Double Whammy

And still the dumb shits couldn't sell it. A hundred-sixty units in the first four months. A hundred-sixty! Weeb was beside himself. Phase One of the project called for eight thousand units. Without Phase One there would be no Phase Two, and without Phase Two you could scrap the build-out projections of twenty-nine thousand. While you're at it, scrap the loans, the equity, even the zoning permits. The longer the project lagged, the greater the chances that all the county commissioners who had so graciously accepted Charlie Weeb's bribes would die or be voted out of office, and a whole new set would have to be paid off. One white knight could gum up the works.

The Reverend Charles Weeb had even deeper concerns. He had been so confident of Lunker Lakes that he had broken a cardinal rule and sunk three million dollars of his own personal, Bahamian-sheltered money into the project. The thought of losing it made him sick as a dog. Lying in bed, juggling the ghastly numbers in his head, Weeb also realized that the Outdoor Christian Network itself was probably not strong enough to survive if Lunker Lakes were to go under.

So he had to do something to raise money, lots of it. And fast. This was the urgency behind scheduling the new Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic on such short notice. Lunker Lakes was starving for publicity, and the TV coverage of the tournament was bound to boost sales—provided they could paint some of the buildings and get a few palm trees planted in time.

Trucking in two thousand young bass had been, Weeb thought, dastardly clever. For authenticity he had also planned to salt the lakes with a dozen big Florida hawgs a few days before the tournament. And, of course, he fully intended for Eddie Spurling to win the whole shebang with the fattest stringer of monster bass conceivable. Charlie Weeb had yet to discuss the importance of this matter with Eddie, but he was sure Eddie would understand. Certain details had to be arranged. Nothing could be left to chance—not on live cable television.

Charlie Weeb was feeling downright optimistic until he learned about the fish kill. He never imagined that all the bass would die, but he really didn't care to hear some elaborate scientific explanation. He knew this: Under no circumstances would the fishing tournament be canceled. If necessary he would simply purchase another truckload of bass, and somehow slip them into the lake the day of the tournament. Maybe the pinhead hydrologist could work a few miracles, buy him a few extra hours. It could be done, Charlie Weeb was sure.

As a long-term sales gimmick, the big bass tournament held much promise. However, the short-term fiscal crisis demanded immediate attention.

To this end the lap dancer from Louie's had given Charlie Weeb new spiritual inspiration.

He sat up in bed and reached for the phone.

"Deacon Johnson, please."

A sleepy voice came on the line.

Weeb said, "Izzy, wake up. It's me."

"It's three in the morning, man."

"Tough shit. Are you listening?"

"Yeah," said Deacon Johnson.

"Izzy, I want to do a healing on Sunday's show."

Deacon Johnson coughed up something in his throat.

"You sure?" he said.

"Positive. Unless you got any other brilliant ideas to solve the cash-flow problem."

Deacon Johnson said, "Healings are tricky, Charles."

"Hell, you don't have to tell me! That's why I quit doing 'em. But these are desperate times, Izzy. I figure we tape a couple fifteen-second promos tomorrow, start pushing the thing hard. Goose the ratings by the weekend—I bet we'll do a million-two."

"A million-two?" Deacon Johnson said. "For a sheep?"

"Screw the sheep. I'm talking about a real person."

Deacon Johnson didn't respond right away. The Reverend Weeb said, "Well?"

"We've never done a human being before, Charles."

"We've never dropped twenty-four mill before, Izzy. Look, I want you to set it up the same as we did with the animals. Find me a good one."

Deacon Johnson was not enthusiastic, but he knew better than to balk.

"Get me a little kid if you can," Charlie Weeb was saying, "or a teenager. No geezers and no housewives."

"I'll try," said Deacon Johnson. The logistics of the feat would be formidable.

"Blond, if possible," Weeb went on. Every heartbreaking detail spelled more money—he knew this from his experience promoting the tragic tale of June-Lee and Melissa, the two mythical Weeb sisters sold into Chinese slavery. "No redheads," Weeb instructed Deacon Johnson. "You get me a little blond kid to heal, Izzy, and I swear we'll do a million-two."

Deacon Johnson said, "I guess you wouldn't consider a practice run. Say, with a goat."