ch.doublewhammy-第35章

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　Then；　live　on　the　air；　Charlie　Weeb　healed　a　crippled　cat。
　Hundreds　of　viewers　saw　it。　The　calico　kitten　limped　to　the　stage　and…after　a　tremulous　Reverend　Weeb　prayed　for　its　soul　and　passed　a　hand　over　its　furry　head…the　animal　scampered　away；　cured。
　The　following　Sunday　Charlie　Weeb　performed　the　same　miracle　on　a　gimpy　beagle。　The　Sunday　after　that；　a　shoat。　Two　weeks　later；　a　baby　llama；　on　loan　from　a　traveling　circus。
　Weeb　saved　the　master　coup　for　Christmas　Sunday；　the　start　of　a　ratings…sweep　week。　Before　his　biggest　TV　audience　ever；　he　healed　a　lamb。
　It　was　a　magnificent　performance；　full　of　biblical　symbolism。　Few　viewers　who　saw　the　nappy　dull…eyed　critter　rise　off　the　floor　were　not　deeply　moved。　No　one　in　Charlie　Weeb's　flock　seemed　to　mind　that　the　miracle　took　about　an　hour　longer　than　expected；　they　figured　that；　it　being　a　busy　Christmas；　God　was　running　a　little　late。　In　fact；　the　reason　for　the　delay　in　the　much…promoted　lamb　healing　was　that　Charlie　Weeb's　assistant　had　injected　way　too　much　lidocaine　into　the　animal's　hind　legs　before　the　show；　so　it　took　an　extra　long　time　for　the　effect　of　the　drug　to　wear　off。
　The　Reverend　Weeb　nearly　preached　himself　hoarse　over　that　lamb；　and　after　the　Christmas　miracle　he　swore　off　healings　forever。　By　then　it　didn't　matter；　his　reputation　had　been　made。　Soon　stations　all　over　the　South　were　airing　Weeb's　show；　Jesus　in　Your　Living　Room；　and　weekly　mail　donations　were　topping　in　the　six　figures。　In　TV　evangelism　Charlie　Weeb　finally　had　hooked　into　a　popular　trend　before　it　tapped　out。
　This　time　he　decided　to　take　a　chance。　This　time　he　funneled　the　profits　into　expansion　instead　of　Bahamian　bank　accounts。　With　Weeb's　preacher　hour　as　its　blockbuster　leadoff；　the　Outdoor　Christian　Network　was　inaugurated　with　sixty…four　stations　as　prepaid　subscribers。　The　OCN　format　was　simple：　religion；　hunting；　fishing；　farm…stock　reports；　and　country…music…awards　shows。　Even　as　Charlie　Weeb　branched　the　OCN　empire　into　real　estate；　investment　banking；　and　other　endeavors；　he　could　scarcely　believe　the　rousing　success　of　his　TV　formula；　it　confirmed　everything　he　had　always　said　about　the　state　of　the　human　race。
　Initially　Weeb　had　refused　to　believe　that　grown　men　would　sit　for　hours　watching　fishing　programs　on　cable　TV。　In　person　the　act　of　fishing　was　boring　enough；　watching　someone　else　do　it　seemed　like　a　form　of　self…torture。　Yet　Weeb's　market　researchers　convinced　him　otherwise…Real　Men　tuned　in　to　TV　fishing；　and　the　demographics　were　rock…solid　for　beer；　tobacco；　and　automotive　advertising；　not　to　mention　the　marine　industry。
　Weeb　scanned　the　projections　and　immediately　ordered　up　a　one…hour　bass…fishing　program。　He　personally　auditioned　three　well…known　anglers。　The　first；　Ben　Geer；　was　rejected　because　of　his　weight　（three　hundred　and　ninety　pounds）　and　his　uncontrollable　habit　of　coughing　gobs　of　sputum　into　the　microphone。　The　second　angler；　Art　Pinkler；　was　witty；　knowledgeable；　and　ruggedly　handsome；　but　burdened　with　a　squeaky　New　England　accent　that　spelled　death　on　the　Q　meter。　The　budget　was　too　lean　for　speech　lessons　or　overdubbing；　so　Pinkler　was　out；　Charlie　Weeb　needed　a　genuine　redneck。
　Which　left　Dickie　Lockhart。
　Weeb　thought　the　first　episode　of　Fish　Fever　was　the　worst　piece　of　television　he　had　ever　seen。　Dickie　was　incoherent；　the　camera　work　palsied；　and　the　tape　editors　obviously　stoned。　Still　Dickie　had　hauled　in　three　huge　largemouth　bass；　and　the　advertisers　had　loved　every　dirt…cheap　minute。　Baffled；　Weeb　stuck　with　the　show。　In　three　years；　Fish　Fever　became　a　top　earner　for　the　Outdoor　Christian　Network；　though　in　recent　months　it　had　lost　ground　in　several　important　markets　to　Ed　Spurling's　rival　bass　show。　Spurling's　program　was　briskly　edited　and　slickly　packaged；　which　appealed　to　Charlie　Weeb；　as　did　anything　that　made　wads　of　money　and　was　not　an　outright　embarrassment。　Sensing　that　Dickie　Lockhart's　days　as　the　Baron　of　Bass　might　be　numbered；　the　Reverend　Weeb　had　quietly　approached　Fast　Eddie　Spurling　to　see　if　he　could　be　bought。　The　two　men　were　still　haggling　over　salaries　by　the　time　the　Cajun　Invitational　fishing　tournament　came　along；　when　Dickie　found　the　preacher　with　two　nearly　naked　women。
