by Carl Hiaasen
Shelly said, “Okay, Nature Boy, now you run straight home and scrub yourself down in a hot shower.”
“Don’t worry.” I was already busy scraping at my legs with a sea-grape leaf.
Abbey stood at the water’s edge, gazing out in heavy silence. Shelly put an arm around her tense little shoulders and said, “Let’s hit the road, kiddo. Before your flaky brother gets any more bright ideas.”
Abbey turned to me. “The fish are gone. Those little green minnows we always see here.”
“They’ll be back,” I said, “when the water clears up.”
Suddenly a loggerhead stuck up its knobby brown head. It might have been the same one that I’d seen that day with Thom and Rado, but I couldn’t be sure. One turtle head looks a lot like another.
“No!” my sister cried out. “Noah, do something!”
The loggerhead obviously didn’t know it was swimming in filth. I began jumping and clapping my hands together, trying to spook it away from the beach, but that didn’t work. The turtle floated lazily at the surface, blinking up at the sun.
Abbey began to shake and cry. Shelly told her not to worry, turtles were tough customers. “They’ve been on this old planet a lot longer than we have. They’re survivors,” she said.
“Not this one,” my sister sobbed. “Not if she gets sick from the bad water.”
Abbey was right. Absolutely right.
So I charged back into the waves, kicking and splashing and hollering like a lunatic. It wasn’t the brightest thing I’ve ever done, but it definitely got that loggerhead’s attention. In a fright it ducked under and scooted off, leaving only a boiling swirl.
This time nobody said much when I came out of the dirty water. Abbey looked like she wanted to give me a hug, but she was understandably reluctant to get slimed. Shelly just shook her head in disbelief and tossed me a towel.
Together we trudged down the beach to a paved lot where her Jeep was parked. “Promise me you’ll go home and wash up,” she said.
“Promise,” I said.
“And, Abbey, promise me that you’ll try to keep your brother from getting into more trouble.”
“You bet,” Abbey said halfheartedly.
Shelly looked around to make sure the three of us were alone, which seemed obvious since her Jeep was the only car in the lot.
“I’m going to tell you guys somethin’, but you don’t know where you heard it, okay?” She leaned close, and the air turned to pure tangerine. “There’s a man who works at the Coast Guard station, a civilian named Billy Babcock. He’s got a major gamblin’ problem, you understand? He’s addicted to it.”
“You mean like drugs,” Abbey said.
“Yeah. Or booze,” said Shelly. “Billy can’t stop betting, no matter how hard he tries. Blackjack, dice, roulette, you name it. He’s a regular on the Coral Queen, like, four nights a week. Sometimes more. You see where this is heading?”
I did. “Does he owe Dusty money?”
Shelly nodded. “Big-time. So much money that Billy couldn’t pay it all back if he lives to be a hundred.”
“So he’s repaying it another way.”
“You got it, Noah,” Shelly said. “Every time the Coast Guard gets ready to pull a surprise inspection on the Coral Queen, Billy Babcock calls Dusty the day before to warn him. That’s why they never catch ’em emptying the tank.”
Abbey flopped her arms in dismay. “So Dad was right after all. Dusty is being tipped off.”
“Hey, you didn’t hear it from me,” Shelly said.
“But—”
“Shhhh!” Shelly pointed toward a white pickup that was rolling into the lot.
The truck pulled up and parked near the Jeep. Stamped on the door of the cab was: DEPARTMENT OF PARKS AND RECREATION.
A man in a tan uniform got out and gave us a friendly nod. From the bed of the pickup he removed a small sledgehammer, a half dozen metal posts, and a stack of cardboard signs.
“You folks on your way to the beach?” he asked.
“What’s up?” said Shelly.
The man showed us one of the signs. DANGER, it warned in big letters. BEWARE OF CONTAMINATED WATER.
Beneath those words, in smaller red lettering, it said: SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK.
“Contaminated with what?” asked my sister, acting as if she didn’t know.
