Thomas Curl moved close to her on the bed and took out the gun, as a reminder.
Catherine said to James: "Just so you won't worry, I'm going up to my sister's in Boca for a few days. In case you called home and I wasn't there." They talked for a few minutes about the weather and the encouraging advance orders for the electric vibrating chiropractic couch, and then Catherine said good-bye.
"That was good," Thomas Curl said, munching a cold french fry. "You like him as much as Decker?"
"James is a sweetheart," Catherine said. "If it's money you're after, he'd pay anything to get me back."
"It's not money I'm after."
"I know," she said.
"So now he won't be worried, your doctor won't? When you're not home?"
"No, he's having a ball," Catherine said. "He got interviewed for Vertebrae Today."
Curl burped.
"A chiropractic magazine," Catherine explained. She herself was not overwhelmed with excitement.
The phone rang. Catherine started to reach for it, but Curl thwacked her arm with the butt of the gun. When he answered, a man's voice said: "It's me. Decker."
"You here yet?"
"On the way," Decker said. He was at a service plaza in Fort Pierce, gassing up Al Garcia's car.
"You ready to trade?"
"Absolutely," Decker said. "How's Mrs. Gomez?"
Curl put the receiver to Catherine's cheek. "Tell him you're fine," he said.
"R.J., I'm fine."
"Catherine, I'm sorry about this."
"It's okay"
Curl snatched the phone back and said: "This is the way we're going to do it: a straight-up trade."
"Fair enough, but I choose the place."
"Fuck you, bubba."
"It's the only way, Tom. It's the only way I can make sure the lady walks free."
Curl rubbed his brow. He wanted to stand firm, but his mind could not assemble an argument. Every thought that entered his head seemed to sizzle and burn up in the fever. As Decker instructed him when and where to go, Thomas Curl repeated everything aloud in a thick, disconnected voice. Luckily Catherine jotted the directions on a Holiday Inn notepad, because Curl forgot everything the instant he hung up.
"Hungry, Lucas?" He opened the brown grocery bag. He had stopped at the store and bought the dog a little treat.
Catherine eyed the package. "Gaines Burgers?"
"His favorite," Curl said. He unwrapped one of the patties and mashed it between the dog's jaws, still fixed obdurately to his own arm. The red meat stuck to the animal's dried yellow fangs. "You like that, dontcha, boy?"
Catherine said, "He's not hungry, Tom. I can tell."
"Guess you're right," Curl said. "Must be all the traveling."
Deacon Johnson tapped lightly on the door. For once, Reverend Weeb was alone.
"Charles, you'd better come see."
"What now?" the preacher said irritably.
He followed Deacon Johnson out of the townhouse office, through the courtyard, down a sloping walk to a boat ramp on the newly sodded shore of Lunker Lake Number One. Many of the anglers had begun to arrive, so the ramp was crowded with needle-shaped bass boats, each attached to a big candy-colored Blazer, Jeep, or Bronco. In the midst of the gleaming congregation was an immense army-green garbage truck with a warped old skiff hitched to its bumper.
Two men leaned impassively against the truck; one was tall and muscular and black, the other roundish and Latin-looking. The rest of the bass fishermen studied the unusual newcomers from a distance, and chuckled in low tones.
Charlie Weeb approached the men and said, "If you're looking for the dump, it's out Road 84." He pointed west, toward the dike. "That way."
Jim Tile said, "We're here for the bass tournament."
"Is that right?" Weeb eyed the rowboat disdainfully. "Sorry, son, but this event's not open to the general public."
Al Garcia said, "We're not the general public, son. We're the Tile Brothers." Coolly he handed Charlie Weeb the receipt for the registration fee. Without a glance, Weeb passed it to Deacon Johnson.
"It's them, all right," Deacon Johnson reported. "Boat number fifty, all paid up."
"You don't look like brothers," Reverend Weeb said accusingly.
"Si, es verdad,"Jim Tile said.
