As Ott was reinventing this story, Sandy Kilpatrick stared at R. J. Decker the way visitors from Miami got stared at in this part of Florida. Like they were trouble. Kilpatrick obviously had heard Ott's voodoo-murder story about four hundred times and soon started to shrink away.
"Nice meeting you," Decker said.
Kilpatrick nodded again as he slipped out of the office.
"Good kid," Ott Pickney said avuncularly. "He's learning."
Decker helped himself to a cup of coffee. His legs were stiff from the long drive.
"What the hell brings you here?" Ott asked amiably.
"Fish," Decker said.
"Didn't know you were a basser."
"I thought I'd give it a try," Decker said. "They say Harney's a real hotspot for the big ones."
"Lunkers," Ott said.
Decker looked at him quizzically.
"In these parts, they're not big ones,they're lunkers," Ott explained. "The most mammoth bass in the hemisphere."
"Hawgs," Decker said, remembering one of Dennis Gaulfs phrases.
"Sure, you got it!"
"Where's the best place to try, this time of year?"
Ott Pickney sat down at his desk. "Boy, R.J., I really can't help you much. The man to see is Jamie Belliroso, our sports guy."
"Where can I find him?"
"Maui," Ott Pickney said.
Jamie Belliroso, it turned out, was one of a vanishing breed of sportswriters who would accept any junket tossed their way, as long as gourmet food and extensive travel were involved. This month it was a marlin-fishing extravaganza in Hawaii, sponsored by a company that manufactured polyethylene fish baits. Jamie Belliroso's air fare, room, and board would all be paid for with the quiet understanding that the name of the bait company would be mentioned a mere eight or ten times in his feature article, and that the name of the company would be spelled correctly—which, in Belliroso's case, was never a sure thing. In the meantime, the blue marlin were striking and Jamie was enjoying the hell out of Maui.
"When will he be back?" Decker asked.
"Who knows," Ott said. "From Hawaii he's off to Christmas Island for bonefish."
Decker said, "Anyone else who could help me? Someone mentioned a guide named Dickie Lockhart."
Ott laughed. "A guide?My friend, Dickie's not a guide, he's a god. A big-time bass pro. The biggest."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he wouldn't be seen in the same boat with a greenhorn putz like you. Besides, Dickie doesn't hire out."
Decker decided not to mention Dennis Gaulf's grave allegations. Ott was obviously a huge fan of Dickie Lockhart's. Decker wondered if the whole town was as starstruck.
"There's a couple good guides work out on the lake," Ott suggested. "Think they're up to two hundred dollars a day."
The world has gone mad, Decker thought. "That's too rich for my blood," he said to Ott.
"Yeah, it's steep all right, but they don't give the tourist much choice. See, they got a union."
"A union?" It was all too much.
"The Lake Jesup Bass Captains Union. They keep the charter rates fixed, I'm afraid."
"Christ, Ott, I came here to catch a fish and you're telling me the lake's locked up by the fucking Izaak Walton division of the Teamsters. What a swell little town you've got here."
"It's not like that," Ott Pickney said in a you-don't-understand tone. "Besides, there's other options. One, rent yourself a skiff and give it a shot alone—"
"I wouldn't know where to start," Decker said.
"Or two, you can try this guy who lives out at the lake."
"Don't tell me he's not in the union?"
"He's the only one," Ott said. "When you meet him you'll know why." Ott rolled his eyeballs theatrically.
Decker said, "I sense you're trying to tell me the man is loony."
"They say he knows the bass," Ott said. "They also say he's dangerous."
Decker was in the market for a renegade. The mystery man sounded like a good possibility.
"What does he charge?" Decker asked, still playing the rube.
"I have no idea," Ott said. "After you see him, you may want to reconsider. In that case you can hook up with one of the regulars out of Rundell's marina."
Decker shook his head. "They sound like hot dogs, Ott. I just want to relax."
Ott's brow wrinkled. "I know these folks, R.J. I like 'em, too. Now I won't sit here and tell you bassers are completely normal, 'cause that's not true either. They're slightly manic. They got boats that'll outrace a Corvette, and they're fairly crazy out on the water. Just the other day I wrote up a young man who flipped his rig doing about sixty on the lake. Hit a cypress knee and punched out."
"He died?"
"It was dawn. Foggy. Guess he was racing his pals up to the fishing hole." Pickney chuckled harshly. "No brakes on a boat, partner."
"Didn't the same thing happen a few years ago in one of those big tournaments?" Decker said. "I read about it in the Orlando papers. Two boats crashed on the way out."
Ott said, "Yeah, over on Apopka. Officially it's a grand-prix start, but the boys call it a blast-off. Fifty boats taking off from a dead stop." Ott shaped his hands into two speedboats and gave a demonstration. "Kaboom! Hell, those tournaments are something else, R.J. You ought to do a color layout sometime."
"I've heard all kinds of stuff goes on. Cheating and everything."
"Aw, I heard that too, and I just can't believe it. How in the world can you cheat? Either you've got fish on a stringer, or you don't." Ott sniffed at the idea. "I know these folks and I don't buy it, not for a second. Texas, maybe, sure. But not here."
Ott Pickney acted like it was all city talk. He acted like the desk made him an authority—his desk, his newsroom, his town. Ott's ego was adapting quite well to the rural life, Decker thought. The wise old pro from Miami.
Pickney perked up. "You on expense account?"
"A good one," Decker said.
"Buy me lunch?"
"Sure, Ott."
"The guy at the lake, his name is Skink. As I said, they talk like he's only got one oar in the water, so watch your step. One time we sent a kid to write a little feature story about him and this Skink took an ax and busted the windows out of the kid's car. He lives in a cabin off the old Mormon Trail. You can't miss it, R.J., it's right on the lake. Looks like a glorified outhouse."
"Skink what?" Decker asked.
"That's his whole name," Ott Pickney said. 'That's all he needs up here." He rolled his chair back and clomped his shoes up on the bare desk. "See, sport, you're not in Miami anymore."
The man named Skink said, "Go."
"I need to talk to you."
"You got thirty seconds." The man named Skink had a gun. A Remington, Decker noted. The rifle lay across his lap.
It was a large lap. Skink appeared to be in his late forties, early fifties. He sat in "a canvas folding chair on the porch of his cabin. He wore Marine-style boots and an orange rainsuit, luminous even in the twilight. The shape and features of his face were hard to see, but Skink's silver-flecked hair hung in a braided rope down his back. Decker figured long hair was risky in this part of the woods, but Skink was substantial enough to set his own style.
"My name is Decker."
"You from the IRS?" The man's voice was deep and wet, like mud slipping down a drain.
"No," Decker said.
"I pay no taxes," Skink said. He was wearing a rainhat, though it wasn't raining. He was also wearing sunglasses and the sun was down. "I pay no attention to taxes," Skink asserted. "Not since Nixon, the goddamn thief."