“Human waste,” said the man from Parks and Recreation. “We got a call from a guy who was fishing out here this morning. The health department came and sampled the water—it tested off the charts. You all might want to try Long Key, or maybe Harris Park.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Shelly said, playing along.
After the man went off to post the warning signs, my sister and I said goodbye to Shelly and began walking to our bikes.
“Noah, what you did back there for that sea turtle, that was very …”
“Dumb? I know.”
“No. Cool,” Abbey said, “in a really twisted way.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“We can’t give up on this,” she added grimly.
“Now you sound like Dad.”
“Well? You’re the one who went into that scuzzy water—twice! Doesn’t it make you furious?”
“Yeah, it does.”
Furious and sick at the same time. But I thought of Abbey’s spying mission the night before, and what a disaster it could have been. I’d never forget the cold-blooded look in Luno’s eyes when he saw us standing in Dusty’s ticket shack.
“Mom doesn’t need any more excitement from us,” I told my sister.
“She won’t have to know a darn thing,” Abbey said, “because next time we’ll do it right.”
The “we” was a given. I wasn’t about to let my sister go anywhere near that marina again without me.
We unlocked our bikes and started pedaling home in the thick July heat. I knew I stunk from the crappy water, but Abbey claimed she didn’t smell a thing. I kept thinking about how easy it was for Dusty Muleman to get away with what he was doing. With so many big boats on the water, nobody had been able to trace the pollution along Thunder Beach directly to the Coral Queen.
Or maybe nobody had tried hard enough.
It was time that somebody did.
“We can’t get Dad involved in this, either,” I said to Abbey. “He’s had enough trouble already.”
“Definitely.” She grinned. “Noah, does this mean you’ve got a plan?”
“Don’t get carried away,” I said, which ought to be the Underwood family motto.
THIRTEEN
Dad was serious about getting serious.
The same morning he was released from jail, he went out and got himself hired by a company called Tropical Rescue. It wasn’t the sort of work that my father could put his heart into, but I knew why he took the job.
It was the boat.
They let him use a twenty-four-foot outboard with a T-top and twin 150s—not for fishing but for towing in tourists who ran out of gas or rammed their boats aground.
Normally my father has no patience for these sorts of bumblers. He calls them “googans” or even worse, depending on what kind of fix they’ve gotten themselves into. But Dad needed the job, so he buttoned his lip and kept his opinions to himself.
Unless it’s a life-or-death emergency, the Coast Guard refers disabled-boat calls to private contractors like Tropical Rescue, which charge big bucks. They stay busy, too. It’s amazing how many people are too lazy to read a fuel gauge, a compass, or a marine chart. They just point their boats at the horizon and go. All around the Keys you can see their propeller trenches—long ugly gouges, like giant fingernail scrapes, across the tidal banks. It takes years for the sea grass to grow back.
Dad’s first rescue job was a boatload of software salesmen from Orlando who were stranded all the way out at Ninemile Bank. Somehow they’d managed to beach a brand-new Bayliner on a flat that was only four inches deep. That’s not easy to do, unless you’re bombed or wearing a blindfold.
Miraculously, Dad restrained himself from saying anything insulting. He didn’t get mad. He didn’t make fun of the bonehead who’d been driving the boat.
No, my father—the new and improved Paine Underwood—stayed calm and polite. He waited patiently for the tide to come up, tugged the Bayliner off the bank, and towed it back to Caloosa Cove. He told us he almost felt sorry for the software salesmen when he handed them the bill, which didn’t even include the hefty fine from the park service for trashing the sea grass. It was probably one of the most expensive vacations those guys ever had.
Even though Dad didn’t like dealing with googans, he was ten times happier on the water than he was driving a taxi. That meant Mom was in a better mood, too, laughing and kidding around the way she used to do.
The two of them were getting along so well that Abbey and I were extra careful not to mention the sticky subject of Dusty Muleman’s casino boat. We discussed our new plan of attack only when we were alone and away from the house, where our parents couldn’t hear us.
