Double Whammy

"Yes, sir, some of the best fishing in the South."

"He'd better be right." Weeb walked along the dike, admiring the spine of the new highway. The vice-president walked a few steps behind him while the secretary stayed where she was, casting glances toward the blue-tinted cockpit of the Jet-Ranger.

"Twenty-nine thousand units," Weeb was saying, "twenty-nine thousand families. Our very own Christian city!"

"Yes," the vice-president said. It was the name of the development that gnawed at him. Lunker Lakes. The vice-president felt that the name Lunker Lakes presented a substantial marketing problem; too colloquial, too red behind the neck. The Reverend Charles Weeb disagreed. It was his audience, he said, and he damn well knew what they would and would not buy. Lunker Lakes was perfect, he insisted. It couldn't miss.

Charlie Weeb was heading back to the chopper. "Billy, we ought to start thinking about shooting some commercials," he said. "Future Bass Capital of America, something like that. Fly Dickie down and get some tape in the can. He can use his own crew, but I'd like you or Deacon Johnson to supervise."

The vice-president said, "There's no fish in the lakes yet."

Weeb climbed into the chopper and the vice-president squeezed in beside him. The secretary was up front next to the pilot. Weeb didn't seem to care.

"I know there's no fucking fish in the lakes. Tell Dickie to go across the dike and shoot some tape on the other side. He'll know what to do."

The Jet-Ranger lifted off and swung low to the east.

"Head over that way," the vice-president told the pilot, "where they're digging those lakes."

"What lakes?" the pilot asked.

Skink was late to the airport. R. J. Decker was not the least bit surprised. He slipped into a phone booth and called the Harney Sentinelto see if anything had broken loose about the shootings. He had a story all made up about going to meet Ott at the pancake house but Ott never showing up.

Sandy Kilpatrick got on the phone. He said, "I've got some very bad news, Mr. Decker."

Decker took a breath.

"It's about Ott," Kilpatrick said. His voice was a forced whisper, like a priest in the confessional.

"What happened?" Decker said.

"A terrible car accident early this morning," Kilpatrick said. "Out on the Gilchrist Highway. Ott must have gone to sleep at the wheel. His truck ran off the road and hit a big cypress."

"Oh Jesus," Decker said. They'd set up the wreck to cover the murder.

"It burned for two hours, started a mean brushfire," Kilpatrick said. "By the time it was over there wasn't much left. The remains are over at the morgue now, but ... well, they're hoping to get enough blood to find out if he'd been drinking. They're big on DUI stats around here."

Ott's body would be scorched to a cinder. No one would ever suspect it had been in the water, just as no one would guess what had really killed him. The cheapest trick in the book, but it would work in Harney. Decker could imagine them already repainting the death's-head billboard on Route 222: "drive safely. don't be fatality no. 5."

He didn't know what to say now. Conversations about the newly dead made him uncomfortable, but he didn't want to seem uncaring. "I didn't think Ott was a big drinker," he said lamely.

"Me neither," Kilpatrick said, "but I figured something was wrong when he didn't show up for the basketball game night before last. He was the team mascot, you know."

"Davey Dillo."

"Right." There was a pause on the end of the line; Kilpatrick pondering how to explain Ott's armadillo suit. "It's sort of an unwritten rule here at the newspaper," the editor said, "that everybody gives to the United Way. Just a few bucks out of each paycheck—you know, the company's big in civic charity."

"I understand," Decker said.

"Well, Ott refused to donate anything, said he didn't trust 'em. I'd never seen him so adamant."

"He always watched his pennies," Decker said. Ott Pickney was one of the cheapest men he'd ever met. While covering the Dade County courthouse he'd once missed the verdict in a sensational murder trial because he couldn't find a parking spot with a broken meter.

Sandy Kilpatrick went on: "Our publisher has a rigid policy about the United Way. When he heard Ott was holding back, he ordered me to fire him. To save Ott's job I came up with this compromise."

"Davey Dillo?"

"The school team needed a mascot."

"It sure doesn't sound like Ott," Decker said.

"He resisted at first, but he got to where he really enjoyed it. I heard him say so. He was dynamite on that skateboard, too, even in that bulky costume. Someone his age—the kids said he should have been a surfer."

"Sounds like quite a show," Decker said, trying to imagine it.

"He never missed a game, that's why I was worried the other night when he didn't show. Only thing I could figure is that he'd gone out Saturday night and tied one on. Maybe went up to Cocoa Beach, met a girl, and just decided to stay the weekend."