ch.doublewhammy-第26节

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　〃I　was　afraid　of　this；〃　Decker　said。　Pitch　black；　fifty　degrees；　and　this　madman　was　going　in。　Decker　couldn't　wait　to　see　the　look　on　the　game　warden's　face。
　〃Can　you　drive　the　boat？〃　Skink　asked。
　〃I　think　I　can　handle　it。〃
　〃Take　me　along　the　pilings；　the　same　way　our　buddies　went。〃
　Decker　said；　〃I　wouldn't　dive　in　this　soup。〃
　〃Who's　asking　you　to？　e　on；　let's　move。〃
　They　motored　down　the　lake　to　the　poachers'　bass　hole。　Skink　strapped　on　a　yellow　scuba　tank；　adjusted　his　headlamp；　and　slipped　over　the　side。　He　fitted　a　nylon　rope　around　his　waist　and　tied　it　to　the　transom　of　the　boat。　One　sharp　tug　was　a　signal　to　stop；　two　meant　reverse；　and　three　tugs　meant　trouble。　〃In　that　case　do　your　best　to　haul　me　in；〃　Skink　advised。　〃If　you　can't　manage；　then　get　the　hell　out　of　here；　I'm　gator　chow。〃
　Decker　steered　the　boat　anxiously；　monitoring　Skink's　progress　by　the　bubbles　surfacing　in　the　foamy　wake。　He　wondered　what　the　fish　and　turtles　must　think；　confronted　in　their　inky　element　by　such　a　hoary　gurgling　beast。　The　engine's　throttle　was　set　as　low　as　it　would　go；　so　the　johnboat　moved　at　a　crawl；　Skink　was　a　heavy　load　to　tow。
　When　he　found　what　he　was　searching　for；　Skink　tugged　so　hard　that　the　rope　nearly　pulled　the　stern　under。　Immediately　Decker　shifted　to　neutral　so　the　propeller　wouldn't　be　spinning　perilously　when　Skink　came　up。
　He　burst　to　the　surface　like　a　happy　porpoise。　He　held　a　wire　cage；　three　feet　by　three。　Inside　the　trap　were　four　healthy　largemouth　bass；　which　flapped　helplessly　against　the　mesh　as　Skink　hoisted　their　manmade　cell　into　the　bow。　He　turned　off　the　regulator；　spit　out　the　mouthpiece；　and　tore　off　his　mask。
　〃Jackpot！〃　he　said　breathlessly。　〃Lookit　here。〃
　Hanging　from　the　fish　cage　was　an　eight…foot　length　of　heavy　monofilament　line；　transparent　from　more　than　a　few　feet　away。　Skink　had　cut　one　end　with　his　dive　knife。　'They　tied　it　to　a　willow　branch…you'd　never　see　it　unless　you　knew　where　to　look；〃　he　said。　〃Get　the　wirecutters；　Miami。〃
　Decker　clipped　the　hinges　off　the　fish　cage。　Skink　reached　in　and　took　out　the　bass　one　by　one；　gently　releasing　each　fish　back　into　the　lake。　It　was　an　oddly　tender　moment；　Skink's　grin　was　as　warm　as　the　glow　from　the　lantern。　After　the　bass　were　freed；　he　returned　the　empty　cage　to　the　water　and　tied　it　to　the　same　dry　bough。
　Decker　had　to　admit　that　it　was　an　ingenious　cheat。　Salt　the　lake　with　pre…caught　fish　and　scoop　them　out　on　tournament　day。　Dennis　Gault　was　right：　these　boys　would　do　anything　to　win。　The　more　he　thought　about　it；　the　more　disgusted　Decker　got。　The　poachers　had　corrupted　this　beautiful　place；　polluted　its　smoky　mystery。　He　couldn't　wait　to　see　their　faces　when　they　discovered　what　had　happened；　couldn't　wait　to　take　their　pictures。
　Probing　the　waters　around　the　highway　pilings；　Decker　and　Skink　located　three　more　submerged　cages；　each　stocked　with　the　freshly　caught　bass。　They　counted　eleven　fish　in　all；　four　in　the　final　trap；　lifting　the　largest　by　its　lower　lip；　Skink　estimated　its　weight　at　nine　and　a　half　pounds。　〃This　bruiser　would　have　bought　dirty　Dickie　first　place；〃　he　gloated。　〃Adifa；　old　girl。〃　And　he　let　the　fish　go。
