Double Whammy

He followed Deacon Johnson out of the townhouse office, through the courtyard, down a sloping walk to a boat ramp on the newly sodded shore of Lunker Lake Number One. Many of the anglers had begun to arrive, so the ramp was crowded with needle-shaped bass boats, each attached to a big candy-colored Blazer, Jeep, or Bronco. In the midst of the gleaming congregation was an immense army-green garbage truck with a warped old skiff hitched 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 newcomers 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 newcomers. 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.