Double Whammy

After Clinton Tyree won the election, one of the first things he did was order Trooper Jim Tile transferred from Harney County to the governor's special detail in Tallahassee. This unit was the equivalent of the state's Secret Service, one of the most prestigious assignments in the highway patrol. Never before had a black man been chosen as a bodyguard for a governor, and many of Tyree's cronies told him that he was setting a dangerous precedent. The governor only laughed. He told them that Jim Tile was the most prescient man he'd met during the whole campaign. An exit survey taken on election day by the pollster Pat Caddell revealed that what Florida voters had liked most about candidate Clinton Tyree was not his plainly spoken views on the death penalty or toxic dumps or corporate income taxes, but rather his handsome smile. In particular, his teeth.

During his brief and turbulent tenure in the governor's mansion, Clinton Tyree confided often in Jim Tile. The trooper grew to admire him; he thought the new governor was courageous, visionary, earnest, and doomed. Jim Tile was probably the only person in Florida who was not surprised when Clinton Tyree resigned from office and vanished from the public eye.

As soon as Tyree was gone, Trooper Jim Tile was removed from the governor's detail and sent back to Harney in the hopes that he'd come to his senses and quit the force.

For some reason he did not.

Jim Tile remained loyal to Clinton Tyree, who was now calling himself Skink and subsisting on fried bass and dead animals off the highway. Jim Tile's loyalty extended so far as to driving the former governor to the Orlando airport for one of his rare trips out of state.

"I could take some comp time and come with you," Jim Tile volunteered.

Skink was riding in the back of the patrol car in order to draw less attention. He looked like a prisoner anyway.

"Thanks for the offer," he said, "but we're going to a tournament in Louisiana."

Jim Tile nodded in understanding. "Gotcha." Bopping down Bourbon Street he'd be fine. Fishing the bayous was another matter.

"Keep your ears open while I'm gone," Skink said. "I'd steer clear of the Morgan Slough, too."

"Don't worry."

Skink could tell Jim Tile was worried. He could see distraction in the way the trooper sat at the wheel; driving was the last thing on his mind. He was barely doing sixty.

"Is it me or yourself you're thinking about?" Skink asked.

"I was thinking about something that happened yesterday morning," Jim Tile said. "About twenty minutes after I dropped you guys off on the highway, I pulled over a pickup truck that nearly broke my radar."

"Mrnrnm," Skink said, acting like he couldn't have cared less.

"I wrote him up a speeding ticket for doing ninety-two. The man said he was late for work. I said where do you work, and he said Miller Lumber. I said you must be new, and he said yeah, that's right. I said it must be your first day because you're driving the wrong damn direction, and then he didn't say anything."

"You ever seen this boy before?"

"No," Jim Tile said.

"Or the truck?"

"No. Had Louisiana plates. Jefferson Parish."

"Mmmm," Skink said.

"But you know what was funny," Jim Tile said. 'There was a rifle clip on the front seat. No rifle, just a fresh clip. Thirty rounds. Would have fit a Ruger, I expect. The man said the gun was stolen out of his truck down in West Palm. Said some nigger kids stole it."

Skink frowned. "He said that to your face? Niggerkids? What the hell did you do when he said that, Jim? Split open his cracker skull, I hope."

"Naw," Jim Tile said. "Know what else was strange? I saw two jugs of coffee on the front seat. Not one, but two."

"Maybe he was extra thirsty," Skink said.

"Or maybe the second jug didn't belong to him. Maybe it belonged to a buddy." The trooper straightened in the driver's seat, yawned, and stretched his arms. "Maybe the man's buddy was the one with the rifle. Maybe there was some trouble back on the road and something happened to him."

"You got one hell of an imagination," Skink said. "You ought to write for the movies." There was no point in telling his friend about the killing. Someday it might be necessary, but not now; the trooper had enough to worry about.

"So you got the fellow's name, the driver," Skink said.

Jim Tile nodded. "Thomas Curl."

"I don't believe he works at Miller's," Skink remarked.

"Me neither."

"Suppose I ask around New Orleans."

"Would you mind?" Jim Tile said. "I'm just curious."

"Don't blame you. Man's got to have a reason for lying to a cop. I'll see what I can dig up."

They rode the last ten miles in silence; Jim Tile, wishing that Skink would just come out and tell him about it, but knowing there were good reasons not to. The second man was dead, the trooper was sure. Maybe the details weren't all that important.

As he pulled up to the terminal, Jim Tile said, "This Decker, you must think he's all right."

"Seems solid enough."

"Just remember he's got other priorities. He's not working for you."