fishing　out　there　today；　but　don't　you　worry！〃　shouted　Charlie　Weeb。　〃The　Lord　tells　me　tomorrow's　g