by Carl Hiaasen
The pain was ridiculous. At first everything went bright, like a starburst, and then suddenly it was as black as a tunnel. My skull was ringing like a gong.
As I lay there, trying not to cry out and give myself away, I heard my own voice say, “It’s empty.”
Empty!
It wasn’t my skull that was ringing; it was the sewer tank.
Which should have been full, if the Coral Queen had emptied her hose into it that night.
I watched the police car roll to a stop near the boat. The bald goon hurried down the gangplank and waved at the deputy, who hopped out of the car and followed Dusty’s man onto the boat. Both of them were shining flashlights back and forth.
I rolled to my knees and sat up too fast. As I waited for the dizziness to go away, I noticed a dark, powdery tracing on the concrete slab under the sewage tank—something so small that the pollution inspectors might never have noticed. I touched it and, in the faint light from the docks, saw red on my fingers.
Rust. The old tank was rusting away.
I reached underneath and found a patch of pitted metal that crumbled like stale crackers. Peeling it away, I made a hole so large that I could stick my fist inside.
The sewer tank wasn’t just empty, it was wrecked and useless—a phony prop in Dusty Muleman’s scam.
Suddenly the knot on my head didn’t hurt so much. I stuffed a handful of rust into my pocket, and took off.
EIGHT
The next afternoon Mom insisted on driving all the way to Homestead for groceries because nobody there knew who she was. Dad’s TV interview was the buzz of the Keys, and she didn’t want to deal with the stares and whispers at the local market.
After she and Abbey left, I sat down and watched the tape. My father was in rare form. He looked straight into the camera and declared: “I sunk the Coral Queen as an act of civil disobedience.” He said he was protesting the destruction of the oceans and rivers by “ruthless greedheads.”
The jailhouse jumpsuit didn’t look half bad on television, I had to admit. Dad had also combed his hair and put on his wire-rimmed glasses, so he came off more like a college professor than a boat vandal. This time he had the good sense not to compare himself to Nelson Mandela (or if he did, the TV people were nice enough to cut that part out). My father ended the interview by saying he intended to stay locked behind bars until the law dealt squarely with Dusty Muleman.
Next to show up on camera was a rodent-faced man who identified himself as Dusty’s attorney. In a righteous tone he described his client as an experienced boat captain, respected businessman, and “pillar of the community.” He said that Dusty would never purposely contaminate the waters where his own son played. The lawyer concluded by calling my father a “mentally unbalanced individual,” and challenged him to prove his “reckless and slanderous allegations.”
As I was rewinding the tape, somebody knocked on the front door. It was Mr. Shine, Dad’s lawyer. For once he didn’t look like he was on his way to a funeral.
“Hello there, Noah,” he said.
“Mom’s not here.”
“Oh. I should’ve called first, but I just received some important news.”
“About Dad? What is it?”
Mr. Shine sucked air through his teeth. “Sorry. I’m obliged to tell your mother first.”
“Is it bad news?” I asked.
“No, I should think not.”
“Then tell me. Please?”
“I wish I could,” Mr. Shine said.
Thanks a bunch, I thought. Couldn’t he even give me a hint?
“Did you see him on TV last night?” I asked.
Mr. Shine nodded with a sickly expression. “I strongly advised your father against doing that interview.”
“But he’s right, you know—about Dusty Muleman flushing the holding tank into the basin. Everything Dad said was true.”
“I’m sure he thought so at the time.”
“It’s all going to come out sooner or later. You just wait.”
Mr. Shine plainly didn’t believe me. “Please tell your mother that I’ll call later,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Can I ask one more question?”
“Of course, Noah.”
“Is my mom going to divorce my dad?”
Mr. Shine looked like he’d swallowed a bad clam. “What?” he croaked. “Where in the world did you get that idea?”
“Well, is she?”
He licked nervously at his lips. “Noah, quite frankly, I’m not comfortable with this conversation.”
