Double Whammy

"We do our best," the fisherman muttered, "on a thousand lousy bucks per episode." That was the Fish Feverbudget, excluding Dickie Lockhart's salary. Travel money was so tight that Lockhart drove a Winnebago between locations to save on motels.

Weeb said, "Your show needs a damn good jolt."

"I caught three ten-pounders at Lake Jackson!"

"Spurling's got a new theme song," Weeb went on. "Banjos. Mac Davis on the vocals. Have you heard it?"

Lockhart shook his head. He wasn't much for arguing with the boss, but sometimes pride got the best of him. He asked Charles Weeb, "Did you see the latest BBRs?"

Published by Bass Blastersmagazine, the Bass Blasters Ratings (BBR) ranked the country's top anglers. The BBR was to bass fishing what the Nielsens were to the TV networks.

"Did you notice who's number one?" Dickie Lockhart asked. "Again?"

"Yeah." Weeb took his sneakers off the coffee table and sat up. "It's a good fucking thing, too, because right now all we got going for us is your name, Dickie. You're a winner and viewers like winners. 'Course, I see where Mr. Spurling won himself a tournament in mid-Tennessee—"

"The minor leagues, Reverend Weeb. I smoked him at the Atlanta Classic. He finished eighth, and no keepers."

Weeb stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from his expensive jogging suit. Then he sat down again. "As I said, we're very pleased you're on top. I just hate to see you slipping, that's all. It happens, if you're not careful. Happens in business, happens in fishing too. One and the same."

Weeb tore open a fruit basket and tossed Lockhart an apple. Lockhart felt like telling Weeb how much his jogging suit looked like K-Mart pajamas.

The Reverend Charles Weeb said, "This is the majors, Dickie. If you don't win, you get benched." He took off his glasses. "I truly hope you keep winning. In fact, I strongly recommend it."

On this matter, of course, Dickie Lockhart was way ahead of him.

Decker honked twice as he drove up to Skink's shack. Short, polite honks. The last thing he wanted to do was surprise a man in a shooting mood.

The shack had a permanent lean, and looked as if a decent breeze could flatten it. Except for the buzz of horseflies, the place stood silent. Decker stuck his hands in his pockets and walked down to the lake. Across the water, several hundred yards away, a sleek boat drifted with two fishermen, plugging the shoreline. Every time one of them cast his lure, the shiny monofilament made a gossamer arc over the water before settling to the surface. The pointed raspberry hull of the fishermen's boat glistened under the noon sun. Decker didn't even bother to try a shout. If Skink were fishing, he'd be alone. And never in a boat like that.

Decker trudged back to the shack and sat on the porch. Seconds later he heard a cracking noise overhead, and Skink dropped out of an old pine tree.

He got up off the ground and said, "I'm beginning not to despise you."

"Nice to hear," Decker said.

"You didn't go inside."

"It's not my house," Decker said.

"Precisely," Skink grumped, clomping onto the porch. "Some people would've gone in anyway."

Daylight added no nuances or definition to Skink's appearance. Today he wore camouflage fatigues, sunglasses, and a flowered shower cap from which sprouted the long braid of silver-gray hair.

He poured coffee for Decker, but none for himself.

"I got fresh rabbit for lunch," Skink said.

"No thanks."

"I said fresh."

"I just ate," Decker said unconvincingly.

"How was the funeral?"

Decker shrugged. "Did you know Robert Clinch?"

"I know them all," Skink said.

"Lanie Gault?"

"Her brother's the big tycoon who hired you."

"Right." Decker had been relieved when Ott had told him that Dennis Gault was Lanie's brother. A husband would have been disconcerting news indeed.

Decker said, "Miss Gault thinks there's something strange about the way Bobby Clinch died."

Skink was on his haunches, working on the fire. He didn't answer right away. Once the tinder was lit, he said, "Good rabbit is tough to come by. They tend to get all the way smushed and there's no damn meat left. The best ones are the ones that just barely get clipped and knocked back to the shoulder of the road. This one here, you'd hardly know it got hit. Meat's perfect. Might as well dropped dead of a bunny heart attack." Skink was arranging the pieces on a frypan.

"I'll try a bite or two," Decker said, surrendering.

Only then did Skink smile. It was one of the unlikeliest smiles Decker had ever seen, because Skink had perfect teeth. Straight, flawless, blindingly white ivories, the kind nobody is born with. TV-anchorman-type teeth—Skink's were that good.

Decker wasn't sure if he should be comforted or concerned. He was still thinking about those teeth when Skink said: "I was at the Coon Bog Saturday morning."

"When it happened?"

"Right before."

"They said he must've been doing sixty knots when the boat flipped."

Skink basted the sizzling rabbit with butter. He looked up and said, "When I saw the boat, it wasn't moving."