ch.doublewhammy-第27部分

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　mittee　forever。
　Which　was　probably　just　as　well。　Soon　afterward　Gault　had　e　to　suspect　Dickie　Lockhart　of　cheating；　and　his　obsession　took　root　like　a　wild　and　irrational　vine。　It　twisted　itself　so　ferociously　around　Gault's　soul　that　even　knowing　of　R。　J。　Decker's　progress　in　Louisiana　only　agitated　him；　Gault　itched　to　be　there　to　share　in　the　stalk；　though　he　knew　it　would　have　been　a　grave　mistake。　On　the　telephone　Decker　had　addressed　him　in　the　same　cold　tones　as　the　fishermen　always　did；　as　if　he　were　a　spoiled　wimp；　and　this　began　to　bother　Gault　too。　Sometimes　Decker　seemed　to　forget　he　was　hired　help。
　The　way　this　is　going；　Gault　thought；　I'll　be　the　last　to　know　if　something　shakes　loose。
　So　he　made　a　call　and　asked　Lanie　for　another　favor。
　
　Decker　got　up　before　dawn；　struggled　into　his　blue　jeans；　and　threw　on　a　musty　blue　pea　jacket。　The　DJ　on　the　clock　radio　announced　that　it　was　forty…eight　degrees　in　downtown　Hammond。　Decker　shivered；　and　put　on　two　pairs　of　socks；　living　in　the　South　Florida　heat　turned　your　blood　to　broth。
　Skink　sat　on　the　floor　of　the　motel　room　and　flossed　his　teeth。　He　wore　only　Jockey　shorts；　sunglasses；　and　the　flowered　bathcap。　Decker　asked　if　he　wanted　to　go　along　but　Skink　shook　his　head　no。　The　twang　of　the　floss　against　gleaming　bicuspids　sounded　like　a　toy　ukulele。
　〃Want　me　to　bring　back　some　coffee？〃　Decker　asked。
　〃A　rabbit　would　be　good；〃　Skink　said。
　Decker　sighed　and　said　he'd　be　back　before　ten。　He　got　in　the　rental　car　and　headed　for　the　dock　at　Pass　Manchac。　On　old　Route　51　he　encountered　a　steady　stream　of　well…buffed　Jeeps；　Broncos；　and　Blazers；　all　towing　bass　boats　to　Lake　Maurepas。　Many　of　the　trucks　had　oversize　tires；　tinted　windows；　and　powerful　fog　lights　that　shot　amber　spears　through　the　soupy…dark　bayous。　These　vehicles　served　as　the　royal　carriages　of　the　top　bass　pros；　who　had　won　them　in　various　fishing　tournaments；　a　tournament　wasn't　even　worth　entering　unless　a　four…wheel…drive　was　one　of　the　prizes。　Many　of　the　bassers　won　three　or　four　a　year。
　At　the　fish　camp　the　mood　was　solemn　and　businesslike　as　the　sleek　boats　were　backed　off　galvanized　trailers　into　the　milky…green　water。　The　anglers　all　wore　caps；　vests；　and　jumpsuits　plastered　with　colorful　patches　advertising　their　sponsors'　products；　everything　from　bug　spray　to　chewing　tobacco　to　worms　was　smiled　in　this　manner。　Most　of　the　fishermen　wore　Lucite　goggles　to　protect　their　faces　during　the　breakneck　race　to　the　bass　hole。　This　innovation　had　recently　been　introduced　to　the　bassing　world　after　one　unlucky　angler　died　hitting　a　swarm　of　junebugs　at　fifty　knots；　one　of　the　brittle　beetles　had　gone　through　his　left　eyeball　like　a　bullet　and　tunneled　straight　into　his　brain。