　That　left　two　smaller　bass　flopping　in　the　mesh；　their　underslung　jaws　snapping　in　mute　protest　while　starved　burgundy　gills　flared　in　agitation。
　〃Sorry；　fellas；〃　Skink　said。　〃You're　the　bait。〃　With　a　pair　of　blunt…nosed　pliers　he　carefully　clipped　the　first　two　spines　of　the　dorsal　fin　on　each　bass。
　〃What're　you　doing？〃　R。　J。　Decker　asked。
　〃Marking　them；〃　Skink　replied；　〃that's　all。〃
　With　the　fish　still　trapped；　he　securely　rewired　the　door　of　the　cage　and　eased　it　below　the　surface。　He　made　sure　it　was　tied　securely　to　the　concrete　beam　where　Dickie　Lockhart　would　be　looking　for　it。　By　that　time；　of　course；　the　bass　champion　would　be　in　a　state　of　desperate　panic；　wondering　not　only　who　was　sabotaging　his　secret　fish　cages　but　also　how　in　the　world　he　would　ever　win　the　tournament　now。
　
　The　day　the　Cajun　Invitational　Bass　Classic　was　to　begin；　Dennis　Gault　was　hundreds　of　miles　away　in　Miami。　Though　it　nettled　him　to　miss　the　petition；　strategy　dictated　that　he　sit　out　the　tournament。　He　wanted　Dickie　Lockhart　to　feel　safe　and　secure；　knowing　his　archenemy　wasn't　around　to　spy　on　him。　He　wanted　Dickie　and　his　gang　to　let　their　guard　down。
　Gault　spent　most　of　the　morning　in　a　surly　mood；　barking　at　secretaries　and　hanging　up　on　modity　brokers　who　wanted　the　scoop　on　the　new　cane　crop。　In　the　morning　paper　he　checked　the　weather　in　New　Orleans　and　was　elated　to　see　that　it　was　windy　and　cold；　this　meant　rugged　fishing。　R。　J。　Decker　called　briefly　to　say　things　were　going　well；　but　offered　no　details。　The　other　thing　he　didn't　offer　was　an　apology　for　smashing　Dennis　Gault's　nose。　Gault　was　miffed　at　Decker's　icy　attitude　but　thrilled　by　the　idea　that　the　drama　finally　had　begun。　Gault's　hatred　for　Dickie　Lockhart　consumed　him；　and　he　would　not　rest　until　the　man　was　not　just　broken　but　scandalized。
　The　cheating　was　only　part　of　it；　Gault　would　have　rigged　some　bass　tournaments　himself；　had　he　found　trustworthy　conspirators。　The　more　virulent　seed　of　Dennis　Gault's　resentment　was　knowing　that　a　dumb　hick　like　Dickie　was　part　of　the　bass　brotherhood…the　Good　Old　Boy　that　Gault　himself　could　never　be。　Dickie　was　the　champ；　the　TV　personality；　the　world…famous　outdoorsman；　he　could　scarcely　balance　a　checkbook　or　tie　a　Windsor；　but　he　knew　Curt　Gowdy　personally。　In　a　man's　world；　that　counted　for　plenty。
　Losing　to　Lockhart　in　a　bass　tournament　was　bad　enough；　but　watching　impotently　while　the　asshole　outsmarted　everybody　else　was　intolerable。　Dennis　Gault's　venom　toward　Dickie　and　his　crowd　spilled　from　a　deep　well。　It　was　the　way　they　looked　at　him　when　he　showed　up　for　the　tournaments；　he　was　the　outsider；　the　dilettante　with　the　money。　Their　eyes　said：　You　don't　belong　on　this　lake；　mister；　you　belong　on　a　golf　course。　He　was　constantly　referred　to　as　The　Rich　Guy　from　Miami。　Coral　Gables　would　have　been　fine；　but　Miami。　He　might　as　well　have　dropped　in　from　Bolivia　as　far　as　the　other　bassers　were　concerned。　To　a　man　they　were　rural　Deep　Southerners；　with　names　like　Jerry　and　Larry；　Chet　and　Greg；　Jeb　and　Jimmy。　When　they　talked　it　was　bubba…this　and　brother…that；　between　spits　of　chaw。　When　Dennis　Gault　opened　his　mouth　and　all　that　get…me…my…broker　stuff　came　out；　the　bassers　looked　at　him　as　if　he　were　a　peeling　leper。
