Double Whammy

Ozzie Rundell was extremely grateful. He couldn't have borne another glimpse of his murdered idol.

Culver Rundell did not attend the funeral, since he was hospitalized with thirty-nine linear feet of stainless-steel wire in his jaws. On Culver's behalf, the bait shop had ordered a special floral arrangement topped by a ceramic jumping fish. Unfortunately the ceramic fish was a striped marlin, not a largemouth bass, but no one at the funeral was rude enough to mention it.

The Reverend Charles Weeb also did not attend the funeral, but on behalf of the Outdoor Christian Network he sent a six-foot gladiola wreath with a white ribbon that said: 'Tight Lines, Old Friend." This was the hit of the graveside service, but the best was yet to come. The next morning, at the closing of the regular Sunday broadcast of Jesus in Tour Living Room,Charlie Weeb offered a special benediction for the soul of his dear, dear friend Dickie Lockhart, the greatest bass fisherman in the history of America. Then Dickie's face appeared on the big screen behind the pulpit, and the assembled flock lip-synched to a Joh

Twenty-five minutes after the church show was over and the audience was paid, the Reverend Charles Weeb strolled into a skybox in the Superdome, which had been rented for the big press conference. If Charlie Weeb was disappointed in the sparse turnout of media, he didn't show it. He wore his wide-bodied smile and a cream-colored suit with a plum kerchief in the breast pocket. At his side stood a rangy ta

"Gentlemen," said Charlie Weeb, still in character, "am I a happy man today! Yes indeed, I am. It is my pleasure to a

There were only two print reporters in the room, but Weeb politely waited for them to jot the big news in their spiral notebooks.

Weeb continued: "As you know, for some time Eddie's been the host of his own popular bass show on a competing network. We are most pleased to have stolen him away, since it means—as of yesterday—an additional seventy-four independent cable stations switching to the Outdoor Christian Network for the upcoming fishing season." Charlie Weeb allowed himself a brief dramatic pause. "And let me say that although all of us will miss Dickie Lockhart and his special brand of outdoor entertainment, I'm certain that his fans will find Eddie Spurling just as exciting, just as informative, and just as much fun to fish with every week. All of us here in the OCN family couldn't be more pleased!"

Eddie stepped forward and tipped an invisible cap. He was looking pretty pleased himself, and for good reason. January had been a fabulous month. Without wi

"Any questions?" asked Charlie Weeb.

The reporters just looked at one another. Each of them was thinking he would go back to the newsroom and kill the editor who sent him on this assignment.

Weeb said, "I've saved the best for last. Girls, bring out the visuals."

Two young women in opalescent bathing suits entered the skybox carrying an immense gold-plated trophy. The trophy easily stood five feet off the ground. On the corners of the base of the trophy were toy-size figures of anglers holding fishing rods, bent in varying degrees of mythic struggle. At the crown of the trophy was an authentic largemouth bass in a full body mount. As bass went, it was no hawg, but poised on the trophy it did look impressive.

"Well, there!" said the Reverend Weeb.

"What did you win it for?" one of the reporters asked Eddie Spurling.

"I didn't win it," Fast Eddie said, "not yet."

"Gentlemen, read what it says on the trophy, look closely," said Charlie Weeb. "This is probably the biggest trophy most of you ever saw, including Eddie here, who's won some pretty big ones."

"None this big," Eddie Spurling said admiringly.

"Damn right," Weeb said. 'That's because it's the biggest trophy ever. And it's the biggest trophy ever because it goes to the wi

"Christ," said one of the reporters. Finally something to scribble.

"The richest tournament ever," Charlie Weeb said, glowing. "The Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic."

Ed Spurling said, "At Lunker Lakes."

"Oh yes," said the Reverend Weeb, "how could I forget?"

Al Garcia was dog-tired. He'd been up since six, and even after four cups of coffee his tongue felt like mossy Styrofoam. His bum left shoulder was screaming for Percodans but Garcia stuck with plain aspirin, four at a pop. It was one of those days when he wondered why he hadn't just retired on full disability and moved quietly to Ocala; one of those days when everything and everybody in Miami a

To top it off, the rich guy he's supposed to interview comes to the door wearing one of those faggy thong bathing suits (candy-apple red) that make it look like you've got a python between your legs.

"Come on in, Sergeant," said De

"What news?" Garcia looked the place over before he sat down.

Nice apartment. Thick, fluffy carpet—no rug-burn romances for this stud. Swell view of the Atlantic, too. Got to cost a million-three easy, Garcia thought. You can't buy a toilet on the island for under two-fifty.

Gault said, "About Decker—didn't you catch him?"

"Not yet."

"Grapefruit juice? O.J.?"

"Coffee if you got it," Garcia said. "You must be headed down to the beach."

"No," Gault said, "the sauna." After he poured Garcia's coffee, he said, "I thought that's why you called—Decker, I mean. I figured you boys would've found him by now."

"You boys.Fine, be that way, Garcia thought. "We almost had him last night, but he got away."

"Got away?" De

"As in, eluded us," Garcia said. "Stole a boat and took off across the bay. By the time we got a chopper up, it was too late."