ch.doublewhammy-第10部分

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bunny　heart　attack。〃　Skink　was　arranging　the　pieces　on　a　frypan。
　〃I'll　try　a　bite　or　two；〃　Decker　said；　surrendering。
　Only　then　did　Skink　smile。　It　was　one　of　the　unlikeliest　smiles　Decker　had　ever　seen；　because　Skink　had　perfect　teeth。　Straight；　flawless；　blindingly　white　ivories；　the　kind　nobody　is　born　with。　TV…anchorman…type　teeth…Skink's　were　that　good。
　Decker　wasn't　sure　if　he　should　be　forted　or　concerned。　He　was　still　thinking　about　those　teeth　when　Skink　said：　〃I　was　at　the　Coon　Bog　Saturday　morning。〃
　〃When　it　happened？〃
　〃Right　before。〃
　〃They　said　he　must've　been　doing　sixty　knots　when　the　boat　flipped。〃
　Skink　basted　the　sizzling　rabbit　with　butter。　He　looked　up　and　said；　〃When　I　saw　the　boat；　it　wasn't　moving。〃
　〃Was　Clinch　alive？〃
　〃Hell；　yes。〃
　Decker　said；　〃Then　the　accident　must　have　happened　after　you　left。〃
　Skink　snorted。
　〃Did　he　see　you？〃　Decker　asked。
　〃Nope。　I　was　kneeling　in　the　trees；　skinning　out　a　rattler。　Nobody　saw　me。〃　He　handed　Decker　a　hunk　of　fried　meat。
　Decker　blew　on　it　until　it　cooled；　then　took　a　small　bite。　It　was　really　very　good。　He　asked；　〃What　made　you　notice　Clinch？〃
　〃Because　he　wasn't　fishing。〃
　Decker　swallowed　the　meat；　and　out　came　a　quizzical　noise。
　〃He　wasn't　fishing；〃　Skink　repeated；　〃and　I　thought　that　was　damn　strange。　Get　up　at　dawn；　race　like　mad　to　a　fishing　hole；　then　just　poke　around　the　lily　pads　with　a　paddle。　I　was　watching　because　I　wanted　to　see　if　he'd　find　what　he　was　looking　for。〃
　〃Did　he？〃
　〃Don't　know。　I　left；　had　to　get　the　snake　on　ice。〃
　〃Christ；〃　Decker　said。　He　reached　into　the　frypan　and　gingerly　picked　out　another　piece　of　rabbit。　Skink　nodded　approvingly。
　Decker　asked；　〃What　do　you　make　of　it？〃
　Skink　said：　〃I'm　working　for　you；　is　that　right？〃
　〃If　you'll　do　it；　I　sure　need　the　help。〃
　〃No　shit。〃　The　pan　was　empty。　Skink　poured　the　gloppy　grease　into　an　old　milk　carton。
　〃Bass　were　slapping　over　that　morning；〃　he　said；　〃and　not　once　did　that　fucker　pick　up　a　rod　and　cast。　Do　you　find　that　strange？〃
　〃I　suppose；〃　Decker　said。
　〃God；　you　need　a　lesson　or　two；〃　Skink　muttered。　〃Guys　like　Clinch　love　to　catch　bass　more　than　they　love　to　screw。　That's　the　truth；　Miami。　You　put　'em　on　a　good　bass　lake　at　dawn　and　they　get　hard。　So　the　question　is；　why　wasn't　Bobby　Clinch　fishing　on　the　Coon　Bog　last　Saturday？〃
　Decker　had　nothing　to　offer。
　〃You　want　to　hear　something　even　stranger？〃　Skink　said。　〃There　was　another　boat　out　there　too；　and　not　far　away。　Two　guys。〃
　Decker　said；　〃And　they　weren't　fishing　either；　were　they；　captain？〃
　〃Ha…ha！〃　Skink　cawed。　〃See　there…those　rabbit　glands　went　straight　to　your　brain！〃
　Decker's　coffee　had　cooled；　but　it　didn't　matter。　He　gulped　the　rest　of　it。
　Skink　had　bee　more　animated　and　intense；　the　cords　in　his　neck　were　tight。　Decker　couldn't　tell　if　he　was　angry　or　ecstatic。　Using　a　pocket　knife　to　pick　strings　of　rabbit　meat　from　his　perfect　teeth；　Skink　said：　〃Well；　Miami；　aren't　you　going　to　ask　me　what　this　means？〃