　Naively　Gault　had　thought　this　antagonism　might　abate　as　his　angling　skills　improved　and　he　began　to　win　a　few　tournaments。　Things　only　got　worse；　of　course；　due　in　large　measure　to　his　own　absymal　judgment。　For　instance；　Dennis　Gault　insisted　on　driving　his　burgundy　Rolls　Corniche　to　ail　the　fishing　tournaments。　The　purple　vision　of　such　a　car　towing　a　bass　boat　down　the　Florida　Turnpike　was　enough　to　stop　traffic；　and　it　positively　ruined　the　bucolic　ambience　of　any　dockside　gathering。　Many　times　Gault　would　return　from　a　hard　day　of　fishing　to　find　his　tires　flattened；　or　see　that　some　mischiefmaker　had　parked　his　burgundy　pride　beneath　a　tree　filled　with　diarrhetic　crows。　But　Gault　was　a　peculiar　man　when　it　came　to　personal　tastes；　his　father　had　driven　a　Rolls　and　by　God　that's　what　Dennis　would　drive。　He　did　not　like　pickup　trucks；　but　a　pickup　would　have　helped　him　crack　the　bass　clique。　With　the　Corniche　he　stood　no　chance。
　The　incident　with　the　helicopters　is　what　sealed　his　exmunication。
　
　Long　before　he　had　collected　any　evidence　against　Dickie　Lockhart；　Dennis　Gault　had　proposed　a　monitoring　program　to　deter　cheating　in　the　big…money　tournaments。　Rumors　of　flagrant　bass…planting　had　surfaced　even　in　the　usually　booster…minded　outdoor　magazines；　and　a　few　unseemly　scandals　had　e　to　light。　Consequently；　professional　tournament　organizers　were　in　a　mood　to　mend　their　tarnished　image。　More　as　a　public…relations　gambit　than　anything；　they　had　agreed　to　try　Dennis　Gault's　unusual　experiment。
　This　was　his　plan：　to　have　independent　spotters　in　helicopters　follow　the　fishermen　and　keep　an　eye　on　them　during　the　petition。　Gault　even　offered　to　pay　for　the　chopper　rentals　himself；　an　offer　which　was　snapped　up　immediately。
　The　problem　with　the　plan　was　that　largemouth　bass　don't　much　care　for　noise；　and　helicopters　make　plenty。　The　fish　didn't　like　the　penetrating　thrum　of　the　big　machines；　nor　the　waves　the　aircraft　kicked　up　on　the　water。　This　was　quickly　evident　in　the　Tuscaloosa　bass　tournament；　where　Gault's　airborne　scheme　was　tried　for　the　first　and　last　time。　Whenever　the　helicopters　would　appear　and　hover　over　the　bass　boats；　the　fish　would　go　deep　and　quit　eating。　The　wind　from　the　rotors　made　it　impossible　to　cast　a　lure；　and　blew　the　caps　and　forty…dollar　Polaroid　sunglasses　off　several　irritated　contestants。　The　whole　thing　was　a　truly　terrible　idea；　and　on　the　second　day　of　the　experiment　two　of　the　helicopters　were　actually　shot　out　of　the　sky　by　angry　bass　fishermen。　Because　no　one　was　seriously　injured；　the　offenders　were　assessed　only　ten　penalty　pounds　apiece　off　their　final　stringers。　Dennis　Gault　finished　in　fourteenth　place　and　was　banished　from　the　national　petition　mittee　forever。