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urnament required a nonrefundable entry fee of two thousand dollars per boat。
Dickie Lockhart was buried in a handsome walnut coffin； not a bass boat。 The hearse bearing the coffin was escorted to Our Lady of Tropicana by three police cars； including a trooper's cruiser driven； none too happily； by Jim Tile。 Dickie Lockhart's casket was closed during the eulogy； since the mortician ultimately had been frustrated in his cosmetic efforts to remove the Double Whammy spinnerbait from Dickie's lip； in the clammy New Orleans morgue the lure's hook had dulled； while Dickie's skin had only toughened。 Rather than further mutilate the facial features of the deceased； the mortician had simply advised Dickie's sisters to keep the coffin closed and remember him as he was。
Ozzie Rundell was extremely grateful。 He couldn't have borne another glimpse of his murdered idol。
Culver Rundell did not attend the funeral； since he was hospitalized with thirty…nine linear feet of stainless…steel wire in his jaws。 On Culver's behalf； the bait shop had ordered a special floral arrangement topped by a ceramic jumping fish。 Unfortunately the ceramic fish was a striped marlin； not a largemouth bass； but no one at the funeral was rude enough to mention it。
The Reverend Charles Weeb also did not attend the funeral； but on behalf of the Outdoor Christian Network he sent a six…foot gladiola wreath with a white ribbon that said： 'Tight Lines； Old Friend。〃 This was the hit of the graveside service； but the best was yet to e。 The next morning； at the closing of the regular Sunday broadcast of Jesus in Tour Living Room； Charlie Weeb offered a special benediction for the soul of his dear； dear friend Dickie Lockhart； the greatest bass fisherman in the history of America。 Then Dickie's face appeared on the big screen behind the pulpit； and the assembled flock lip…synched to a Johnny Cash recording of 〃Nearer； My God； to Thee。〃 At the end of the song everybody was weeping； even Charlie Weeb； the man who had so often privately referred to Dickie Lockhart as a shiftless pellet…brained cocksucker。
Twenty…five minutes after the church show was over and the audience was paid； the Reverend Charles Weeb strolled into a skybox in the Superdome； which had been rented for the big press conference。 If Charlie Weeb was disappointed in the sparse turnout of media； he didn't show it。 He wore his wide…bodied smile and a cream…colored suit with a plum kerchief in the breast pocket。 At his side stood a rangy tanned man with curly brown hair and a friendly； toothy smile。 Right away the man reminded some of the photographers of Bruce Dern； the actor； but it wasn't。 It was Eddie Spurling； the fisherman。
〃Gentlemen；〃 said Charlie Weeb； still in character； 〃am I a happy man today！ Yes indeed； I am。 It is my pleasure to announce that； beginning this week； Eddie Spurling will be the new host of Fish Fever。〃
There were only two print reporters in the room； but Weeb politely waited for them to jot the big news in their spiral notebooks。
Weeb continued： 〃As you know； for some time Eddie's been the host of his own popular bass show on a peting network。 We are most pleased to have stolen him away； since it means…as of yesterday…an additional seventy…four independent cable stations switching to the Outdoor Christian Network for the uping fishing season。〃 Charlie Weeb allowed himself a brief dramatic pause。 〃And let me say that although all of us will miss Dickie Lockhart and his special brand of outdoor entertainment； I'm certain that his fans will find Eddie Spurling just as exciting； just as informative； and just as much fun to fish with every week。 All of us here in the OCN family couldn't be more pleased！〃
Eddie stepped forward and tipped an invisible cap。 He was looking pretty pleased himself； and for good reason。 January had been a fabulous month。 Without winning a single bass tournament he had doubled both his salary and his national TV exposure； and had also landed the lucrative six…figure endorsement contract for Happy Gland Fish Scent products。 The Happy Gland package （entailing print； TV； billboard； and radio mercials） was the envy of the professional bass…fishing circuit； a prize held exclusively for the past five years by Dickie Lockhart。 With Lockhart's sudden death； the Happy Gland people needed a new star。 The choice was an obvious one； the ad agency didn't even bother to hold auditions。 Henceforth every bottle of Bass Bolero； Mackerel Musk； and Catfish Cum would bear the grinning likeness of Fast Eddie Spurling。
〃Any questions？〃 asked Charlie Weeb。
The reporters just looked at one another。 Each of them was thinking he would go back to the newsroom and kill the editor who sent him on this assignment。
Weeb said； 〃I've saved the best for last。 Girls； bring out the visuals。〃
Two young women in opalescent bathing suits entered the skybox carrying an immense gold…plated trophy。 The trophy easily stood five feet off the ground。 On the corners of the base of the trophy were toy…size figures of anglers holding fishing rods； bent in varying degrees of mythic struggle。 At the crown of the trophy was an authentic largemouth bass in a full body mount。 As bass went； it was no hawg； but poised on the trophy it did look impressive。
〃Well； there！〃 said the Reverend Weeb。
〃What did you win it for？〃 one of the reporters asked Eddie Spurling。
〃I didn't win it；〃 Fast Eddie said； 〃not yet。〃
〃Gentlemen； read what it says on the trophy； look closely；〃 said Charlie Weeb。 〃This is probably the biggest trophy most of you ever saw； including Eddie here； who's won some pretty big ones。〃
〃None this big；〃 Eddie Spurling said admiringly。
〃Damn right；〃 Weeb said。 'That's because it's the biggest trophy ever。 And it's the biggest trophy ever because it goes to the winner of the biggest fishing tournament ever。 Three weeks from today； gentlemen； on the edge of the legendary Florida Everglades； fifty of the best bass anglers in the world will pete for a first prize of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars。〃
〃Christ；〃 said one of the reporters。 Finally something to scribble。
〃The richest tournament ever；〃 Charlie Weeb said； glowing。 〃The Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic。〃
Ed Spurling said； 〃At Lunker Lakes。〃
〃Oh yes；〃 said the Reverend Weeb； 〃how could I forget？〃
Al Garcia was dog…tired。 He'd been up since six； and even after four cups of coffee his tongue felt like mossy Styrofoam。 His bum left shoulder was screaming for Percodans but Garcia stuck with plain aspirin； four at a pop。 It was one of those days when he wondered why he hadn't just retired on full disability and moved quietly to Ocala； one of those days when everything and everybody in Miami annoyed the shit out of him。 The lady at the toll booth； for instance； when she'd snatched the dollar bill out of his hand…a frigging buck； just for the matchless pleasure of driving the Rickenbacker out to Key Biscayne。 And the doorman at the Mayan high…rise condo。 Let's see some identification； please。 How about a sergeant's badge； asshole？ The thing was； the doorman…dressed in a charcoal monkey suit that must have cost four bills…the doorman used to work for fucking Somoza。 U