Double Whammy (15 page)

“Why are you still in town?” Decker asked.

“I'm going tomorrow, too.”

“You didn't answer the question. Why are you still here? Why didn't you go home after Bobby's funeral?”

Lanie said, “I went out to the cemetery today. And yesterday. I haven't felt like leaving yet, that's all. We each deal with grief in our own way—isn't that what you said?”

Very sharp, Decker thought. He just loved it when they filed stuff away. “Know what I think?” he said. “I think the Gault family needs to be tested. Scientifically, I mean. I think maybe there's a genetic deficiency that prevents you people from telling the truth. I think the Mayo Clinic might be very interested.”

She rolled her eyes, a little ditty right out of high school. It was supposed to be cool but it came off as nervous.

“I won't stay long,” Decker said, “but we need to talk.”

“I don't feel like talking,” Lanie said, “but you're welcome to stay as long as you like. I'm not tired.”

She crossed her legs up under the robe and glanced over at him. Something in the stale motel room smelled fresh and wonderful, and it definitely wasn't Parfum de Days Inn. It was Lanie; she was one of those women who just naturally smelled like a spring day. Or maybe it just seemed that way because she looked so good. Whatever the phenomenon, Decker had the sense to realize he was in trouble, that by walking into her room and letting her hop into bed he had lost all leverage, all hope of getting any answers. He knew he was wasting his time, but he didn't feel like leaving.

“You look like hell,” Lanie said.

“Been a long day.”

“Hot on the trail?”

“Oh, right.”

“Anything new about Bobby's death?”

“I thought you didn't feel like talking,” Decker said.

“I'm curious, that's all. More than curious. I loved him, remember?”

“You keep saying that,” Decker said, “like you've got to keep reminding yourself.”

“Why don't you believe me?”

Lee Strasberg material. Lanie the wounded lover. Her tone of voice was exquisite—hurt but not defensive. And not a flicker of doubt in those beautiful eyes; in fact, she looked about ready to cry. It was such a splendid performance that Decker reconsidered the question: Why didn't he believe her?

“Because Bobby Clinch wasn't your type,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“That Corvette parked outside. That's you, Lanie. Bobby was pure pickup truck. You might've liked him, laid him, maybe even given him that blowjob you're so proud of, but you didn't love him.”

“You can tell all this from looking at a damn car!”

“I'm an expert,” Decker said, “it's what I do.” It was true about cars: there was no better clue to the total personality. Any good cop would tell you so. Decker hadn't thought much about the psychology of automobiles until he became a private investigator and had to spend half his time tracing, following, and photographing all kinds. On long surveillances in busy parking lots he made a game of matching shoppers to their cars, and had gotten good at it. The make, model, color, everything down to the shine on the hubcaps was a clue to the puzzle. Decker's own car was a plain gray 1979 Plymouth Volaré, stylistically the most forgettable automobile Detroit ever produced. Decker knew it fit him perfectly. It fit his need to be invisible.

“So you think I belong back in Miami,” Lanie was saying sarcastically. “Who can you picture me with, Decker? I know—a young Colombian stud! Rolex, gold necklace, and black Ferrari. Or maybe you figure I'm too old for a coke whore. Maybe you see me on the arm of some silver-haired geezer playing the ponies out at Hialeah.”

“Anybody but Bobby Clinch,” Decker said. “Steve and Eydie you weren't.”

Of course then the tears came, and the next thing Decker knew he had moved to the bed and put his arms around Lanie and told her to knock off the crying. Please. In his mind's eye he could see himself in this cheesy scene out of a cheap detective movie; acting like the gruff cad, awkwardly consoling the weepy long-legged knockout, knowing deep down he ought to play it as the tough guy but feeling compelled to show this warm sensitive side. Decker knew he was a fool but he certainly didn't feel like letting go of Lanie Gault. There was something magnetic and comforting and entirely natural about holding a sweet-smelling woman in a silken nightie on a strange bed in a strange motel room in a strange town where neither one of you belonged.

 

A Bell Jet-Ranger helicopter awaited the Reverend Charles Weeb at the Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport. Weeb wore a navy pinstriped suit, designer sunglasses, and lizard boots. He was traveling with a vice-president of the Outdoor Christian Network and a young brunette woman who claimed to be a secretary, and who managed to slip her phone number to the chopper pilot during the brief flight.