　R。　J。　Decker　sipped　coffee　from　a　Styrofoam　cup　and　stood　among　a　throng　of　wives；　girlfriends；　and　mechanics　waiting　for　the　tournament　to　begin。　A　tall　chalk　scoreboard　posted　outside　the　Sportsman's　Hideout　displayed　the　roster　of　forty　entrants；　which　included　some　of　the　most　famous　bass　fishermen　of　all　time：　Jimmy　Houston　of　Oklahoma；　Larry　Nixon　of　Texas；　Orlando　Wilson　of　Georgia；　and　of　course　the　legendary　Roland　Martin　of　Florida。　Revered　in　the　world　of　fishing；　these　names　meant　absolutely　nothing　to　R。　J。　Decker；　who　recognized　only　one　entry　on　the　Cajun　Invitational　chalkboard：　Dickie　Lockhart。
　But　where　was　the　sonofabitch？　As　the　headlights　of　the　trucks　sporadically　played　across　the　water；　Decker　scrutinized　the　faces　of　the　anglers；　now　hunkered　behind　the　consoles　of　their　boats。　They　looked　virtually　identical　with　their　goggles　and　their　caps　and　their　puffed　ruddy　cheeks。　Dickie's　boat　was　out　there　somewhere；　Decker　knew；　but　he'd　have　to　wait　until　the　weigh…in　to　see　him。
　At　precisely　five…thirty　a　bearded　man　in　khaki　trousers；　a　flannel　shirt；　and　a　string　tie　strode　to　the　end　of　the　dock　and　announced　through　a　megaphone：　〃Bass　anglers；　prepare　for　the　blast…off！〃　In　unison　the　fishermen　turned　their　ignitions；　and　Lake　Maurepas　boiled　and　rumbled　and　swelled。　Blue　smoke　from　the　big　outboards　curled　skyward　and　collected　in　an　acrid　foreign　cloud　over　the　marsh。　The　boats　inched　away　from　the　crowded　ramp　and　crept　out　toward　where　the　pass　opened　its　mouth　to　the　lake。　The　procession　came　to　a　stop　at　a　lighted　buoy。
　〃Now　the　fun　starts；〃　said　a　young　woman　standing　next　to　R。　J。　Decker。　She　was　holding　two　sleeping　babies。
　The　starter　raised　a　pistol　and　fired　into　the　air。　Instantly　a　wall　of　noise　rose　off　Maurepas：　the　race　was　on。　The　bass　boats　hiccuped　and　growled　and　then　whined；　pushing　for　more　speed。　With　the　throttles　hammered　down；　the　sterns　dug　ferociously　and　the　bows　popped　up　at　such　alarming　angles　that　Decker　was　certain　some　of　the　boats　would　flip　over　in　midair。　Yet　somehow　they　planed　off　perfectly；　gliding　flat　and　barely　creasing　the　crystal　texture　of　the　lake。　The　song　of　the　big　engines　was　that　of　a　million　furious　bees；　it　tore　the　dawn　all　to　hell。
　It　was　one　of　the　most　remarkable　moments　Decker　had　ever　seen；　almost　military　in　its　high…tech　absurdity：　forty　boats　rocketing　the　same　direction　at　sixty　miles　per　hour。　In　darkness。
　Most　of　the　spectators　applauded　heartily。
　〃Doesn't　anyone　ever　get　hurt？〃　Decker　asked　the　woman　with　the　two　babies；　who　were　now　yowling。
　〃Hurt？〃　she　said。　〃No；　sir。　At　that　speed　you　just　flat…out　die。〃
　
　Skink　was　waiting　outside　the　motel　when　Decker　returned。　〃You　got　the　cameras？〃　he　asked。
　〃All　ready；〃　Decker　said。
　They　drove　back　to　the　Sportsman's　Hideout　and　rented　the　same　johnboat　from　the　night　before。　This　time　Decker　asked　for　a　paddle。　The　cashier　said　brightly　to　Skink：　〃Are　you　finding　enough　of　those　eels；　Mr。　Cousteau？〃
　〃Si；〃　Skink　replied。
　〃Oui！〃　Decker　whispered。
　〃Oui！〃　Skink　said。　〃Many　many　eels。〃
　〃I'm　so　glad；〃　the　cashier　said。
　Hastily　they　loaded　the　boat。　Decker's　camera　gear　was　packed　in　waterproof　aluminum　carriers。　Skink　took　special　care　to　distribute　the　weight　evenly；　so　the　johnboat　wouldn't　list。　After　the　morning's　parade　of　lightning…fast　bass　rigs；　the　puny　fifteen…horse　outboard　seemed　slow　and　anemic　to　Decker。　By　the　time　they　got　to　the　secret　spot；　the　sun　had　been　up　an　hour。
