ch.doublewhammy-第45部分

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td。；　had　been　the　beneficiary　of　just　such　unbridled　generosity…twenty…four　million　dollars　for　site　planning　and　construction。　On　paper　there　was　nothing　unusual　about　the　loan　or　the　terms　of　repayment　（eleven　percent　over　ten　years）；　but　in　reality　not　much　money　ever　got　repaid。　About　six　thousand　dollars；　to　be　exact。　Wanton　disorganization　ruled　First　Standard　Eurobank's　collections　department…as　patient　and　amiable　a　bunch　of　Christian　soldiers　as　Charlie　Weeb　had　ever　met。　He　kept　missing　the　bimonthly　payments　and　they　kept　saying　don't　worry　and　Charlie　Weeb　didn't　worry；　because　this　was　a　fucking　bank；　for　God's　sake；　and　banks　don't　go　under　anymore。　Then　the　FDIC　swooped　in　and　discovered　that　First　Standard　Eurobank　had　been　just　as　patient　and　flexible　with　all　its　mercial　customers；　to　the　extent　that　virtually　nobody　except　farmers　were　being　made　to　repay　their　loans　on　time。　Suddenly　the　president　of　the　bank　and　three　top　assistants　all　moved　to　Barbados；　leaving　Uncle　Sam　to　sort　out　the　mess。　Pretty　soon　the　bad　news　trickled　out：　First　Standard　Eurobank　was　calling　in　its　bad　loans。　All　over　the　country　big…time　land　developers　headed　for　the　tall　grass。　Charlie　Weeb　himself　had　been　dodging　some　twit　from　The　Wall　Street　Journal　for　five　days。
　What　aggravated　Weeb　was　that　he　had　intended　all　along　to　pay　back　the　money；　but　at　a　pace　mensurate　with　advance　sales　at　Lunker　Lakes。　Unfortunately；　sales　were　going　very　slowly。　Charlie　Weeb　couldn't　figure　it　out。　He　fired　his　marketing　people；　fired　his　advertising　people；　fired　his　sales　people…yet　nothing　improved。　It　was　maddening。　The　lakefront　models　were　simply　beautiful。　Three　bedrooms；　sunken　bath　and　sauna；　cathedral　ceilings；　solar　heating；　microwave　kitchens…〃Christian　town…home　living　at　its　finest！〃　Charlie　Weeb　was　fanatical　about　using　the　term　〃town　home；〃　which　was　a　fancy　way　of　saying　two…story　condo。　The　problem　with　using　the　word　〃condo〃　was；　as　every　idiot　in　Florida　knew；　you　couldn't　charge　a　hundred　and　fifty　thousand　for　a　〃condo〃　fourteen　miles　away　from　the　ocean。　For　this　reason　any　Lunker　Lakes　salesman　who　spoke　the　word　was　immediately　terminated。　Condos　carried　a　hideous　connotation；　Charlie　Weeb　had　lectured…this　wasn't　a　cheesy　high…rise　full　of　nasty　old　farts；　this　was　a　wholesome　family　munity。　With　fucking　bike　paths！
　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　missioners　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。〃
　
　An　hour　out　of　　Fort　Lauderdale；　Skink　started　to　pluck　the　dead　seagull　in　the　back　seat。　Every　so　often　he　threw　a　handful　of　gray…white　feathers　out　the　window。　Garcia　adjusted　the　rearview　and　watched；　disbelieving。　After　R。　J。　Decker　explained　the　custom；　Garcia　decided　to　pull　off　the　Turnpike　for　a　dinner　break。　They　dropped　Skink　near　the　Delray　Beach　overpass　to　let　him　roast　the　bird　in　private。　Garcia　offered　some　matches；　but　as　he　got　out　of　the　car　Skink　mumbled；　〃Don't　need　any。〃
　Decker　said；　〃We're　driving　into　town　for　some　burgers。　Meet　you　back　here　in　about　an　hour。〃
　〃Fine；〃　Skink　said。
　〃You'll　be　waiting；　right？〃
　〃Most　likely。〃
　A　hunching　ursine　shape　in　the　darkness；　Skink　gathered　kindling　as　they　drove　away。
　Waiting　in　a　line　of　cars　at　the　Burger　King　drive…through；　Garcia　said　to　Decker；　〃So　the　bottom　line　is；　these　Gomers　are　murdering　each　other　over　fish。〃
　〃It's　money　too；　Al。　Prizes；　endorsements；　TV　contracts。　Fishing's　just　the　sizzle。　And　not　all　these　guys　are　dumb　peckerwoods。〃
　The　detective　chuckled。　〃Guess　not。　They　tricked　your　ass；　didn't　they？〃
　〃Nicely；〃　Decker　said。　On　the　trip　he　had　told　Garcia　about　Dennis　Gault；　the　photographs；　Dickie　Lockhart；　and　Lanie。　The　part　about　Lanie　was　not　Decker's　favorite。　〃All　I　can　figure；〃　he　said；　〃is　she　remembered　my　name　from　that　fashion　shoot　in　Sanibel。　Probably　read　about　the　Bennett　case　too…it　made　all　the　papers。〃　The　Sun's　unsparing　headline　had　read：　〃STAFF　PHOTOG　CONVICTED　IN　BEATING　OF　PREP　FOOTBALL　STAR。〃
　Garcia　said；　〃Gault　must've　creamed　when　his　sister　suggested　you　for　the　mark。　Big　ex…con　photographer　with　a　bad　temper；　down　on　his　luck。〃
　〃Made　to　order；〃　Decker　agreed　glumly。
　〃What　about　the　pictures　of　Lockhart　cheating？　New　Orleans　sent　Xerox　copies；　but　still　they　look　pretty　good。〃
　Decker　said；　〃They've　got　to　be　tricked　up。〃
　〃Just　so　you　know；　I　served　a　warrant　on　your　trailer。　Took　every　single　roll　from　your　camera　bag…had　our　lab　soup　the　film。〃
　〃And？〃
　〃Garbage。　Surveillance　stuff　for　that　insurance　case；　that's　all。　No　fish　pictures；　R。J。〃
　There　you　had　it。　Lanie　had　probably　swiped　the　good　stuff　out　of　his　bag　at　the