"Fo sho," added Al Garcia. "We true be bros."
They had practiced the routine on the long ride down. Jim Tile had done much better learning Spanish than Al Garcia had done learning jive. Still, it achieved the desired effect.
Charlie Weeb puckered his cheeks and anxiously ran a manicured hand through his perfect blond hair. "Gentlemen, excuse me for a sec," he said, and took Deacon Johnson aside.
"This is some fucking joke."
"It's no joke, Charles."
"Spic and spade brothers? I'd call that a joke." Weeb was spitting, he was so exasperated. "Izzy, tonight we're flying in one thousand loyal Christian prospective homesite buyers. I promised them to do a healing, I promised them to have some world-class bass fishing, and I promised to get their shining faces on national cable TV. All this, Izzy, in order to sell some fucking lots."
"Keep your voice down, Charles." Even at a whisper, Reverend Weeb could rattle the china.
Deacon Johnson took him by the arm and edged away from the newcomers. Standing in the rank shadow of the garbage truck, Deacon Johnson said, "We've taken their money, Charles, we've got to let them fish."
"Screw the entry fee. Give it back."
"Oh fine," Deacon Johnson said, "and when the newspapers call, you explain why you did it."
The thought of bad publicity sent a cold razor down Charlie Weeb's spine.
Almost plaintively he said: "These folks I'm bringing down, Izzy, they don't want to see a spic and a spade in this family-oriented development. The folks at home who watch my show, they don't want to see 'em either. I'm not here to pass judgment, Izzy, I'm here for the demographics. Fact is, my people are the whitest of the white. Soon as they spot those two guys, that's the ball game. They'll think everything they heard about South Florida is true, niggers and Cubans everywhere. Even on the bass lakes."
Deacon Johnson said, "There's forty-nine other boats in this tournament, Charles. Just tell your camermen to stay off the little wooden one. As for the garbage truck, we'll park it out back in the construction lot. Loan these guys a decent rental car to get around the property. Anyone asks, tell 'em they work here."
"Good idea," Weeb said. "Say they pour asphalt or something. Excellent." Sometimes he didn't know what he'd do without Izzy.
Deacon Johnson said, "Don't worry, Charles, just look at themthey don't have a chance. It'll be a holy miracle if that termite bucket doesn't sink at the dock."
All Charlie Weeb could say was: "Whoever heard of a spic and a spade in a pro bass tournament?"
But the mysterious Tile Brothers were already putting their boat in the water.
The next day was practice day, and in keeping with tradition the anglers gathered early at the boat ramp to exchange theories and cultivate possible excuses. Because no one had fished Lunker Lakes before, the talk was basically bullshit and idle speculation. The bass would be schooled by the culverts. No, they'd be holding deep. No, they'd be bedded in the shallows.
Only Charlie Weeb and his men knew the truth: there were no bass except dead ones. The new ones were on the way.
Eddie Spurling realized that something was terribly wrong, but he didn't say a word. Instead of mingling with his pals over coffee and biscuits, he strolled the shore alone in the predawn pitch. A couple of the other pros sidled up to make conversation, but Eddie was unresponsive and gloomy. He didn't show the least interest in Duke Puffin's deep-sonic crankbait or Tom Jericho's new weedless trolling motor.
While the mockingbirds announced sunrise, Eddie Spurling just stared out at the still brown canals and thought: This waters no damn good.
Al Garcia and Jim Tile were the last to get started. They'd been briefly delayed when Billie Radcliffe, a very white young man from Waycross, Georgia, said to Jim Tile: "Where's your cane pole, Uncle Remus?" Jim Tile had felt compelled to explain the importance of good manners to Billie Radcliffe, by way of breaking every single fishing rod in Billie Radcliffe's custom-made bass boat. This had been done in a calm and methodical way, and with no interference, since Al Garcia and his Colt Python had supervised the brief ceremony. From then on, the other fishermen steered clear of the Tile Brothers.