　Lockhart's　demand　for　a　lucrative　new　contract　was　an　extortion　that　Reverend　Weeb　could　not　afford　to　ignore；　petition　had　grown　cutthroat　among　TV　evangelicals…the　slightest　moral　stain　and　you'd　be　off　the　air。
　As　he　had　vowed；　Dickie　Lockhart　won　the　New　Orleans　tournament　easily。　Charlie　Weeb　didn't　bother　to　show　up　at　the　victory　party。　He　scheduled　a　press　conference　for　the　next　morning　to　announce　Dickie　Lockhart's　new　cable　deal；　and　phoned　the　TV　writer　of　the　Times…Picayune　to　let　him　know。　Then　he　called　a　couple　of　hookers。
　At　five…thirty　in　the　morning；　a　city　policeman　knocked　on　the　double　door　to　Charlie　Weeb's　hotel　suite。　The　cop　recognized　one　of　the　hookers　but　didn't　mention　it。　〃I've　got　bad　news；　Reverend；〃　the　policeman　said。　〃Dickie　Lockhart's　been　murdered。〃
　〃Jesus　help　us；〃　Charlie　Weeb　said。
　The　cop　nodded。　〃Somebody　beat　him　over　the　head　real　good。　Stole　his　truck；　his　boat；　all　his　fishing　gear。　The　cash　he　won　in　the　tournament；　too。〃
　〃This　is　terrible；〃　said　Reverend　Weeb。　〃A　robbery。〃
　〃We'll　know　more　tomorrow；　when　the　lab　techs　are　done；〃　the　cop　said　on　his　way　out。　〃Try　to　get　some　rest。〃
　〃Thank　you；〃　said　Charlie　Weeb。
　He　was　wide…awake　now。　He　paid　off　the　hookers　and　sat　down　to　write　his　Sunday　sermon。
　
　R。　J。　Decker　was　not　exactly　flabbergasted　to　wake　up　in　the　motel　room　and　find　that　Skink　had　not　returned。　Decker　had　every　reason　to　suspect　that　it　was　he　who　had　murdered　Dickie　Lockhart…first　of　all；　because　Skink　had　talked　so　nonchalantly　about　doing　it；　second；　the　perverse　details　of　the　crime　seemed　to　carry　his　stamp。
　Decker　showered　in　a　daze　and　shaved　brutally；　as　if　pain　would　drive　the　fog　from　his　brain。　The　case　had　turned　not　only　more　murderous　but　also　more　insane。　The　newspapers　would　go　nuts　with　this　stuff；　it　was　probably　even　a　national　story。　It　was　a　story　from　which　Decker　fervently　wished　to　escape。
　After　checking　out　of　the　motel；　he　packed　his　gear　into　the　rental　car　and　drove　toward　Pass　Manchac。　It　was　nine　in　the　morning…surely　somebody　had　discovered　the　gruesome　scene　by　now。
　As　he　drove　across　the　water　Decker's　heart　pounded；　he　could　see　blue　lights　flashing　near　the　boat　ramp。　He　pulled　in　at　the　Sportsman's　Hideout；　got　out　of　the　car；　and　wedged　into　the　crowd　that　encircled　the　huge　bass　aquarium。　There　were　five　police　cruisers；　two　ambulances；　and　a　fire　truck；　all　for　one　dead　body。　It　had　been　three　whole　hours　since　Dickie's　remains　had　been　fished　from　the　tank；　strapped　to　a　stretcher；　and　covered　with　a　green　woolen　blanket；　no　one　seemed　in　a　hurry　to　make　the　trip　to　the　morgue。
　The　crowd　was　mostly　men；　some　of　whom　Decker　recognized　even　without　their　caps　as　contestants　from　the　bass　tournament。　Two　local　detectives　with　pads　and　pencils　were　working　the　spectators；　hoping　to　luck　into　a　witness。　A　pretty　young　woman　leaned　against　one　of　the　squad　cars。　She　was　sobbing　as　she　talked　to　a　uniformed　cop；　who　was　filling　out　a　pink　report。　Decker　heard　the　girl　say　her　name　was　Ellen。　Ellen　O'Leary。　She　had　a　New　Orleans　accent。
　Decker　wondered　what　she　knew；　what　she　might　have　seen。
　In　the　back　of　his　mind　Decker　harbored　a　fear　that　Skink　might　show　up　at　the　dock　to　admire　his　own　handiwork；　but　there　was　no　sign　of　him。　Decker　slipped　into　a　phone　booth　and　called　Dennis　Gault　at　home　in　Miami。　He　sounded　half…asleep。
　〃What　do　you　want？〃
　What　do　you　want？　All　charm；　this　guy。
　〃Your　pal　Dickie's　landed　his　last　lunker；〃　Decker　said。
　〃What　do　you　mean？〃
　〃He's　dead。〃
　〃Shit；〃　Gault　said。　〃What　happened？〃
　〃I'll　tell　you　about　it　later。〃
　〃Don't　leave　New　Orleans；〃　Gault　said。　〃Stay　put。〃
　〃No　way。〃　Just　what　I　need　is　that　asshole　jetting　up　for　brunch　at　Brennan's；　Decker　thought。　He's　probably　icing　a　Dom　Perignon　already。
　In　an　oddly　stiff　tone　Gault　asked；　〃Do　you　have　those　pictures？〃　As　if　it　made　a　difference　now。
　Decker　didn