　〃It　was　on　my　list　of　questions；　yeah。〃
　〃You'll　hear　my　theory　tonight；　on　the　lake。〃
　〃On　the　lake？〃
　〃Your　first　munion；〃　Skink　said；　and　scrambled　noisily　back　up　into　the　big　pine。
　
　Ott　Pickney　had　left　Miami　in　gentle　retreat　from　big…city　journalism。　He　knew　he　could　have　stayed　at　the　Sun　for　the　rest　of　his　life；　but　felt　he　had　more　or　less　made　his　point。　Having　written　virtually　nothing　substantial　in　at　least　a　decade；　he　had　nonetheless　departed　the　newspaper　in　a　triumphant　state　of　mind。　He　had　survived　the　conversion　to　cold　type；　the　advent　of　unions；　the　onslaught　of　the　preppy　cubs；　the　rise　of　the　hotshot　managers。　Ott　had　watched　the　stars　and　starfuckers　arrive　and；　with　a　minimum　of　ambition；　outlasted　most　of　them。　He　felt　he　was　living　proof　that　a　successful　journalist　need　not　be　innately　cunning　or　aggressive；　even　in　South　Florida。
　In　Ott's　own　mind；　Harney　was　the　same　game；　just　a　slower　track。
　Which　is　why　he　half…resented　R。　J。　Decker's　infernal　skepticism　about　the　death　of　Bobby　Clinch。　A　foolhardy　fisherman　wrecks　his　boat　and　drowns…so　what？　In　Miami　it's　one　crummy　paragraph　on　page　12…D；　no　one　would　look　twice。　Ott　Pickney　was　peeved　at　Decker's　coy　insinuation　that　something　sinister　was　brewing　right　under　Ott's　nose。　This　wasn't　Dade　County；　he　thought；　and　these　weren't　Dade　County　people。　The　idea　of　an　organized　cheating　ring　at　the　fish　tournaments　struck　Ott　as　merely　farfetched；　but　the　suggestion　of　foul　play　in　Robert　Clinch's　death　was　a　gross　insult　to　the　munity。　Ott　resolved　to　show　R。　J。　Decker　how　wrong　he　was。
　After　the　funeral；　Ott　went　back　to　the　newsroom　and　stewed　awhile。　The　Sentinel's　deadlines　being　what　they　were；　he　had　two　days　to　play　with　the　Clinch　piece。　As　he　flipped　through　his　notebook；　Ott　figured　he　had　enough　to　bang　out　fifteen　or　twenty　inches。　Barely。
　In　an　uncharacteristic　burst　of　tenacity；　he　decided　to　give　Clarisse　Clinch　another　shot。
　
　He　found　the　house　in　chaos。　A　yellow　moving　van　was　parked　out　front；　a　crew　of　burly　men　was　emptying　the　place。　Clarisse　had　set　up　a　mand　post　in　the　kitchen；　and　under　her　scathing　direction　the　movers　were　working　very　swiftly。
　〃Sorry　to　intrude；〃　Ott　said　to　her；　〃but　I　remembered　a　couple　more　questions。〃
　〃I　got　no　answers；〃　Clarisse　snapped。　〃We're　on　our　way　to　Valdosta。〃
　Ott　tried　to　picture　Clarisse　in　a　slinky；　wet…looking　dress；　sliding　long…legged　into　a　tangerine　sports　car。　He　couldn't　visualize　it。　This　woman　was　a　different　species　from　Lanie　Gault。
　〃I　just　need　a　little　more　about　Bobby's　hobby；〃　Ott　said。　〃A　few　anecdotes。〃
　〃Anecdotes！〃　Clarisse　said　sharply。　〃You　writing　a　book？〃
　〃Just　a　feature　story；〃　Ott　said。　〃Bobby's　friends　say　he　was　quite　a　fisherman。〃
　〃You　saw　the　coffin；〃　Clarisse　said。　〃And　you　saw　his　friends。〃　She　clapped　her　hands　twice　loudly。　〃Hey！　Watch　the　ottoman；　Pablo；　unless　you　want　to　buy　me　a　new　one！〃
　The　man　named　Pablo　mumbled　something　obscene。
　Clarisse　turned　back　to　Ott。　〃Do　you　fish？〃
　He　shook　his　head。
　〃Thank　God　there's　at　least　one　of　you；〃　she　said。
