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ent rental car to get around the property。 Anyone asks； tell 'em they work here。〃
〃Good idea；〃 Weeb said。 〃Say they pour asphalt or something。 Excellent。〃 Sometimes he didn't know what he'd do without Izzy。
Deacon Johnson said； 〃Don't worry； Charles； just look at them…they don't have a chance。 It'll be a holy miracle if that termite bucket doesn't sink at the dock。〃
All Charlie Weeb could say was： 〃Whoever heard of a spic and a spade in a pro bass tournament？〃
But the mysterious Tile Brothers were already putting their boat in the water。
The next day was practice day； and in keeping with tradition the anglers gathered early at the boat ramp to exchange theories and cultivate possible excuses。 Because no one had fished Lunker Lakes before； the talk was basically bullshit and idle speculation。 The bass would be schooled by the culverts。 No； they'd be holding deep。 No； they'd be bedded in the shallows。
Only Charlie Weeb and his men knew the truth： there were no bass except dead ones。 The new ones were on the way。
Eddie Spurling realized that something was terribly wrong； but he didn't say a word。 Instead of mingling with his pals over coffee and biscuits； he strolled the shore alone in the predawn pitch。 A couple of the other pros sidled up to make conversation； but Eddie was unresponsive and gloomy。 He didn't show the least interest in Duke Puffin's deep…sonic crankbait or Tom Jericho's new weedless trolling motor。
While the mockingbirds announced sunrise； Eddie Spurling just stared out at the still brown canals and thought： This waters no damn good。
Al Garcia and Jim Tile were the last to get started。 They'd been briefly delayed when Billie Radcliffe； a very white young man from Waycross； Georgia； said to Jim Tile： 〃Where's your cane pole； Uncle Remus？〃 Jim Tile had felt pelled to explain the importance of good manners to Billie Radcliffe； by way of breaking every single fishing rod in Billie Radcliffe's custom…made bass boat。 This had been done in a calm and methodical way； and with no interference； since Al Garcia and his Colt Python had supervised the brief ceremony。 From then on； the other fishermen steered clear of the Tile Brothers。
It was just as well。 All the practice at Lake Jesup had been in vain： Al Garcia proved to be the world's most dangerous bass angler。 On four occasions he snagged Jim Tile's scalp with errant casts。 Three other times he hooked himself； once so severely that Jim Tile had to cut the barbs off the hooks just to remove them from Garcia's thigh。
Casting a heavy plug rod required a sensitive thumb； but invariably Garcia would release the spool too early or too late。 Either he would fire the lure straight into the bottom of the boat； where it shattered like a bullet； or he would launch it straight up in the air； so it could plummet dangerously down on their heads。 In the few instances when the detective actually managed to hit the water； Jim Tile put down his fishing rod and applauded。 They both agreed that Al Garcia should concentrate on steering the boat。
With the puny six…horse outboard； it took them longer to get around the canals； but by midday they reached the spot Skink had told them about； at the far western terminus of Lunker Lake Number Seven。 Charlie Weeb's landscapers had not yet reached this boundary of the development； so the shores remained as barren white piles of dredged…up fill。 The canal ended at the old earthen dike that separated the lush watery Florida Everglades from concrete civilization。 Charlie Weeb had pushed it to the brink。 This was the final barrier。
Jim Tile and Al Garcia had the Number Seven hole to themselves； as Skink had predicted they would。 It was too sparse； too bright； and too remote for the other bassers。
Garcia nudged the skiff to shore； where Jim Tile got out and collected several armfuls of dead holly branches from a heap left by the bulldozers。 Hidden under a tarp in the boat were three wooden orange crates； which they had brought from Harney in the bin of the garbage truck。 Garcia tied the crates together while Jim Tile stuffed the dead branches between the slats。 Together they lowered the crates into the water。 With a fishing line； Al Garcia measured the depth at thirteen feet。 He marked the secret spot by placing two empty Budweiser cans on the bank。
This was to be Queenie's home away from home。
〃Oldest trick in the book；〃 Skink had told the detective two nights before。 〃These big hawgs love obstructions。 Lay back invisible in the bush； sucking down dumb minnows。 Find the brushpile； you find the fish。 Make the brushpile； you win the damn tournament。〃