A couple of days after my father got out of jail, the Parks Department took down the pollution warnings at Thunder Beach. The next morning, Abbey and I put on our bathing suits and grabbed a couple of towels and dashed outside. Mom and Dad figured we were heading for the park, which is exactly what we wanted them to think.
Because we were really going to Shelly’s trailer.
I had to knock a half dozen times. When she finally came to the door, she didn’t seem especially delighted to see us. Her eyes were puffy and half closed, and it looked like somebody had set off a firecracker in her hair.
“Time izzit?” she asked hoarsely.
“Seven-thirty,” I said.
She winced. “A.M.? You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
Abbey said, “It’s important. Please?”
We followed Shelly inside. She sagged onto the sofa and tucked her legs up under her tatty pink bathrobe.
“Killer headache,” she explained, running her tongue across her front teeth. “Large party last night.”
She was clearly in pain, so we got straight to the point. “We need your help,” I said, “now.”
“To do what?”
“To stop Dusty Muleman. You promised, remember?”
She laughed—one of those tired, what-was-I-thinking laughs. She looked across at Abbey. “And you promised to keep your big brother outta trouble.”
“We won’t get in any trouble,” Abbey said evenly, “if you help us.”
It sounded like Shelly was having second thoughts. I wondered if she really was afraid of Dusty Muleman after all.
In a discouraged voice she said, “I don’t know what we can do to stop him. He’s tight with all the big shots in town.”
“But he’s poisoning Thunder Beach,” I said. “You know how sick a kid could get from swimming in that bad water? Same goes for the fish and the dolphins and the baby turtles. It sucks, what Dusty is doing. It’s awful.”
“Yeah, but—”
“And don’t forget what happened to Lice,” I added. “Remember how you told me you had a dog in this fight? Remember—”
“Lice is exactly what I been thinkin’ about,” Shelly cut in. “Say they really killed him, okay? You s’pose they’d hesitate to do the same to me or you, if somethin’ goes wrong?”
It was about time she got worried, and who could blame her? If she was right about Lice being dead, then Dusty and Luno were cold-blooded murderers.
But one glance and I knew Abbey wouldn’t back off, no matter what the risks. Neither could I.
“Shelly, I know it’s dangerous—”
“Not to mention crazy,” she said.
“Yeah, and probably crazy,” I agreed. “Look, if you don’t want to be a part of this, it’s okay. I understand.”
She shut her eyes and rolled back her head. “Uh-oh, here comes the guilt.” She pressed her knuckles to her ears. “Enough already, Noah. This poor blond head’s about to explode.”
Shelly stretched out on the sofa. Abbey got some ice cubes from the refrigerator and wrapped them in a dish towel, which Shelly gingerly positioned across her brow.
After a minute or two of muffled moaning she said, “Guess I wasn’t feelin’ so brave when I got up this mornin’, but hey, a promise is a promise. Count me in.”
Abbey and I looked at each other with happy relief.
“So what’s the big plan?” Shelly asked. “And how does your daddy fit in?”
“He doesn’t fit in. We’re not telling him about it,” Abbey replied.
Shelly opened one bloodshot eye and studied us. “That’s probably a darn good idea,” she said.
“But he’ll still get blamed for everything—if we get caught,” I pointed out. “That’s why we need you.”
Shelly sighed. “So let’s hear it.”
When we told her our plan, she didn’t laugh or make fun. She just lay there, thinking.
“Well?” Abbey said impatiently.
Shelly levered herself upright, balancing the ice pack on her forehead. “This idea of yours is so whacked,” she said, “it just might work.”
“Does that mean you’ll help us?”
“And all I gotta do is flush?” she asked. “That’s it?”
“That’s all you’ve got to do,” I said. “Flush, and flush often.”
* * *
The next thing that happened was all my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.
Abbey and I were riding home slowly along the Old Highway, talking about the Coral Queen, when somebody rushed up on us from behind. Before I could wheel around, Jasper Muleman Jr. grabbed my bike and Bull grabbed Abbey’s, and together they dragged us backward into a stand of Australian pines.
Not again, I thought in a panic. It wasn’t me I was frightened for—it was my sister.