　Her　eyes　flickered　to　a　bookcase　in　the　living　room。　Ott　noticed　that　there　were　no　books　on　the　shelves；　only　trophies。　Each　of　the　trophies　was　crowned　with　a　cheap　gold…painted　replica　of　a　jumping　fish。　Bass；　Ott　assumed。　He　counted　up　the　trophies　and　wrote　the　number　〃18〃　in　his　notebook。　One　of　the　movers　unfolded　a　big　cardboard　box　and　began　wrapping　and　packing　the　trophies。
　〃No！〃　Clarisse　said。　〃Those　go　in　the　dumpster。〃
　The　mover　shrugged。
　Ott　followed　the　widow　to　the　garage。　〃This　junk　in　here；〃　she　was　saying；　〃I've　got　to　sell。〃
　Bobby　Clinch's　fishing　gear。　Cane　poles；　spinning　rods；　flipping　rods；　bait…casting　rods；　popping　rods；　fly　rods。　Ott　Pickney　counted　them　up　and　wrote　〃22〃　in　his　notebook。　Each　of　the　outfits　seemed　to　be　in　immaculate　condition。
　〃These　are　worth　a　lot　of　money；〃　Ott　said　to　Clarisse。
　〃Maybe　I　should　take　out　an　ad　in　your　newspaper。〃
　〃Yes；　good　idea。〃　All　Harney　Sentinel　reporters　were　trained　in　the　paperwork　of　classified　advertising；　just　in　case　the　moment　arose。　Ott　got　a　pad　of　order　forms　out　of　the　glove　box　in　the　truck。
　〃Twenty…two　fishing　rods；〃　he　began。
　〃Three　pairs　of　hip　waders；〃　Clarisse　said；　rummaging　through　her　husband's　bass　trove。
　〃Two　landing　nets；〃　Ott　noted。
　〃Four　vests；〃　she　said；　〃one　with　Velcro　pockets。〃
　〃Is　that　an　electric　hook　sharpener？〃
　〃Brand　new；〃　Clarisse　said。　〃Make　sure　you　put　down　that　it's　brand　new。〃
　〃Got　it。〃
　〃And　I　don't　know　what　to　do　about　this。〃　From　under　a　workbench　she　dragged　what　appeared　to　be　a　plastic　suitcase　with　the　word　〃PLANO〃　stamped　on　the　top。　〃I　can't　even　lift　the　darn　thing；〃　she　said。　〃I'm　afraid　to　look　inside。〃
　〃What　is　it？〃　Ott　asked。
　〃The　mother　lode；〃　Clarisse　said。　〃Bobby's　tacklebox。〃
　Ott　hoisted　it　by　the　handle；　then　set　it　down　on　the　kitchen　counter。　It　must　have　weighed　fifty　pounds。
　〃He　has　junk　in　there　from　when　he　was　ten　years　old。　Lures　and　stuff。〃　Clarisse's　voice　sounded　small；　she　was　blinking　her　eyes　as　if　she　were　about　to　cry；　or　at　least　fighting　the　urge。
　Ott　unfastened　the　clasps　on　the　tacklebox　and　opened　the　lid。　He　had　never　seen　such　an　eclectic　collection　of　gadgets：　rainbow…colored　worms　and　frogs　and　plastic　minnows　and　even　tiny　rubber　snakes；　all　bristling　with　diamond…sharpened　hooks。　The　lures　were　neatly　organized　on　eight　folding　trays。　Knives；　pliers；　stainless…steel　hook　removers；　sinkers；　swivels；　and　spools　of　leader　material　filled　the　bottom　of　the　box。
　In　a　violet　velvet　pouch　was　a　small　bronze　scale　used　for　weighing　bass。　The　numerals　on　the　scale　optimistically　went　up　to　twenty…five　pounds；　although　no　largemouth　bass　that　size　had　ever　been　caught。
　Of　the　scale；　Clarisse　remarked：　〃That　stupid　thing　cost　forty　bucks。　Bobby　said　it　was　tournament…certified；　whatever　that　means。　All　the　guys　had　the　same　model；　he　said；　so　nobody　could　cheat　on　the　weight。〃
　Ott　Pickney　carefully　fitted　the　bronze　scale　back　in　its　pouch。　He　returned　the　pouch　to　Bobby　Clinch's　tacklebox　and　closed　the　latches。
　Clarisse　sat　down　on　the　con