That was the plan。
Jim Tile and Al Garcia felt pretty good about pulling it off； there wasn't another boat in sight。
There was； however； a private helicopter。
The Tile Brothers hadn't bothered to look up； since it flew over only once。
But once was all that Dennis Gault's pilot needed to mark his map。 Then he flew back to the heliport to radio his boss。
That evening； after the practice day； the mood at the boat ramp ranged from doubtful to downhearted。 No one had caught a single bass； though none of the fishermen would admit it。 It was more than a matter of pride…it was the mandatory furtiveness of petition。 With two hundred and fifty thousand dollars at stake； lifelong friendships and fraternal confidences counted for spit。 No intelligence was shared； no strategies pared； no secrets swapped。 As a result； nobody prehended the full scope of the fishless disaster that was named Lunker Lakes。 While scouting the shoreline； a few anglers had e across dead yearling bass； and privately mulled the usual theories…nitrogen runoff； phosphate dumping； algae blooms； pesticides。 Still； it wasn't the few dead fish as much as the absence of live ones that disturbed the contestants； as the day wore on； optimism evaporated。 These were the best fishermen in the country； and they knew bad water when they saw it。 All morning the men tried to mark fish on their Humminbird sonars； but all that showed was a deep gray void。 The banks were uniformly steep； the bottom uniformly flat； and the lakes uniformly lifeless。 Even Dennis Gault was worried； though he had an ace up his L。 L。 Bean sleeve。
At dusk the anglers returned to the boat ramp to find banners streaming； canned country music blaring； and an elaborate rectangular stage rising…a pink pulpit at one end； the bass scoreboard at the other。 The whole stage was bathed by hot kliegs while the OCN cameramen conducted their lighting checks。 Over the pulpit hung a red…lettered banner that said： 〃JESUS IN YOUR LIVING ROOM…LIVE AT FIVE！〃 And over the scoreboard hung a blue…lettered banner that said： 〃Lunker Lakes Presents the Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic。〃 Every possible camera angle was cluttered with the signs and logos of the various sponsors who had put up the big prize money。
Once all the bass boats had returned to the dock； the Reverend Charles Weeb ambled centerstage with a cordless microphone。
〃Greeting； sportsmen！〃
The tired anglers grumbled halfheartedly。
〃Understand it was tough fishing out there today； but don't you worry！〃 shouted Charlie Weeb。 〃The Lord tells me tomorrow's gonna be one hell of a day！〃
The PA system amplified the preacher's enthusiasm； and the fishermen smiled and applauded； though not energetically。
〃Yes； sir；〃 Charlie Weeb said； 〃I talked to the Lord this afternoon； and the Lord said： Tomorrow will be good。 Tomorrow the hawgs will be hungry！'〃
Duke Puffin shouted； 〃Did he say to use buzzbaits or rubber worms？〃
The bass fishermen roared； and Reverend Weeb grinned appreciatively。 Anything to loosen the jerks up。
〃As you know；〃 he said； 〃tonight is barbecue night at Lunker Lakes。 Ribs； chicken； Okeechobee catfish； and all the beer you can drink！〃
The free…food announcement drew the first sincere applause of the evening。
〃So；〃 Reverend Weeb continued； 〃I got two air…conditioned buses ready to take y'all to the clubhouse。 Have a good time tonight； get plenty of rest； and tomorrow you put some big numbers on that bass board； because the whole country'll be watching！〃
Eagerly the anglers filed onto the buses。 Jim Tile and Al Garcia made a point of sitting in the very front。 No one spoke a word to them。
As soon as the buses pulled away； Weeb tossed the microphone to an OCN technician； grabbed the young hydrologist backstage； and said： 〃It's here； I hope。〃
〃Yes； sir； just give the word。〃
To the grips Weeb yelled： 〃Turn those kliegs around！ Light the ramp…hurry up； asshole； while we're still young！〃
Out of the settling darkness a gleaming steel tanker truck appeared。 Although it looked like an ordinary oil…pany truck； it was not。 The driver backed cautiously down the slick boat ramp； and three feet from water's edge he braked the tanker with a gaseous hiss。
〃Nice park job；〃 the hydrologist said。
The driver hopped out waving a clipboard。 〃Two thousand fresh basserinos；〃 he said。 〃Who signs for these？〃
After the barbecue Jim Tile and Al Garcia drove the loaner car back to the lodge； where they got the bad news。
The raid had failed。
The Broward SWAT team had swept with lethal certainty into Room 1412 of the Coral Springs Ho