"Don't be a jackass. You want your fucking name in the papers? Not me," Skink said. "I got no appetite for fame."
Decker had been dying to ask. "What exactly did you do," he said to Skink, "before this?"
"Before this?" Skink plucked off his shades. "I made mistakes."
"Something about you does look familiar," Decker said. "Something about the mouth."
"Used to leave it open a lot," Skink said.
"I think it's the teeth," Decker was saying.
Skink's forest-green eyes sparkled. "Ah, the teeth." He grinned, quite naturally.
But R. J. Decker couldn't make the connection. The brief governorship of Clinton Tyree had occurred before Decker's newspaper days and before he paid much attention to statewide politics. Besides, the face now smiling at him from beneath the flowered bathcap was so snarled and seamed that the governor's closest friends might have had trouble recognizing him.
"What's the story?" Decker asked earnestly. "Are you wanted somewhere?"
"Not wanted," Skink said. "Lost."
But before Decker could press for more, Skink raised a fishy brown finger to his lips. Another boat was coming.
Coming fast, and from the opposite direction. Skink motioned to Decker and they shrank to the deck of the narrow johnboat. The sound of the other outboard stopped abruptly, and Decker heard men's voices behind them. The voices seemed very close, but he was afraid to get up and look.
"You have a talk with that fuckin' guy tonight!" said one man.
"I said I would, didn't I?" Another voice.
"Find out if he was followed or what."
"He woulda said somethin'."
"Mebbe. Mebbe he's just bean a smardass. Ever thoughta that?"
"I'll talk to him. Christ, was it the third piling or the fourth?"
"The fourth," said the first voice. "See, there's the line."
The fishermen had spotted the submerged trap. Decker carefully lifted himself from the bottom of the johnboat and inched toward the camera in the bow. Skink nodded and motioned that it was safe to move. The poachers' voices bounced back and forth off the concrete under 1-55.
" 'Least the fuckers didn't find this one."
"Pull it up quick."
Decker studied the two men through the camera. They had their backs toward him. Under the caps one looked blondish and one had thick black hair, like Dickie Lockhart's. Both seemed like large men, though it was difficult to tell how much of the bulk was winter clothing. The bass boat itself was silver and blue, with an unreadable name in fancy script along the side. Decker kept the camera trained on the fishermen. His forefinger squeezed the shutter button while his thumb levered the rewind. He had snapped six frames and still the men had not turned around.
It was maddening. Decker could see that they had the fish cage out of the water. 'They won't turn around," he whispered to Skink. "I haven't got the picture yet."
From the back of the boat Skink acknowledged with a grunt. He flipped his sunglasses down. "Get ready," he said.
Then he screamed, a piercing feral cry that made Decker shiver. The unhuman quavering echo jolted both fishermen and caused them to drop the wire cage with a commotion. Clutching their precious captive bass, they wheeled to face a screeching bobcat, or maybe even a panther, but instead saw only the empty mocking glades. Swiftly, Decker fired away. His camera captured every detail of bewilderment in the two men's faces, including the bolt of fear in their eyes.
Two men who definitely were not Dickie Lockhart.
"So what now?"
"Eat," Skink said through a mouthful of fried catfish. They sat at a corner table in Middendorf's. No one seemed to notice their camouflage suits.
Decker said, "Wait till Gault hears we tailed the wrong guys."
Skink had momentarily turned his attention to a bowl of drippy coleslaw. "Maybe not," he said. "Maybe they work for Lockhart."
Decker had considered that possibility. Perhaps Dickie was too cautious to pull the fish traps himself. All he'd have to do was recruit some pals for the deed, and rendezvous later on the lake to pick up the purloined bass. Some of those boys would do anything Dickie Lockhart told them, as long as he promised to put them on TV.
The other possible explanation of what had happened that morning made just as much sense: R. J. Decker had simply photographed the wrong gang of cheaters.
Either way, the faces on film were not the ones Dennis Gault wanted to see.
"You know damn well Dickie's got the tournament rigged."
"Of course," Skink said. "But there's a billion places to hide the bass around here. Bayous far as the eye can see. Shit, he could sink the traps out on Pontchartrain and we'd grow old lookin' in that soup."
"So we staked out the obvious place," Decker said gloomily.
"And got ourselves some obvious assholes." Skink signaled a waitress for more catfish. "It'll all work out, Miami. Go to the weigh-in, see what happens. And eat your goddamn hush puppies, all right? Worse comes to worst, I'll just shoot the motherfucker."
"Pardon?"
"Lockhart," Skink said.
"Come on." Decker vainly searched Skink's face for some sign that he was joking.
"Gault would love it," Skink said. "Damn, I got a mouthful of bones here. How hard is it to properly fillet a fish? Doesn't take a fucking surgeon, does it?" A waitress warily approached the table but Decker motioned her away.
"We're not killing Dickie," he whispered to Skink.
"I've been thinking about it," Skink said, not lowering his voice even a little. "Who gives a shit if Lockhart croaks? His sponsors? The network? Big deal." Skink paused to chew.
"I'll get the damn photograph," Decker said.
"Be lots easier just to shoot his ass. Fella I know in Thibodaux, he'd lend me a deer rifle."
"No!" Decker snapped, but he saw that the idea had already lodged itself like a tick, somewhere behind those infernal sunglasses. "It's crazy," Decker said. "You mention it again and I'm gone, captain."
"Oh, relax," Skink said.
"I mean it!"
Skink reached over and speared a hush puppy from Decker's plate. "I warned you," he said playfully. "You had your chance."
The bass boats were as haphazard in their return as they had been regimented in departure. The weigh-in was set for four-thirty, and the fishermen cut wild vectors across Lake Maurepas to beat the deadline. They came from all directions; wide open seemed to be the only speed they knew. The ramp at Pass Manchac was bustling with spectators, sponsors, and even a local television crew. A monumental glass aquariuma grudging concession to conservationistshad been erected near the scoreboard, ostensibly to keep the caught bass alive so they could be freed later. As the catches were brought in, the fish were weighed, measured, and photographed by a Louisiana state biologist. Then they were dropped into the greenish tank, where most of them promptly turned belly-up and expired in deep shock.
The all-important weight totals went up on the big scoreboard. The angler with the biggest fish would receive ten thousand dollars; heaviest stringer was twenty grand, plus a new bass boat, a vacation trailer, and a Dodge Ram four-by-four, which would most likely be traded back for cash.
Decker waited alone because Skink had gone back to the motel. He had mumbled something about not wanting to bump into the Rundell brothersand there they were, slurping beer by the gas pumps. Ozzie was such a pitiable dolt, yet it was he who'd driven the getaway truck from the scene of Ott Pickney's murder. Decker played with the idea of sneaking up to Ozzie and whispering something terrifying into his ear, just to get a reaction. A fatal angina attack, maybe.
But Decker decided to keep a safe distance, on the off-chance Culver might remember him from the bait shop.
The ritual of the weigh-inthe handshakes, the hushed gathering around the scales, the posting of the resultsheld Decker's attention at first, but after a while his thoughts drifted back to Skink. It occurred to him that Skink was starting to unravel, or maybe just finishing the process, and that for all his backwoods savvy the man might become a serious liability. Decker wished Jim Tile were around to settle Skink down, or at least advise Decker how to handle him.