Double Whammy

Weeb continued: "As you know, for some time Eddie's been the host of his own popular bass show on a competing network. We are most pleased to have stolen him away, since it means—as of yesterday—an additional seventy-four independent cable stations switching to the Outdoor Christian Network for the upcoming fishing season." Charlie Weeb allowed himself a brief dramatic pause. "And let me say that although all of us will miss Dickie Lockhart and his special brand of outdoor entertainment, I'm certain that his fans will find Eddie Spurling just as exciting, just as informative, and just as much fun to fish with every week. All of us here in the OCN family couldn't be more pleased!"

Eddie stepped forward and tipped an invisible cap. He was looking pretty pleased himself, and for good reason. January had been a fabulous month. Without winning a single bass tournament he had doubled both his salary and his national TV exposure, and had also landed the lucrative six-figure endorsement contract for Happy Gland Fish Scent products. The Happy Gland package (entailing print, TV, billboard, and radio commercials) was the envy of the professional bass-fishing circuit, a prize held exclusively for the past five years by Dickie Lockhart. With Lockhart's sudden death, the Happy Gland people needed a new star. The choice was an obvious one; the ad agency didn't even bother to hold auditions. Henceforth every bottle of Bass Bolero, Mackerel Musk, and Catfish Cum would bear the grinning likeness of Fast Eddie Spurling.

"Any questions?" asked Charlie Weeb.

The reporters just looked at one another. Each of them was thinking he would go back to the newsroom and kill the editor who sent him on this assignment.

Weeb said, "I've saved the best for last. Girls, bring out the visuals."

Two young women in opalescent bathing suits entered the skybox carrying an immense gold-plated trophy. The trophy easily stood five feet off the ground. On the corners of the base of the trophy were toy-size figures of anglers holding fishing rods, bent in varying degrees of mythic struggle. At the crown of the trophy was an authentic largemouth bass in a full body mount. As bass went, it was no hawg, but poised on the trophy it did look impressive.

"Well, there!" said the Reverend Weeb.

"What did you win it for?" one of the reporters asked Eddie Spurling.

"I didn't win it," Fast Eddie said, "not yet."

"Gentlemen, read what it says on the trophy, look closely," said Charlie Weeb. "This is probably the biggest trophy most of you ever saw, including Eddie here, who's won some pretty big ones."

"None this big," Eddie Spurling said admiringly.

"Damn right," Weeb said. 'That's because it's the biggest trophy ever. And it's the biggest trophy ever because it goes to the winner of the biggest fishing tournament ever. Three weeks from today, gentlemen, on the edge of the legendary Florida Everglades, fifty of the best bass anglers in the world will compete for a first prize of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Christ," said one of the reporters. Finally something to scribble.

"The richest tournament ever," Charlie Weeb said, glowing. "The Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic."

Ed Spurling said, "At Lunker Lakes."

"Oh yes," said the Reverend Weeb, "how could I forget?"

Al Garcia was dog-tired. He'd been up since six, and even after four cups of coffee his tongue felt like mossy Styrofoam. His bum left shoulder was screaming for Percodans but Garcia stuck with plain aspirin, four at a pop. It was one of those days when he wondered why he hadn't just retired on full disability and moved quietly to Ocala; one of those days when everything and everybody in Miami annoyed the shit out of him. The lady at the toll booth, for instance, when she'd snatched the dollar bill out of his hand—a frigging buck, just for the matchless pleasure of driving the Rickenbacker out to Key Biscayne. And the doorman at the Mayan high-rise condo. Let's see some identification, please.How about a sergeant's badge, asshole? The thing was, the doorman—dressed in a charcoal monkey suit that must have cost four bills—the doorman used to work for fucking Somoza. Used to pulverize peasant skulls on behalf of the Nicaraguan National Guard. Garcia knew this, and still he had to stand there, dig around for his shield anda driver's license, before the goon would let him inside.

To top it off, the rich guy he's supposed to interview comes to the door wearing one of those faggy thong bathing suits (candy-apple red) that make it look like you've got a python between your legs.

"Come on in, Sergeant," said Dennis Gault. "Tell me the news."

"What news?" Garcia looked the place over before he sat down.

Nice apartment. Thick, fluffy carpet—no rug-burn romances for this stud. Swell view of the Atlantic, too. Got to cost a million-three easy, Garcia thought. You can't buy a toilet on the island for under two-fifty.

Gault said, "About Decker—didn't you catch him?"