Free Double Whammy by Carl Hiaasen Page B

the reel, and how to control the line with the tip of his forefinger. He demonstrated how the wrist, not the arm, supplied the power for the cast. After a half-dozen tries, Decker was winging the purple eel sixty-five feet.
    â€œAll right,” Skink said. He turned off the Coleman lantern.
    The boat drifted at the mouth of a small cove, where the water lay as flat as a smoky mirror. Even on a starless night the lake gave off its own gray light. Decker could make out an apron of pines along the shore; around the boat were thick-stemmed lily pads, cypress nubs, patches of tall reeds.
    â€œGo to it,” said Skink.
    â€œWhere?” Decker said. “Won’t I get snagged on all these lilies?”
    â€œThat’s a weedless hook on the end of your line. Cast just like you were doing before, then think like a nightcrawler. Make it dance like a goddamn worm that knows it’s about to get eaten.”
    Decker made a good cast. The lure plopped into the pads. As he retrieved it, he waggled the rod in a lame attempt to make the plastic bait slither.
    â€œJesus Christ, it’s not a fucking breadstick it’s a snake.” Skink snatched the outfit from Decker’s hands and made a tremendous cast. The lure made a distant plop as it landed close to the shoreline. “Now watch the tip of the rod,” Skink instructed. “Watch my wrists.”
    The snake-eel-worm skipped across the lily pads and wriggled across the plane of the water. Decker had to admit it looked alive.
    When the lure was five feet from the boat, it seemed to explode. Or something exploded beneath it. Skink yanked back, hard, but the eel flew out of the water and thwacked into his shower cap.
    Decker’s chest pounded in a spot right under his throat. Only bubbles and foam floated in the water where the thing had been.
    â€œWhat the hell was that?” he stammered.
    â€œHawg,” Skink said. “Good one, too.” He unhooked the fake eel from his cap and handed the fishing rod back to Decker. “You try. Quick now, while he’s still hot in the belly.”
    Decker made a cast in the same direction. His fingers trembled as he jigged the rubber creature across the surface of the cove.
    â€œWater’s nervous,” Skink said, drying his beard. “Slow it down a tad.”
    â€œLike this?” Decker whispered.
    â€œYeah.”
    Decker heard it before he felt it. A jarring concussion, as if somebody had thrown a cinderblock in the water near the boat. Instantly something nearly pulled the rod from his hands. On instinct Decker yanked back. The line screeched off the old reel in short bursts, bending the rod into an inverse U. The fish circled and broke the surface on the starboard side, toward the stem. Its back was banded in greenish black, its shoulders bronze, and its fat belly as pale as ice. The gills rattled like dice when the bass shook its huge mouth.
    â€œDamn!” Decker grunted.
    â€œShe’s a big girl,” Skink said, just watching.
    The fish went deep, tugged some, sat some, then dug for the roots of the lilies. Awestruck, Decker more or less hung on. Skink knew what would happen, and it did. The fish cleverly wrapped the line in the weeds and broke off with a loud crack. The battle had lasted but three minutes.
    â€œShit,” Decker said. He turned on the lantern and studied the broken end of the monofilament.
    â€œTen-pounder,” Skink said. “Easy.” He swung his legs over the plank, braced his boots on the transom, and started to row.
    Decker asked, “You got another one of those eels?”
    â€œWe’re going in,” Skink said.
    â€œOne more shot, captain—I’ll do better next time.”
    â€œYou did fine, Miami. You got what you needed, a jolt of the ballbuster fever. Save me from listening to a lot of stupid questions down the road.” Skink picked up the pace with the oars.
    Decker said, “I’ve got to admit, it was