Double Whammy

Thomas Curl cocked the pistol. "Bad dog, Lucas!"

Catherine covered her mouth and let out a muffled little bark.

Curl grinned and leaned closer. "Hear that?"

Catherine barked again. It was better than having him fire a gun inside the car, doing seventy.

"That's my puppy," Curl said, oblivious. He laid the pistol in his lap and patted the crown of the dead dog's head. "You good boy, Lucas, I knew all along."

"Ruff!" said Catherine.

Skink netted more shiners and made Al Garcia practice with the fish until nearly dawn. Finally they let the monster-beastie rest, and Skink rowed back across Lake Jesup. As they dragged the skiff ashore, Garcia noticed two cars parked behind Skink's truck at the shack. One belonged to Trooper Jim Tile. The other was a tangerine Corvette.

"Company," Skink said, removing his raincap.

The four of them were sitting around the campfire: Decker, Tile, Lanie Gault, and a woman whom Skink did not recognize. Decker introduced her as Ellen O'Leary.

"How's the eye?" Jim Tile asked.

Skink grinned and took off his sunglasses. "Good as new," he said. Everyone felt obliged to say something nice about the owl eye.

"You hungry?" Skink said. "I'll take the truck and find some breakfast."

"We hit the Mister Donut on the way in," Decker said.

"Thank you anyway," Lanie added.

Skink nodded. "I am, sort of," he said. "Hungry, I mean. You please move the cars?"

"Take mine," Lanie said, fishing the keys out of her jeans. "Better yet, I'll go with you."

"Like hell," Decker said.

"I don't mind," said Skink, "if you don't."

"No more rope tricks," Lanie said. It was her cockteasing voice; Decker recognized it. She got in the passenger side of the Corvette. Skink squeezed himself behind the wheel.

"Hope she likes possum omelets," Decker said.

Skink and Lanie were gone a long time.

Al Garcia told Decker the plan, beginning with: "The man's totally crazy."

"Thanks for the bulletin."

Jim Tile said, "He knows about things. You can trust him."

Skink's plan was to crash the big bass tournament and ruin it. His plan was to sabotage the Lunker Lakes resort on national television.

Garcia said to Jim Tile: "You and me are fishing together."

"In the tournament?"

"He's already paid our entry fee," Garcia said. "The best part is, we're supposed to be hermanos.Brothers."

Jim Tile shook his head. He was smiling. "I like it. I don't know why, but I do."

In a faint voice Ellen O'Leary said, "You don't look that much alike."

"In the eyes we do," Garcia said, straight-faced. "This is going to be fun."

"Fun" is not the word R. J. Pecker would have chosen. Things had gotten dangerously out of hand; suddenly a one-eyed roadside carnivore with possible brain damage was running the whole program. Even more astounding, Garcia was going along with it. Decker couldn't imagine what could have happened while he and Jim Tile were up at Crescent Beach.

"This is all fascinating," Decker said, "and I wish both of you the best of luck in the tournament, but my immediate problem is Dennis Gault. Murder-one, remember?"

By way of interagency updating, Jim Tile said to Garcia: "The sister is taken care of. As a state's witness, forget it." He held up the tape cassette.

"Good work," Garcia said. He turned to Ellen O'Leary. "What about you, miss?"

Ellen looked worriedly at Jim Tile. The trooper said, "She can put Tom Curl with Dickie Lockhart right before the murder."

"Not bad," Garcia said. "R.J., I can't figure what you're so worked up about. Sounds to me like an easy nolle prosse."

"If you don't mind," Decker said. "Gault set me up on a murder charge. He also arranged to kill my friend Ott. At this very moment he's got some halfwit redneck hitman out looking for me. I would prefer not to wait three or four months for the New Orleans district attorney to settle the issue."

Garcia raised a fleshy brown hand. "Yeah, I hear you, chico.Why don't I just pop big Mr. Gault at the fish tournament? Irritate the hell out of him, wouldn't it?"

"Good TV, too," Jim Tile remarked.

"Pop him for what?" Decker asked.

Garcia paused to light a cigarette. "Filing false information, for starters. He lied to me—I don't like that. Obstruction, that's another good one. I haven't used it in years, so why not."

Decker said, "It's chickenshit, Al."

"Better than nothing," Jim Tile said.

Garcia watched a blue smoke ring float into the oaks. "Best I can do " he said, "until we find Tom Curl and have a serious chat with the boy."

"You think he'll flip?" Decker said.

"Sure." Al Garcia smiled. "If I ask real nice."

Skink jacked the Corvette up to ninety on the Gilchrist. He felt obliged to do it, seeing as how he'd probably never get another chance. It truly was quite a car. He loved the way its snout sucked up the road.