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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。
Which was probably just as well。 Soon afterward Gault had e to suspect Dickie Lockhart of cheating； and his obsession took root like a wild and irrational vine。 It twisted itself so ferociously around Gault's soul that even knowing of R。 J。 Decker's progress in Louisiana only agitated him； Gault itched to be there to share in the stalk； though he knew it would have been a grave mistake。 On the telephone Decker had addressed him in the same cold tones as the fishermen always did； as if he were a spoiled wimp； and this began to bother Gault too。 Sometimes Decker seemed to forget he was hired help。
The way this is going； Gault thought； I'll be the last to know if something shakes loose。
So he made a call and asked Lanie for another favor。
Decker got up before dawn； struggled into his blue jeans； and threw on a musty blue pea jacket。 The DJ on the clock radio announced that it was forty…eight degrees in downtown Hammond。 Decker shivered； and put on two pairs of socks； living in the South Florida heat turned your blood to broth。
Skink sat on the floor of the motel room and flossed his teeth。 He wore only Jockey shorts； sunglasses； and the flowered bathcap。 Decker asked if he wanted to go along but Skink shook his head no。 The twang of the floss against gleaming bicuspids sounded like a toy ukulele。
〃Want me to bring back some coffee？〃 Decker asked。
〃A rabbit would be good；〃 Skink said。
Decker sighed and said he'd be back before ten。 He got in the rental car and headed for the dock at Pass Manchac。 On old Route 51 he encountered a steady stream of well…buffed Jeeps； Broncos； and Blazers； all towing bass boats to Lake Maurepas。 Many of the trucks had oversize tires； tinted windows； and powerful fog lights that shot amber spears through the soupy…dark bayous。 These vehicles served as the royal carriages of the top bass pros； who had won them in various fishing tournaments； a tournament wasn't even worth entering unless a four…wheel…drive was one of the prizes。 Many of the bassers won three or four a year。
At the fish camp the mood was solemn and businesslike as the sleek boats were backed off galvanized trailers into the milky…green water。 The anglers all wore caps； vests； and jumpsuits plastered with colorful patches advertising their sponsors' products； everything from bug spray to chewing tobacco to worms was smiled in this manner。 Most of the fishermen wore Lucite goggles to protect their faces during the breakneck race to the bass hole。 This innovation had recently been introduced to the bassing world after one unlucky angler died hitting a swarm of junebugs at fifty knots； one of the brittle beetles had gone through his left eyeball like a bullet and tunneled straight into his brain。
R。 J。 Decker sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup and stood among a throng of wives； girlfriends； and mechanics waiting for the tournament to begin。 A tall chalk scoreboard posted outside the Sportsman's Hideout displayed the roster of forty entrants； which included some of the most famous bass fishermen of all time： Jimmy Houston of Oklahoma； Larry Nixon of Texas； Orlando Wilson of Georgia； and of course the legendary Roland Martin of Florida。 Revered in the world of fishing； these names meant absolutely nothing to R。 J。 Decker； who recognized only one entry on the Cajun Invitational chalkboard： Dickie Lockhart。
But where was the sonofabitch？ As the headlights of the trucks sporadically played across the water； Decker scrutinized the faces of the anglers； now hunkered behind the consoles of their boats。 They looked virtually identical with their goggles and their caps and their puffed ruddy cheeks。 Dickie's boat was out there somewhere； Decker knew； but he'd have to wait until the weigh…in to see him。
At precisely five…thirty a bearded man in khaki trousers； a flannel shirt； and a string tie strode to the end of the dock and announced through a megaphone： 〃Bass anglers； prepare for the blast…off！〃 In unison the fishermen turned their ignitions； and Lake Maurepas boiled and rumbled and swelled。 Blue smoke from the big outboards curled skyward and collected in an acrid foreign cloud over the marsh。 The boats inched away from the crowded ramp and crept out toward where the pass opened its mouth to the lake。 The procession came to a stop at a lighted buoy。
〃Now the fun starts；〃 said a young woman standing next to R。 J。 Decker。 She was holding two sleeping babies。
The starter raised a pistol and fired into the air。 Instantly a wall of noise rose off Maurepas： the race was on。 The bass boats hiccuped and growled and then whined； pushing for more speed。 With the throttles hammered down； the sterns dug ferociously and the bows popped up at such alarming angles that Decker was certain some of the boats would flip over in midair。 Yet somehow they planed off perfectly； gliding flat and barely creasing the crystal texture of the lake。 The song of the big engines was that of a million furious bees； it tore the dawn all to hell。
It was one of the most remarkable moments Decker had ever seen； almost military in its high…tech absurdity： forty boats rocketing the same direction at sixty miles per hour。 In darkness。
Most of the spectators applauded heartily。
〃Doesn't anyone ever get hurt？〃 Decker asked the woman with the two babies； who were now yowling。
〃Hurt？〃 she said。 〃No； sir。 At that speed you just flat…out die。〃
Skink was waiting outside the motel when Decker returned。 〃You got the cameras？〃 he asked。
〃All ready；〃 Decker said。
They drove back to the Sportsman's Hideout and rented the same johnboat from the night before。 This time Decker asked for a paddle。 The cashier said brightly to Skink： 〃Are you finding enough of those eels； Mr。 Cousteau？〃
〃Si；〃 Skink replied。
〃Oui！〃 Decker whispered。
〃Oui！〃 Skink said。 〃Many many eels。〃
〃I'm so glad；〃 the cashier said。
Hastily they loaded the boat。 Decker's camera gear was packed in waterproof aluminum carriers。 Skink took special care to distribute the weight evenly； so the johnboat wouldn't list。 After the morning's parade of lightning…fast bass rigs； the puny fifteen…horse outboard seemed slow and anemic to Decker。 By