No sooner had Jasper Jr. knocked me to the ground than I heard Bull cut loose with a spine-chilling wail. Instantly I knew what had happened: He’d been too careless with Abbey.
“Make her let go!” Jasper Jr. hollered at me.
“I can’t.”
Jasper Jr. jerked me to my feet. “Underwood, you don’t make her let go of Bull, I’ll snap you like a twig.”
Bull kept on wailing. Abbey had sunk her teeth into his left earlobe and was hanging on like a starved alligator. Bull was at least a foot taller than her, so he had to be careful not to pull away or else he might lose the entire ear. Whenever he moved even a little bit, his wailing got louder. The boy was in serious pain.
“Make her stop!” Jasper Jr. demanded. “He’s bleeding, man, can’t you see?”
“Abbey, is Bull really bleeding?” I asked.
She nodded, causing Bull to crank up the volume. It was pitiful to hear.
Jasper Jr. started throttling me by the shoulders. “Make her quit, Underwood, make her stop!”
“One condition,” I said. “You guys let her go free.”
Jasper Jr. sneered his famous sneer. “How ‘bout this for a condition, dorkbrain? Your sister quits chewin’ on Bull, else I start poundin’ your head with a ripe coconut.”
Bull managed to calm himself long enough to offer his own opinion. “The girl takes her teeth outta my ear, she walks. You got my promise, Underwood.”
“Hey, no way—” Jasper Jr. began to protest.
“You shut up,” Bull snapped. He was looking at us with his thick neck bent toward the ground and his head positioned sideways, to give Abbey as much slack as possible. Considering the delicate situation, she seemed incredibly calm.
I didn’t see a single drop of blood, but there was no reason to inform Bull that he wasn’t really bleeding to death. “So, guys, do we have a deal or not?” I asked.
“Deal,” Bull grunted.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Jasper Jr., spearing me with a bony elbow.
“All right then,” I said. “Abbey, you can let go now.”
“Nhh-ugh,” she said through a mouthful of crinkled ear.
�
��Come on. Let go of Bull.”
“Nhh-ugh.”
“You want to catch some gross disease? He probably hasn’t had a bath since Christmas,” I said.
Even that didn’t make her quit. I knew why, too. She didn’t want to leave me out there alone with the two of them.
“Honest, I’ll be okay,” I said, which must have sounded incredibly lame. She knew I wasn’t going to be okay. She knew they were going to stomp me into hamburger meat.
“Nhh-ugh,” my sister said emphatically.
“Abbey, come on!”
There was no way I could let her stay there in the woods. Jasper Jr. was a vicious punk who wouldn’t think twice about beating up a girl half his size.
Bull said, “I think I’m gonna hurl.”
Abbey chomped down harder, and the noise that came out of Bull didn’t sound human.
Jasper jumped me again and put me in a headlock. “Now listen, you little brat,” he snapped at my sister. “We’re gonna do this my way. I’ll break your brother’s neck, you don’t spit out Bull’s ear by the count of three.”
There was no response from Abbey, but now I saw true fear in her eyes. My face must have looked like a tomato about to explode, as hard as Jasper Jr. was clinching down on me. I couldn’t tell my sister what to do next because I couldn’t squeak out a word.
“One,” said Jasper Jr.
Abbey hung on.
“Two …”
Abbey wasn’t budging.
“Two!” Jasper Jr. barked again.
I tried to wriggle free, but it was no use. Jasper Jr.’s forearm was locked tight against my throat, and it hurt to breathe. Everything in front of me started getting fuzzy and dark, and I figured I was about to pass out.
The next words I heard were: “Try two and a half, shorty.”
The voice sounded too old and gravelly to be Jasper Jr., but I just assumed that my hearing was messed up because he’d squeezed all the oxygen out of my brain.
“Let him go!” the voice said again, and it clearly wasn’t speaking to Abbey. It was speaking to Jasper Jr.
Who, to my complete surprise, immediately let me go. I fell to the ground and stayed on all fours until I caught my breath.