Dennis Gault was holding a stack of VCR cassettes when he answered the door. He was wearing salmon shorts and a loose mesh top that looked like it would have made an excellent mullet seine. Gault led R. J. Decker to the living room, which was filled with low flat-looking furniture. The predominant hue was cranberry.
Gault put a cassette in the video recorder and told Decker to sit down. "Want a drink?" Gault asked. He smelled like he was on his tenth Smirnoff.
Decker took a cold beer.
A fishing show came on the television screen. Gault used the remote control to fast-forward the tape. Two guys in a bass boat, Decker could tell; casting and reeling, casting and reeling, occasionally hauling in a small fish. Fast-forward was the only way to endure this, Decker decided.
A commercial came on and Gault abruptly hit the freeze button. "Theeeeere's Dickie!" he sang derisively.
On the screen Dickie Lockhart stood by the side of a lake, squinting into the sun. He was wearing a crisply pressed bassets jumpsuit, desert tan; his cap was off and his hair was blow-dried to perfection. He was holding up a sixteen-ounce bottle of Happy Gland Fish Scent, and grinning.
"Does that stuff really work?" Decker asked. A bit off the point, but he was curious.
"Hard to say," Gault replied. "Stinks like a sack of dead cats, that's for sure."
He speeded the tape forward until he found the segment he'd been searching for. He froze the picture as the angler in the bow of the boat hoisted a fat black bass to show the camera.
"There! Look now, pay attention!" Gault said. Excitedly he shuffled on bare knees across the floor to the television screen, one of those custom five-foot monsters that eats up the whole wall. "There, Decker, look. This fish is a ringer!"
"How can you tell?"
"See here, the eyes are flat. Not cloudy yet, but flat as tile. And the color's washed out of the flanks. No vertical stripes, not a one. Muck is the color of this fish."
"It doesn't look too healthy," Decker agreed.
"Healthy? Man, this fish is DOA. Check the dorsal. The guy is fanning the fins for the camera. Why? 'Cause they'd fold up otherwise. This fish is de-fucking-ceased."
"But they just showed the fisherman reeling it in," Decker said.
"Wrong. Now watch." Gault backed up the tape and replayed the fight. The rod was bent, the water around the boat boiled and splashedbut the angles and the editing of the video made it impossible to see the actual size of the bass. Until the fisherman lifted it for the camera.
"That rookie caught a fish," Gault said, "but not thisfish." He hit a button and rewound the tape. "Want to watch another one?"
"That won't be necessary," Decker said.
"You see how easy it is to cheat."
"For a TV show, sure."
"It's even easier in a tournament," Gault said, "especially when your partner's in on it. And the weighmaster too. Not to mention the goddamn sponsors." He went to the kitchen and came back with a beer for Decker and a fresh vodka-tonic for himself.
"Tell me about what happened in Harney," he said.
"Met a guy named Skink," Decker said.
Gault whistled and arched his eyebrows. "A real fruitbar. I fished with him once on the St. John's."
"He's going to help me catch Lockhart."
"Not on my nickel!" Gault protested.
"I need him."
"He's a maniac."
"I don't think so."
"He eats dead animals off the road!"
"Waste not, want not," Decker said. "He's the only one up there I'd trust. Without him I quit the case."
Gault folded his hands. Decker drank his beer.
"All right," Gault said, "but be careful. That guy's got Texas Tower written all over him, and neither of us wants to be there if he ever reaches the top."
What Gault meant was: If there's trouble, don't drag my name into it.
"What else did you do?" he asked Decker.
"Went to a funeral."
Gault licked his lower lip nervously.
"Robert Clinch," Decker said, "late of your hire. Nice of you to tell me."
Gault toyed with the stack of fishing videotapes, pretending to organize them. Without looking up, he asked, "Do they know what exactly happened?"
"The coroner says it was accidental."
Gault smiled thinly. "We know that's horseshit, don't we? The only question in my mind is: How'd they do it?"
Decker said, "My question is: Who?"
"Who? Dickie Lockhart, that's who!" Gault said. "Don't be stupid, man. Dickie knew I was closing in and he knew Bobby was working for me. What do you meanwho?'
"You're probably right," Decker said, "but I'd like to be sure."
"Haven't you been listening? Christ, don't tell me I've hired a complete moron."
"I met your sister," Decker said. He liked to save the best for last.
"Elaine?" Gault said. He looked most uncomfortable, just as Decker had expected. It was worth the wait.
"We had a nice chat," Decker said. He wanted Gault to be the one who finished the conversation. He didn't want to be the one to take it any further, but he had to. He needed to find out if Gault knew everything.
"You didn't tell me a couple important things. You didn't tell me about Clinch and you didn't tell me you had a sister up in Harney." Decker's voice had the slightest sting of irritation.
"She gets around, my sister." Gault drained his glass. His face was getting red.
Stubborn bastard, Decker thought, have it your way.
"You knew she was having an affair with Bobby Clinch," he said evenly.
"Says who?" Gault snapped. The red became deeper.
"Lanie."
"Lanie?"
"That's what they call her."
"Oh, is it now?"
"Personally, I don't care if she's screwing the entire American Legion post," Decker said, "but I need to know what you know."
"You better shut your mouth, ace!" Gault's face was actually purple now.
Decker thought: We really hit a nerve here. But from the murderous looks he was getting, he figured now wasn't the time to pursue it. He got up and headed for the door but Gault grabbed his arm and snarled, "Wait just a minute." Decker shook free andrather gently, he thoughtguided Gault backward until his butt hit the sofa.
"Good-bye now," Decker said.
But Gault had lost it. He lunged and got Decker by the throat. Gagging, Decker felt manicured fingernails digging into the meat of his neck. He stared up the length of Gault's brown arms and saw every vein and tendon swollen. The man's cheeks were flushed but his lips twitched like bloodless worms.
The two men toppled across the low sofa with Gault on top, amber eyeglasses askew. He was spitting and hollering about what a shiteating punk Decker was, while Decker was trying to squirm free from the neckhold before he passed out. His vision bloomed kaleidoscopic and his skull roared. The blood in his head was trying to go south but Dennis Gault wouldn't let it.
A cardinal rule of being a successful private investigator is: Don't slug your own clients. But sometimes exceptions had to be made. Decker made one. He released his fruitless grip on Gault's wrists and, in a clumsy but effective pincer motion, hammered him in the ribs with both fists. As the wind exploded from Gault's lungs, Decker bucked him over and jumped on top.
Dennis Gault had figured R. J. Decker to be strong, but he was unprepared for the force now planted on his sternum. As his own foolish rage subsided, he fearfully began to wonder if Decker was just getting warmed up.