The helicopter carried the Reverend Charles Weeb to a narrow dike on the edge of the Florida Everglades. Looking east from the levee, Weeb and his associates had a clear view of a massive highway construction site. The land had been bulldozed, the roadbed had been poured, the pilings had been driven for the overpasses. Dump trucks hauled loose fill back and forth, while graders crawled in dusty clouds along the medians.

“Show me again,” Weeb said to the vice-president.

“Our property starts right about there,” the vice-president said, pointing, “and abuts the expressway for five miles to the south. The state highway board has generously given us three interchanges.”

Generously my ass, thought Weeb. Twenty thousand in bonds to each of the greedy fuckers.

“Give me the binoculars,” Weeb said.

“I'm sorry, sir, but I left them at the airport.”

“I'm going to go sit in the helicopter,” the brunette woman whined.

“Stay right here,” Weeb growled. “How'm I supposed to see the lake system without the binoculars?”

“We can fly over it on the way back,” the vice-president said. “The canals are almost done.”

Vigorously Weeb shook his head. “Dammit, Billy, you did it again. People don't buy townhouses on
canals
. ‘Canal' is a dirty word. A canal is where raw sewage goes. A canal is where ducks fuck and cattle piss. Who wants to live on a damn canal! Would you pay a hundred-fifty grand to do that? No, you'd want to live on a
lake
, a cool scenic lake, and lakes is what we're selling here.”

“I understand,” said the vice-president. Lakes it is. Straight, narrow lakes. Lakes you could toss a stone across. Lakes of identical fingerlike dimensions.

The company that OCN had hired was a marine dredging firm whose foremen were, basically, linear-minded. They had once dredged the mouths of Port Everglades and Government Cut, and a long stretch of the freighter route in Tampa Bay. They had worked with impressive speed and efficiency, and they had worked in a perfectly straight line—which is desirable if you're digging a ship channel but rather a handicap when you're digging a lake. This problem had been mentioned several times to Reverend Charles Weeb, who had merely pointed out the fiscal foolishness of having big round lakes. The bigger the lake, the more water. The more water, the less land to sell. The less land to sell, the fewer townhouses to build.

“Lakes don't have to be round,” the Reverend Weeb said. “I'm not going to tell you again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Weeb turned to the west and stared out at the Glades. “Reminds me of the fucking Sahara,” he said, “except with muck.”

“The water rises in late spring and early summer,” the vice-president reported.

“Dickie promises bass.”

“Yes, sir, some of the best fishing in the South.”

“He'd better be right.” Weeb walked along the dike, admiring the spine of the new highway. The vice-president walked a few steps behind him while the secretary stayed where she was, casting glances toward the blue-tinted cockpit of the Jet-Ranger.

“Twenty-nine thousand units,” Weeb was saying, “twenty-nine thousand families. Our very own Christian city!”

“Yes,” the vice-president said. It was the name of the development that gnawed at him. Lunker Lakes. The vice-president felt that the name Lunker Lakes presented a substantial marketing problem; too colloquial, too red behind the neck. The Reverend Charles Weeb disagreed. It was his audience, he said, and he damn well knew what they would and would not buy. Lunker Lakes was perfect, he insisted. It couldn't miss.

Charlie Weeb was heading back to the chopper. “Billy, we ought to start thinking about shooting some commercials,” he said. “Future Bass Capital of America, something like that. Fly Dickie down and get some tape in the can. He can use his own crew, but I'd like you or Deacon Johnson to supervise.”

The vice-president said, There's no fish in the lakes yet.”

Weeb climbed into the chopper and the vice-president squeezed in beside him. The secretary was up front next to the pilot. Weeb didn't seem to care.

“I know there's no fucking fish in the lakes. Tell Dickie to go across the dike and shoot some tape on the other side. He'll know what to do.”

The Jet-Ranger lifted off and swung low to the east.

“Head over that way,” the vice-president told the pilot, “where they're digging those lakes.”

“What lakes?” the pilot asked.

 

Skink was late to the airport. R. J. Decker was not the least bit surprised. He slipped into a phone booth and called the Harney
Sentinel
to see if anything had broken loose about the shootings. He had a story all made up about going to meet Ott at the pancake house but Ott never showing up.

Sandy Kilpatrick got on the phone. He said, “I've got some very bad news, Mr. Decker.”

