Double Whammy

Culver Rundell doubted if Sheriff Barley Lockhart was much interested in a boat theft, not with his famous nephew turning up murdered in Louisiana. Barley had caught a flight to New Orleans two days after the killing, and had not yet returned. Before leaving, the sheriff dramatically informed the Harney Sentinelthat his presence had been requested to assist in the homicide investigation, but in reality the Louisiana authorities merely wanted somebody to accompany Dickie's autopsied body back to Florida.

"It's a jurisdictional problem," Trooper Jim Tile said to the Rundell brothers. "I really can't help."

"You can take us to see Mr. Skink," Culver said.

"Why? You know where he lives—drive out there yourself."

To Ozzie's ear, Jim Tile's response sounded as close to a definite no as you could get. But Culver wasn't giving up.

"No way," Culver said. "I heard he's got a big gun, shoots at people just for the fun of it. He doesn't know me or my brother, and he might just open fire if we was to drive up unannounced. You, he knows. Even if he's crazy as they say, he won't shoot a damn police car."

The low, even tone of Jim Tile's voice did not change. "I told you, he's out of town."

"Well, let's go see."

"No," said Jim Tile, rising. "I have to go to work."

"Momma's truck," Ozzie blurted. "Maybe we oughta go, Culver."

Annoyed, Culver glanced at his brother. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm worried about Momma's truck out there. Maybe we should go—"

"The truck'll be fine," Culver said.

"I don't know," Jim Tile said, parting the Venetian blinds. "It's a pretty rough neighborhood."

Ozzie looked stricken.

"Oh, settle down," Culver said angrily. Then, to Jim Tile: "You, why won't you help us? I lost a twenty-thousand-dollar rig because of that bastard!"

Jim Tile was still looking out the window. "So that's your mother's pickup?"

"Ours is in the impound, up New Orleans," Ozzie said.

"The red one," Jim Tile said.

"Yeah," Culver grunted, secretly impressed that the trooper would remember the color.

Then Jim Tile said to Ozzie: "What about the green one?"

The color washed out of Ozzie's cheeks. His eyelids fluttered, as if he were about to faint.

"What green one?" Culver said, slow to put it together.

"The one your brother was driving week before last," Jim Tile said, "out on the Gilchrist. About dawn, one morning."

"When?" Ozzie hiccuped. "Wasn't me. Our truck is red."

"You and two other guys," Jim Tile said, "and the truck was green. Out-of-state tags."

Finally Culver was picking up on the train of conversation. He tried to help Ozzie as best he could, even though he felt like strangling him.

"I remember that day," Culver improvised, watching his brother's eyes grow big. "You and some boys went fishing up at the slough. I remember 'cause you took a couple Shakespeare plug rods out of the shop, along with some Johnson spoons and purple skirts."

Ozzie's lips were like chalk. His bottom jaw went up and down until finally he said, "Oh, yeah."

Culver said, "I remember 'cause you didn't want to try live shiners, even though I told you to. You said there was too much heavy cover, so you'd prefer dragging those damn weedless spoons."

Jim Tile was buttoning his shirt. "So, Ozzie," he said, "You guys catch anything?"

"Sure," Ozzie said, glancing at the door, as if he were about to run.

"What'd you catch?"

"Our truck is red," Ozzie Rundell said, licking his lips. His shoulders twitched and his eyes rolled up and fixed on the ceiling. His cheeks puffed out, like he was trying to fart.

"Pardon me?" Jim Tile said, bending over to tie his shoes.

"That's Momma's pickup outside," Ozzie said in a very high voice. He was gone, unglued, lost in a pathetic blubbering panic. Culver shook his head disgustedly.

"I asked what you caught," Jim Tile said, "out at Morgan Slough."

Ozzie smiled and smacked his lips. "One time Dickie gave me a tacklebox," he said.

"All right, that's enough," Culver broke in.

"Ozzie?" said Jim Tile.

"The day in the truck?"

"The green truck, yes."

"I was driving, that's all. I didn't drown nobody."

"Of course not," Jim Tile said.

"That's it," said Culver Rundell. "Shut the fuck up, Oz."

Culver had the gun out. He was holding it with two hands, pointing it at Jim Tile's heart. Jim Tile glanced down once, but seemed to pay no more attention to the gun than if it were just Culver's fly unzipped.

"Let's go," Culver said in a husky whisper.

But Jim Tile merely walked into the bedroom, stood at the dresser, and adjusted his trooper's Stetson.

"Now!" Culver shouted. Ozzie stared at the handgun and covered his ears.

Jim Tile reached for a bottle of cologne.

Culver exploded. "Nigger, I'm talking to you!"

Only then did Jim Tile turn to give Ozzie Rundell's brother his complete and undivided attention.