Double Whammy

Dennis Gault shrugged and stood up. "You know how it is—in the sack you'll say anything. Besides, you never met Elaine. Talking is her second-favorite thing." Gault flashed Garcia a sly, frat-house sort of look. Garcia thought this showed real class, a millionaire pimping his own sister. With each passing minute the homicide detective was growing to doubt Mr. Gault's character.

He said, "Maybe Decker was just bragging."

"Bragging, passing the time, waiting for his dick to get hard again, I don't know. Whatever the reason, he told Elaine." Gault took Garcia's coffee cup. "What about Decker's partner, this Skink maniac?"

"We don't even know his real name," Garcia said.

"He's a nut case, I've met him. Tell your boys to be damn careful."

"You bet," Garcia said, rising. "Thanks for the coffee. You've been most helpful."

Gault twirled the sash of his robe as he walked the detective to the door. "As you can tell, I had no love for Dickie Lockhart. If anything else had happened to him—a plane crash, prostate cancer, AIDS—you wouldn't have heard a peep out of me. Hell, I would've thrown a party. But murder—not even a cheating motherfucker like Dickie deserved to be murdered in cold blood. That's why I went to the police."

"Sort of a civic duty," Garcia said.

"Exactly." Before Gault said good-bye, something occurred to him: It would be best to end the interview on a light and friendly note. He said to Garcia, "You're from Cuba, right?"

"A long time ago."

"There's some hellacious fishing down there, south of Havana. Castro himself is a nut for largemouth bass, did you know that?"

"I read something about it."

Gault said, "For years I've been trying to pull some strings and wrangle an invitation, but it's damn tough in my position. I'm in the sugar business, as you know. The Bearded One doesn't send us many valentines."

"Well, you're the competition," Garcia said.

"Still, I'm dying to try for a Cuban bass. I've heard stories of sixteen-, eighteen-pound hawgs. What's the name of that famous lake?"

Garcia said, "I forget."

"Did you do much fishing," Gault asked, "when you lived there?"

"I was just a small boy," Garcia said. "My great-uncle did some fishing, though."

"Is that right?"

"He was a mullet man."

"Oh."

"He sold marlin baits to Hemingway."

"No shit!" Dennis Gault said. Now he was impressed. "I saw a movie about Hemingway once," he said. "Starred that Patton guy."

Back at police headquarters, Al Garcia sat down at his desk and slipped a cassette into a portable tape recorder. The date of January 7 had been written in pencil on the label of the cassette. It was one of three used in R. J. Decker's answering machine. Garcia had picked them up at the trailer after he got the search warrant.

He closed the door to his office, and turned the volume on the tape machine up to number ten on the dial. Then he lit a cigarette and pressed the Play button.

There were a few seconds of scratchy blank tape, followed by the sound of a phone ringing. The fourth ring was interrupted by a metallic click and the sound of R. J. Decker's voice: "I'm not home now. Please leave a message at the tone."

The first caller was a woman: "Rage, it's me. James is on another trip and I'm in the mood for pasta. How about Rita's at nine?"

In his notebook Garcia wrote: Ex-wife.

The second caller was also a woman: "R.J., it's Barbara. I'm sorry about canceling the other night. How about a drink later to make up for it?"

Garcia wrote: Some girl.

The third caller was a man: "Mr. Decker, you probably don't know me but I know of you. I need a private investigator, and you come highly recommended. Call me as soon as possible—I guarantee it'll be worth your time. The number is 555-3400. The name is Dennis Gault."

In his notebook Al Garcia wrote: Bad guy.

For several days Decker and Skink stayed inside the hotel room, waiting for things to cool off. Decker had done what he could over the phone, and was eager to get on the road. For his part, Skink had shrunk into a silent and lethargic melancholy, and exhibited no desire to do anything or go anywhere.

Finally, the afternoon Catherine arrived, Skink briefly came to life. He went outside and stood on the beach and started shooting at jetliners on final approach to the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood airport.