“Hey, I’m not comfortable with the idea of Mom and Dad splitting up,” I said, “but Abbey and I have a right to know. Don’t we?”
By now Mr. Shine was backing away from the door. “You should speak directly with your parents about these concerns,” he said, “and in the meantime, don’t jump to conclusions….”
For an older guy he could move pretty fast. In a matter of moments he had hustled to his car and sped away.
I went back inside and replayed the videotape of Dad’s interview. I kept wondering what Mr. Shine had come to tell my mother, although I had a feeling that his definition of good news might be different from mine.
Later I climbed up on the roof to readjust the TV dish, or try. I wiggled the darn thing around so that it was aimed upward at the sky, although I had no idea exactly where the satellites were orbiting. It wouldn’t have surprised me to start getting MTV from Kyrgyzstan.
I unhooked the incriminating bucktail jig from the dish and started scaling down the rain gutter. Just then I heard honking, and a green Jeep Cherokee wheeled into our driveway. Shelly poked her blond head out the window and hollered my name.
I dropped to the ground and went to see what she wanted.
“Hop in,” she told me, “and hurry it up. I’m not gettin’ any younger.”
I got in because I was scared to say no. The thought of Shelly chasing me down and dragging me feet-first into her Jeep was not appealing.
As I fumbled to put on the seat belt, she peeled out of the driveway and raced toward Highway One. It was a while before I got up the nerve to ask where we were going.
“Why? You got a hot date or somethin’?” she said.
I decided not to mention the silver-barreled gun that lay on the console between us.
“Shelly, is something wrong?”
She laughed sourly. “You don’t miss a trick, do you?”
Even though she was wearing black sunglasses, I could tell she’d been crying. She was still sniffling and her voice sounded scratchy.
“‘Member what I told you about Lice runnin’ away?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, turns out I had it wrong,” she said.
“Did he come home?” I asked.
Shelly shook her head. “They finally towed the Jeep back from Cutler Ridge. Two hundred bucks—I had to pawn my promise ring to pay for it,” she said. “Know how I spent my morning, Noah?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Scrubbing bloodstains off the upholstery!”
I had thought it felt damp on the seat. “Blood? You sure?”
“See, I missed a spot.” Shelly pointed to a dark reddish smudge on the dashboard. “I don’t think Lice ran away,” she confided. “I think he got snatched. And”—here she made a hard left turn, nearly spilling the gun onto my lap—“I think whoever snatched him killed him.”
“What!”
“That’s right, Noah.” She buried her nose in a tissue. “And I think it’s all ‘cause of your daddy and that gamblin’ boat.”
I’d never been so close to a woman with a tattoo—or, I should say, a tattoo I could see for myself. Rado claimed that his older sister had gone off to college and gotten a tiny zebra butterfly tattooed on her butt. Thom and I had to take his word for this, since neither of us had ever seen enough of Rado’s sister to confirm the story.
Strange as it sounds, the more I stared at the tattoo on Shelly’s arm, the more natural i
t looked. The barbed wire definitely suited her personality.
“Relax. The pistol ain’t real,” she said. “It’s a lighter.”
When she pulled the trigger, a bright blue flame flared from the barrel.
“It looks pretty bad, though, huh? Bad enough to scare anybody tries to give me trouble,” Shelly said.
For more than an hour we’d been heading down the highway, obviously to nowhere in particular. Shelly kept saying she had more to tell me, but then she’d get worked up about Lice Peeking and what a “total zero” he was, and how she must be a fool to care about him. Afterward she’d cry and sniffle for a while, but just when I thought she had a grip on herself it would start all over again.
We were all the way to Sugarloaf Key before she turned the Jeep around and grumbled, “Where the heck was I goin’?” On the way back she pulled into the parking lot on the Marathon end of the old Seven Mile Bridge. The place was full of tourists who were tinkering with their cameras, getting ready to shoot pictures of the sunset. It was too cloudy for a green flash, and besides, I was too distracted to stand there and look for it.