Decker took a breath.

“It's about Ott,” Kilpatrick said. His voice was a forced whisper, like a priest in the confessional.

“What happened?” Decker said.

“A terrible car accident early this morning,” Kilpatrick said. “Out on the Gilchrist Highway. Ott must have gone to sleep at the wheel. His truck ran off the road and hit a big cypress.”

“Oh Jesus,” Decker said. They'd set up the wreck to cover the murder.

“It burned for two hours, started a mean brushfire,” Kilpatrick said. “By the time it was over there wasn't much left. The remains are over at the morgue now, but . . . well, they're hoping to get enough blood to find out if he'd been drinking. They're big on DUI stats around here.”

Ott's body would be scorched to a cinder. No one would ever suspect it had been in the water, just as no one would guess what had really killed him. The cheapest trick in the book, but it would work in Harney. Decker could imagine them already repainting the death's-head billboard on Route 222: “DRIVE SAFELY. DON'T BE FATALITY NO. 5.”

He didn't know what to say now. Conversations about the newly dead made him uncomfortable, but he didn't want to seem uncaring. “I didn't think Ott was a big drinker,” he said lamely.

“Me neither,” Kilpatrick said, “but I figured something was wrong when he didn't show up for the basketball game night before last. He was the team mascot, you know.”

“Davey Dillo.”

“Right.” There was a pause on the end of the line; Kilpatrick pondering how to explain Ott's armadillo suit. “It's sort of an unwritten rule here at the newspaper,” the editor said, “that everybody gives to the United Way. Just a few bucks out of each paycheck—you know, the company's big in civic charity.”

“I understand,” Decker said.

“Well, Ott refused to donate anything, said he didn't trust 'em. I'd never seen him so adamant.”

“He always watched his pennies,” Decker said. Ott Pickney was one of the cheapest men he'd ever met. While covering the Dade County courthouse he'd once missed the verdict in a sensational murder trial because he couldn't find a parking spot with a broken meter.

Sandy Kilpatrick went on: “Our publisher has a rigid policy about the United Way. When he heard Ott was holding back, he ordered me to fire him. To save Ott's job I came up with this compromise.”

“Davey Dillo?”

“The school team needed a mascot.”

“It sure doesn't sound like Ott,” Decker said.

“He resisted at first, but he got to where he really enjoyed it. I heard him say so. He was dynamite on that skateboard, too, even in that bulky costume. Someone his age—the kids said he should have been a surfer.”

“Sounds like quite a show,” Decker said, trying to imagine it.

“He never missed a game, that's why I was worried the other night when he didn't show. Only thing I could figure is that he'd gone out Saturday night and tied one on. Maybe went up to Cocoa Beach, met a girl, and just decided to stay the weekend.”

Ott sacked out with a beach bunny—the story probably was all over Harney by now. “Maybe that's it,” Decker said. “He was probably on his way home when the accident happened.” This was Ott's old pal from Miami, lying through his teeth. If Kilpatrick only knew the truth, Decker thought. He said, “Sandy, I'm so sorry. I can't believe he's dead.” That part was almost true, and the regret was genuine.

“The service is tomorrow,” Kilpatrick said. “Cremation seemed the best way to go, considering.”

Decker said good-bye and hung up. Then he called a florist shop in Miami and asked them to wire an orchid to Ott Pickney's funeral. The best orchid they had.

Jim Tile was born in the town of Wilamette, Florida, a corrupt and barren flyspeck untouched by the alien notions of integration, fair housing, and equal rights. Jim Tile was one of the few blacks ever to have escaped his miserable neighborhood without benefit of a bus ride to Raiford or a football scholarship. He attributed his success to good steady parents who made him stay in school, and also to his awesome physical abilities. Most street kids thought punching was the cool way to fight, but Jim Tile preferred to wrestle because it was more personal. For this he took some grief from his pals until the first time the white kids jumped him and tried to push his face in some cowshit. There were three of them, and naturally they waited until Jim Tile was alone. They actually got him down for a moment, but the one who was supposed to lock Jim Tile's arms didn't get a good grip and that was that. One of the white kids ended up with a broken collarbone, another with both elbows hyperextended grotesquely, and the third had four broken ribs where Jim Tile had squeezed him in a leg scissors. And they all went to the hospital with cowshit on their noses.