As if cuddling a puppy, Skink pressed his cheek against Queenie's scaly gillplates. "Meet the new boss," he whispered to the fish, "same as the old boss."

Al Garcia didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

The Reverend Charles Weeb arrived at Lunker Lakes just in time to see the second batch of fish die. The hydrologist was crestfallen but said there was nothing to be done. Under a gray sky Weeb stood on the bank next to the young scientist and counted the fish as they bobbed to the surface of the bad water. At number seventy-five, Weeb turned and stalked back to the model town-home that was serving as tournament headquarters.

"Cancel tomorrow's press tour," he snapped at Deacon Johnson, who obediently lunged for his Rolodex.

To the hydrologist Weeb said: "So how long did this bunch live?"

"Eighteen hours, sir."

"Shit. And the trip down from Alabama was ... ?"

"About two days," the hydrologist said.

"Shit." Lunker Lakes had now claimed four thousand young bass, and Charlie Weeb was deeply worried. For now he was thinking in the short-term.

"I can get another two thousand," he said to the hydrologist.

"I wouldn't recommend it," the man said. "The water's still substandard."

"Substandard?What you're really saying is these fish stand a better chance in a sewer, is that right?"

"I wouldn't go quite that far," the hydrologist said.

"Okay, pencil-neck, let's hear the bad news." Weeb shut the door to his private office and motioned the young man to a Chippendale chair.

"You like this unit? We've got your atrium doors, your breakfast bay, your cathedral ceiling—did I mention solar heat? See, I've got to sell twenty-nine thousand of these babies and right now they're moving real fucking slow. It's gonna get slower if I got a dead-fish problem, you understand?" Charlie Weeb inhaled two Chiclets. "I'm selling a newFlorida here, son. The last of the frontier. My buyers are simple folks who'd rather go fishing than get fried to raisins on the beach. Lunker Lakes is their kind of place, an outdoor community, see? Walk out the back door with your fishing pole and reel in a whopper. That's the way I dreamed it, but right now ... well."

"We're talking cesspool," the hydrologist said bluntly. "I did some more tests, very sophisticated chemical scans. You've got toxins in this water that make the East River seem like Walden Pond. The worst concentration is in the bottom muck—we're talking Guinness-record PCBs."

"How?" Charlie Weeb yowled. "How can it be poisoned if it's pre-dredged!"

The hydrologist said, "I was puzzled too, until I checked down at the courthouse. This used to be a landfill, Reverend Weeb, right where the lakes are."

"A dump?"

"One of the biggest—and worst," the hydrologist reported grimly. "Four hundred acres of sludge, rubbers, dioxins, you name it. EPA never did find out."

Charlie Weeb said, "Lord God!"—an exclamation he almost never used off the air.

"In layman's terms," the hydrologist concluded, "when you dredged Lunker Lakes, you tapped into twenty-four years' worth of fermented battery acid."

Charlie Weeb coughed his gum into the trashcan. His mind was racing. He visualized the disastrous headlines and rubbed his eyes, as if to make the nightmare go away. Silently he cursed himself for succumbing to the South Florida real-estate disease when he could have played it safe and gone for tax-free muni bonds—the OCN board badleft it up to him. Through his befogged paroxysm of self-pity Weeb remotely heard the hydrologist explaining how the lakes could be cleansed and made safe, but the project would take years and cost millions ...

First things first, thought Charlie Weeb. The poster on the wall reminded him that the big tournament was only four days away. The immediate priority was getting some new fish.

"If I could get the tanker truck here before dawn," Charlie Weeb said, "get the bass in the water early, would they live until sunset?"

"Probably."

"Thank God it's a one-day tournament," Weeb said, thinking aloud.

"Can't say how healthy they'd be," the hydrologist cautioned. 'They may not feed at all."

"They don't need to," Weeb said, leaving the man thoroughly confused. "Get those fucking dead fish out of my sight, every one," the preacher ordered, and the hydrologist fled to round up some boats.

Fast Eddie Spurling was next on Charlie Weeb's agenda. Eddie came in wearing a Happy Gland fishing cap and a shiny silver Evinrude jacket. Tucked into his cheek was a plug of Red Man tobacco so big it would have gagged a hyena. It was all Weeb could do to conceal his disgust; Eddie Spurling was about the biggest Gomer he'd ever met.

"The fish are dying," Eddie said, his voice pained.

"You noticed."

"Why?"

"Don't worry about it," Weeb said. "Sit down, please."

"I hate to see 'em dying like that."

Not half as much as I do, Weeb thought morosely. "Eddie," he began, "have you given much thought to the big tournament? Have you got a plan for winning?"

Eddie Spurling shifted the tobacco to his other cheek. Chewing hard, he said, 'Truthfully, I figured buzzbaits would do it, but now I don't know. There's not much cover in this water. 'Fact, there's not much anythingin this water. I didn't even see any garfish down there, and those suckers could live in a toilet bowl."

Weeb frowned.

"Jelly worms," Eddie declared through his chaw. "Rig 'em Texas-style, I think that'll be the ticket, sir."

Charlie Weeb sat forward and put on his eyeglasses. "Eddie, it's very important that you win this tournament."

"Well, I'll damn sure try." He flashed a mouthful of wet brown teeth. "Prize money like that—you kidding?"

"Trying is fine," Weeb said, 'Very admirable. But this time we may need to do more. A little insurance."

Weeb was not surprised that Eddie looked confused.

"You're the new star at OCN, we got a lot riding on you," Charlie Weeb said. "If you win, we all win. And Lunker Lakes too. This is a tremendous opportunity, Eddie."

"Well, sure."

"Opportunities like this don't come along every day." Weeb rocked back and folded his hands behind his head. "I've been having this dream, Eddie, and you're in it."

"Yeah?"

"That's right. In my dream, the sun is shining, the lakes are clear and beautiful. Thousands of happy home-buyers are gathered around, and the TV is there too, waiting for the end of the big tournament. All the other fishermen are back at the dock except you, Eddie."

"Ugh."

"Then, only seconds before the deadline, I see your boat cutting across the water. You pull up with a big smile on your face, get out, wave at the cameras. Then you reach down and pull up the biggest stringer of largemouth bass anyone's ever seen. The whole joint goes wild, Eddie. There you are, standing under the Lunker Lakes sign, holding up these giant mother fish. God, it's a vision, don't you agree?"

"Sure, Reverend Weeb, it'd be a dream come true."

Charlie Weeb said, "Eddie, it willcome true. I'm trucking in some big fucking bass from Alabama. They're yours, partner."

"Wait a minute."

"With the water this bad, I can't chance keeping the biggest ones in Lunker Lakes," Weeb said. He unrolled a map across the kitchen counter. "Here we are," he said, pointing, "and here's the Everglades dike. All you got to do is tie the boat at the culvert, hop the levee, and pull the cages."

"Cages—fish cages?"

"No, tigercages, Eddie—Christ, what do you think?"

Eddie Spurling said, "I ain't gone cheat."

"Pardon me?"

"Lookit, I'll scout the lakes and dump some brush piles a few days ahead. Stock 'em with bass before tournament day and mark the spots. Hell, everybody does that—how about it?"