Double Whammy by Carl Hiaasen

casket did not much resemble the Bobby Clinch that his pals had known, it could easily have been an older and chubbier brother. While some of the fishermen reached in and tugged affectionately at the bill of Bobby’s cap (which concealed what the ducks had done to his hair), others placed sentimental tokens in the coffin with their dead companion; fishing lures, mostly: Rapalas, Bombers, Jitterbugs, Snagless Sallies, Gollywompers, Hula Poppers, River Runts. Some of the lures were cracked or faded, the hooks bent and rusted, but each represented a special memory of a day on the water with Bobby Clinch. Clarisse made an effort to appear moved by this fraternal ceremony, but her thoughts were drifting. She already had a line on a buyer for her husband’s Blazer.
    Ott Pickney and R. J. Decker were among the last to walk by the casket. By now the inside looked like a display rack at a tackle shop. A fishing rod lay like a sword at the dead man’s side.
    Ott remarked, “Pearl Brothers did a fantastic job, don’t you think?”
    Decker made a face.
    â€œWell, you didn’t know him when he was alive.
    â€œNobody looks good dead,” Decker said. Especially a floater.
    Finally the lid was closed. The bier was cleared of flowers, including the impressive spray sent by the Lake Jesup Bass Captains Union—a leaping lunker, done all in petunias. With the ceremony concluded, the mourners broke into small groups and began to trudge back to their trucks.
    â€œI gotta get some quotes from the missus,” Ott whispered to Decker.
    â€œSure. I’m in no particular hurry.”
    Ott walked over and tentatively sat down on a folding chair next to Clarisse Clinch. When he took out his notebook, the widow recoiled as if it were a tarantula. R. J. Decker chuckled.
    â€œSo you like funerals?”
    It was a woman’s voice. Decker turned around.
    â€œI heard you laugh,” she said.
    â€œWe all deal with grief in our own way.” Decker kept a straight face when he said it.
    â€œYou’re full of shit.” The woman’s tone stopped just short of friendly.
    Mid-thirties, dark blue eyes, light brown hair curly to the shoulders. Decker was sure he had seen her somewhere before. She had an expensive tan, fresh from Curaçao or maybe the Caymans. She wore a black dress cut much too low for your standard funeral. This dress was a night at the symphony.
    â€œMy name is Decker.”
    â€œMine’s Lanie.”
    â€œElaine?”
    â€œOnce upon a time. Now it’s Lanie.” She shot a look toward Ott Pickney. Or was it Clarisse? “You didn’t know Bobby, did you?” she said.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œThen why are you here?”
    â€œI’m a friend of Ott’s.”
    â€œYou sure don’t look like a friend of Ott’s. And I wish you’d please quit staring at my tits.”
    Decker reddened. Nothing clever came to mind so he kept quiet and stared at the tops of his shoes.
    Lanie said, “So what did you think of the sendoff?”
    â€œImpressive.”
    â€œ ‘Sick’ is the word for it,” she said.
    An ear-splitting noise came from the gravesite. Bobby Clinch’s customized bass-boat casket had slipped off the belts and torn free of the winch as it was being lowered into the ground. Now it stood on end, perpendicular in the hole; it looked like a giant grape Popside.
    â€œOh Jesus,” Lanie said, turning away.
    Cemetery workers in overalls scrambled to restore decorum. Decker saw Clarisse Clinch shaking her head in disgust. Ott was busy scribbling, his neck bent like a heron’s.
    â€œHow well did you know him?” Decker asked.
    â€œBetter than anybody,” Lanie said. She pointed back toward the driveway, where the mourners’ cars were parked. “See that tangerine Corvette? That was a present from Bobby, right after he finished second in Atlanta. I’ve only given two blowjobs in my entire life,