Double Whammy by Carl Hiaasen

fun.”
    â€œThat’s what they say.”
    During the trip back to shore, Decker couldn’t stop thinking about the big bass, the tensile shock of its strength against his own muscles. Maybe there was something mystical to Bobby Clinch’s obsession. The experience, Decker admitted to himself, had been exhilarating and pure; the solitude and darkness of the lake shattered by a brute from the deep. It was nothing like fishing on the drift boats, or dropping shrimp off the bridges in the Keys. This was different. Decker felt like a little kid, all wired up.
    â€œI want to try this again,” he told Skink.
    â€œMaybe someday, after the dirty work is over. You want to hear my theory?”
    â€œSure.” Decker had been waiting all damn night.
    Skink said: “Robert Clinch found out about the cheating. He knew who and he knew how. I think he was after the proof when they caught him on the bog.”
    â€œWho caught him? Dickie Lockhart?”
    Skink said, “Dickie wasn’t in the other boat I saw. He’s not that stupid.”
    â€œBut he sent somebody to kill Bobby Clinch.”
    â€œI’m not sure of that, Miami. Maybe it was a trap, or maybe Clinch just turned up in the worst place at the worst time.”
    â€œWhat was Bobby looking for?” Decker asked.
    Skink made three swipes of the oars before answering. “A fish,” he said. “A particular fish.”
    That was Skink’s theory, or what he intended to share of it. Twice Decker asked Skink what he meant, what particular fish, but Skink never replied. He rowed mechanically. The only sounds on the lake were his husky breaths and the rhythmic squeak of the rusty oarlocks. Slowly the details of the southern shoreline, including the crooked silhouette of the cabin, came into Decker’s view. The trip was almost over.
    Decker asked, “You come out here every night?”
    â€œOnly when I’m in the mood for fish dinner,” Skink replied.
    â€œAnd you always use that big purple worm?”
    â€œNope,” Skink said, beaching the boat with a final stroke, “what I usually use is a twelve-gauge.”
    Â 
    When R. J. Decker got back to the motel, he found a note from the night manager on the door. The note said Ott Pickney had called, but it didn’t say why.
    Decker already had the key in the lock when he heard a car pull in and park. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Ott’s perky Toyota flatbed.
    What he saw instead was a tangerine Corvette.

6
    Decker had a poor memory for names. Terrific eye for faces, but no name recollection whatsoever.
    â€œIt was a spring-fashion shoot,” Lanie Gault prodded. “You acted like you’d rather be in Salvador.”
    â€œI think I remember now,” Decker said. “On Sanibel Beach, right?”
    Lanie nodded. She sat on the edge of the bed, looking relaxed. Strange motel room, strange man, but still relaxed. Decker was not nearly so comfortable.
    â€œMust have been five, six years ago,” he said. Trying to be professional, trying not to look at her legs.
    â€œYou’ve put on some weight,” Lanie said. “It’s good weight, though, don’t worry.”
    Decker turned on the television, looking for Letterman. He stopped flipping channels when he found one of those dreadful syndicated game shows. He sat down heavily and pretended to watch the tube.
    â€œDo I look any different?” Lanie asked. She didn’t say it as if she were begging a compliment.
    â€œYou look great,” Decker said, turning from the TV.
    â€œBelieve it or not, I think I’ve still got the swimsuit I wore for the pictures.”
    On this detail Decker’s memory was clear. Yellow one-piece thong, the kind that required some touch-up shaving.
    Lanie said, “You screwed one of the other models, didn’t you?”
    Decker sighed.
    â€œShe was talking about it on the drive back to