　Skink　guided　the　johnboat　deep　into　the　bulrushes。　The　engine　stalled　when　the　prop　snarled　in　the　thick　grass。　Skink　used　his　bare　hands　to　pull　them　out　of　sight；　away　from　the　pass。　Soon　they　seemed　walled　in　by　cattails；　sawgrass；　and　hyacinth。　Directly　overhead　was　the　elevated　ramp　of　Interstate　55；　Decker　and　Skink　were　hidden　in　its　cool　shadow。　Wordlessly　Skink　shed　the　orange　rainsuit　and　put　on　a　full　camouflage　hunting　outfit；　the　type　deer　hunters　use。　He　threw　one　to　R。　J。　Decker　and　told　him　to　do　the　same。　The　mottled　hunting　suit　was　brand…new；　still　crinkled　from　the　bag。
　〃Where'd　you　get　this？〃　Decker　asked。
　〃Borrowed　it；〃　Skink　said。　〃Put　the　tripod　up　front。〃　By　swinging　the　plastic　paddle　he　cleared　a　field　of　view　through　the　bullrushes。　He　pointed　and　said；　〃That's　where　we　pulled　the　last　trap。〃
　Decker　set　the　tripod　in　the　bow；　carefully　tightening　the　legs。　He　attached　a　Nikon　camera　body　with　a　six…hundred…millimeter　lens；　it　looked　like　a　snub…nosed　bazooka。　He　had　decided　on　black…and…white　film；　as　evidence　it　was　much　more　dramatic　than　a　tiny　Kodachrome　slide。　Color　was　for　vacation　snapshots；　black…and…white　was　for　the　grit　of　reality。　With　a　long　lens　the　print　would　have　that　grainy　texture　that　seemed　to　convey　guilt；　seemed　proof　that　somebody　was　getting　caught　in　the　act　of　something。
　Decker　closed　one　eye　and　expertly　focused　on　the　strand　of　mono…filament　tied　to　the　concrete　piling。
　〃How　long　do　we　wait？〃　he　asked。
　Skink　grunted。　〃Long　as　it　takes。　They'll　be　here　soon。〃
　〃How　can　you　be　sure？〃
　〃The　fish；〃　Skink　said。　He　meant　the　two　bass　he　had　left　in　the　fish　trap；　the　ones　he　had　marked　with　the　pliers。　〃The　longer　you　leave　'em；　the　worse　they　look。　Bang　their　heads　against　the　wire；　get　all　fucked　up。　They'd　stand　out　bad　at　the　weigh…in。　The　trick　is　to　get　'em　fresh。〃
　〃Makes　sense；〃　Decker　said。
　〃Well；　these　boys　aren't　stupid。〃
　On　this　point　Decker　and　Skink　disagreed。
　
　After　fifteen　minutes　they　heard　the　sound　of　another　boat。　Skink　slid　to　his　knees　and　Decker　took　his　position　at　the　tripod　camera。　A　boat　with　a　glittering　green　metal…flake　hull　drifted　into　the　Nikon's　frame；　the　man　up　front　held　a　fishing　rod　and　used　a　foot　pedal　to　control　a　small　electric　motor。　The　motor　made　a　purring　sound；　it　was　designed　to　maneuver　the　boat　silently；　so　as　not　to　frighten　the　bass。　The　angler　seated　in　the　stern　was　casting　a　purple　rubber　worm　and　working　the　lure　as　a　snake；　the　way　Skink　had　showed　Decker　that　night　on　Lake　Jesup。
　Unfortunately；　neither　of　the　men　in　the　green　boat　happened　to　be　Dickie　Lockhart　searching　for　his　traps；　they　were　just　ordinary　fishermen。　After　a　while　they　glided　away；　still　working　the　shoreline　intently；　seldom　speaking　to　one　another。　Decker　didn't　know　if　the　men　were　contestants　in　the　big　tournament；　but　thought　they　probably　must　be；　judging　by　the　grim　set　to　their　jawlines。
　An　hour　passed　and　no　other　boats