Double Whammy

"The best," Decker said. He moved up close, clicking away. The men stunk like stale beer and tobacco. Through the lens Decker saw rawboned ageless faces; they could have been twenty years old, or forty-five. Classic cons. They seemed mesmerized by the camera, or at least by Decker's hyperactive choreography. The leader of the trio plainly was getting antsy; he couldn't wait to kick Decker's ass, maybe even kill him, and get moving.

"Almost done," Decker said finally. "Move a little closer together ... that's good ... now look to my right and blow some smoke ... great! ... keep looking out at the water ... that-is-per-fect!"

Staring obediently at Lake Pontchartrain, the three men never saw Decker pull out the crowbar. With both hands he swung as hard as he could, a batter's arc. The iron blade pinged off the top of their skulls one by one, as if Decker were playing a human xylophone. The robbers fell in a wailing cross-eyed heap.

Decker had expected less noise and more blood. As the adrenaline ebbed, he looked down and wondered if he had hit them more than once. He didn't think so.

Now it was definitely time to go; the flat tire was Hertz's problem. Decker quickly loaded his stuff into the Cordoba. The key was in the ignition. A blue oily pistol lay on the front seat. He tossed it out the window on his way to the airport.

The first person R. J. Decker called when he got back to Miami was Lou Zicutto. Lou was branch claims manager of the mammoth insurance company where Decker worked part-time as an investigator. Lou was a spindly little twit, maybe a hundred twenty pounds, but he had a huge florid head, which he shaved every day. As a result he looked very much like a Tootsie Pop with lips. Despite his appearance, Lou Zicutto was treated respectfully by all employees and coworkers, who steadfastly believed that he was a member of the Mafia who could have them snuffed with a single phone call. Lou himself did nothing to discourage this idea, even though it wasn't true. Except for the fancy stationery, Decker himself didn't see much difference between the mob and an insurance company, anyway.

"Where ya been?" Lou Zicutto asked. "I left a jillion messages." Lou had a raspy cabdriver voice, and he was always sucking on menthol cough drops.

"I've been out of town on a case," Decker said. He could hear Lou slurping away, working the lozenges around his teeth.

"We got Nunez this week, remember?"

Nunez was a big fraud trial the company was prosecuting. Nunez was a stockbroker who stole his own yacht and tried to scuttle it off Bimini for the insurance. Decker had shot some pictures and done surveillance; he was scheduled to testify for the company.

"You're my star witness," Lou said.

"I can't make it, Lou, not this week."

"What the hell you mean?"

Decker said, "I've got a conflict."

"No shit you got a conflict. You got a big fucking conflict with me, you don't show up." The cough drops were clacking furiously. "Two million bucks this creep is trying to rip us for."

"You got my pictures, the tapes, the reports—" Decker said.

"Your smiling face is what the lawyers want," Lou Zicutto said. "You be there, Mr. Cameraman." Then he hung up.

The second person Decker tried to call was Catherine. The first time, the line was busy. He tried again two minutes later and a man answered. It sounded like James, the chiropractor; he answered the phone the way doctors do, not with a civil hello but with a "Yes?" Like it was a pain in the ass to have to speak to another human being.

Decker hung up the phone, opened a beer, and put a Bob Seger album on the stereo. He wondered what Catherine's new house looked like, whether she had one of these sunken marble tubs she'd always wanted. A vision of Catherine in a bubble bath suddenly swept over Decker, and his chest started to throb.

He was half-asleep on the sofa when the phone rang. The machine answered on the third ring. Decker sat up when he heard Al Garcia's voice.

"Call me as soon as you get in."

Garcia was a Metro police detective and an old friend. Except he didn't sound so friendly on the machine; he sounded awfully damn professional. Decker was a little worried. He drank two cups of black instant coffee before calling back.

"Hey, Sarge, what's up?"

Garcia said, "You at the trailer?"

"No, I'm in the penthouse of the Coconut Grove Hotel. They're having a Morgan Fairchild lookalike contest and I'm the judge for the swimsuit competition."

Normally Garcia would have donated some appropriately lewd counterpunchline, but today all he offered was a polite chuckle.

"We need to talk," the detective said mildly. "See you in about thirty."