Double Whammy

"Before this?" Skink plucked off his shades. "I made mistakes."

"Something about you does look familiar," Decker said. "Something about the mouth."

"Used to leave it open a lot," Skink said.

"I think it's the teeth," Decker was saying.

Skink's forest-green eyes sparkled. "Ah, the teeth." He grinned, quite naturally.

But R. J. Decker couldn't make the connection. The brief governorship of Clinton Tyree had occurred before Decker's newspaper days and before he paid much attention to statewide politics. Besides, the face now smiling at him from beneath the flowered bathcap was so snarled and seamed that the governor's closest friends might have had trouble recognizing him.

"What's the story?" Decker asked earnestly. "Are you wanted somewhere?"

"Not wanted," Skink said. "Lost."

But before Decker could press for more, Skink raised a fishy brown finger to his lips. Another boat was coming.

Coming fast, and from the opposite direction. Skink motioned to Decker and they shrank to the deck of the narrow johnboat. The sound of the other outboard stopped abruptly, and Decker heard men's voices behind them. The voices seemed very close, but he was afraid to get up and look.

"You have a talk with that fuckin' guy tonight!" said one man.

"I said I would, didn't I?" Another voice.

"Find out if he was followed or what."

"He woulda said somethin'."

"Mebbe. Mebbe he's just bean a smardass. Ever thoughta that?"

"I'll talk to him. Christ, was it the third piling or the fourth?"

"The fourth," said the first voice. "See, there's the line."

The fishermen had spotted the submerged trap. Decker carefully lifted himself from the bottom of the johnboat and inched toward the camera in the bow. Skink nodded and motioned that it was safe to move. The poachers' voices bounced back and forth off the concrete under 1-55.

" 'Least the fuckers didn't find this one."

"Pull it up quick."

Decker studied the two men through the camera. They had their backs toward him. Under the caps one looked blondish and one had thick black hair, like Dickie Lockhart's. Both seemed like large men, though it was difficult to tell how much of the bulk was winter clothing. The bass boat itself was silver and blue, with an unreadable name in fancy script along the side. Decker kept the camera trained on the fishermen. His forefinger squeezed the shutter button while his thumb levered the rewind. He had snapped six frames and still the men had not turned around.

It was maddening. Decker could see that they had the fish cage out of the water. 'They won't turn around," he whispered to Skink. "I haven't got the picture yet."

From the back of the boat Skink acknowledged with a grunt. He flipped his sunglasses down. "Get ready," he said.

Then he screamed, a piercing feral cry that made Decker shiver. The unhuman quavering echo jolted both fishermen and caused them to drop the wire cage with a commotion. Clutching their precious captive bass, they wheeled to face a screeching bobcat, or maybe even a panther, but instead saw only the empty mocking glades. Swiftly, Decker fired away. His camera captured every detail of bewilderment in the two men's faces, including the bolt of fear in their eyes.

Two men who definitely were not Dickie Lockhart.

"So what now?"

"Eat," Skink said through a mouthful of fried catfish. They sat at a corner table in Middendorf's. No one seemed to notice their camouflage suits.

Decker said, "Wait till Gault hears we tailed the wrong guys."

Skink had momentarily turned his attention to a bowl of drippy coleslaw. "Maybe not," he said. "Maybe they work for Lockhart."

Decker had considered that possibility. Perhaps Dickie was too cautious to pull the fish traps himself. All he'd have to do was recruit some pals for the deed, and rendezvous later on the lake to pick up the purloined bass. Some of those boys would do anything Dickie Lockhart told them, as long as he promised to put them on TV.

The other possible explanation of what had happened that morning made just as much sense: R. J. Decker had simply photographed the wrong gang of cheaters.

Either way, the faces on film were not the ones Dennis Gault wanted to see.

"You know damn well Dickie's got the tournament rigged."

"Of course," Skink said. "But there's a billion places to hide the bass around here. Bayous far as the eye can see. Shit, he could sink the traps out on Pontchartrain and we'd grow old lookin' in that soup."

"So we staked out the obvious place," Decker said gloomily.

"And got ourselves some obvious assholes." Skink signaled a waitress for more catfish. "It'll all work out, Miami. Go to the weigh-in, see what happens. And eat your goddamn hush puppies, all right? Worse comes to worst, I'll just shoot the motherfucker."

"Pardon?"

"Lockhart," Skink said.

"Come on." Decker vainly searched Skink's face for some sign that he was joking.