“What makes you think Lice is … you know …”
“Dead? Number one, he hasn’t called up beggin’ to come home,” Shelly said, “which is totally not like him. Number two, none of his local party pals have heard from him, not a peep. Number three was that ugly bald gorilla who came to the trailer that night, and number four was the blood in my car.”
Again she pointed at the stain on the dashboard. I tried not to stare at it. Shelly being so worried made me worried, too.
“But who would kill him? And what’s it got to do with my dad?” I asked.
She sighed impatiently. “Noah, you got any idea how much money Dusty Muleman makes off the Coral Queen?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Between fifteen and twenty grand just from the casino tables,” she said. “Subtract the food for the customers, the pay for the crew, and he’s still clearin’ ten thousand, minimum, every night.”
“Dollars?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Gambling is a mega-huge business, kid, because the world is crawlin’ with suckers,” Shelly said. “Don’t forget that Lice had a big mouth. Suppose he blabbed to somebody that he was gonna help your daddy, and suppose Dusty found out. He’d have a cow if he thought the feds were gonna rush in and shut down the Coral Queen. How far do you figure he’d go to stop that from happenin’? You’re a smart boy, Noah, think about it.”
I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to believe that Dusty Muleman had murdered Lice Peeking, all because my father had made a deal with Lice to get his testimony.
She said, “Don’t worry, I’m still gonna keep my promise. I’m gonna help you clear your daddy’s name.”
“But why?”
“Maybe ’cause it’s the right thing to do. Or maybe ’cause now I’ve got a dog in this fight.”
“You want to nail Dusty, too.”
“If he hurt my man, you bet I do,” Shelly said. “If he harmed one hair on that lazy, worthless, lice-covered head …”
She was either tougher than I’d thought, or crazier than I’d thought.
“It’s way too dangerous,” I told her. “Forget about it.”
“Too late.”
She stuck the gun-shaped cigarette lighter in the waist of her jeans and got out of the Jeep. She was still limping slightly from kicking the toilet bowl, but apparently her foot wasn’t broken. I followed her onto the old bridge, where we leaned against the warped railing and looked down at the green-blue water ripping through the pilings. The sun was halfway gone, and all around us the cameras were clicking.
“What else did you want to tell me?” I asked Shelly.
“This morning I went to see Dusty.”
“Alone? That’s nuts!”
“Noah, I used to live with the man. We were engaged to be married, for God’s sake,” she said. “Anyhow, I asked could I have back my old bartending job on the Coral Queen. I gave a big sob story about Lice bailin’ out on me, and how I was hurtin’ for money.”
The breeze delivered a whiff of Shelly’s tangerine perfume, which actually smelled pretty nice. I noticed she was wearing only two silver hoops in each ear, and I figured that maybe she’d pawned all the others, like her promise ring.
“Did Dusty give you the job?” I asked.
“Yup. I start tomorrow night.”
Shelly had guts, no doubt about it. She was going undercover to nail Dusty Muleman, the man she suspected of ordering her boyfriend killed. It was odd, but she looked more sad than scared.
I said, “Please don’t do this. Stay away from that boat.”
“What if I told you I really did need the dough.”
“It’s not worth it,” I heard myself say. “I don’t want something bad happening to you, too.”
“Aw, nothing’s gonna happen.” Now she sounded like the old Shelly, incredibly calm and sure of herself.
“If you’re not afraid, how come you’re carrying around that fake gun?” I asked.
“Good question.” She took the lighter out of her jeans and casually tossed it off the bridge. “I was gonna start smokin’ again, but you just talked me out of it. Thanks, Noah.”
She smiled, and then did something totally outrageous. She leaned over and kissed the top of my head, the way Mom used to do when I was small. It was just a quick peck, but I felt my face turn red.
“My momma used to say, ‘Keep your friends close, girl, but keep your enemies closer,’” said Shelly. “Don’t worry about me, Noah. I know how to handle Captain Muleman.”
A few of the tourists started clapping, which they sometimes do in the Keys at the moment the sun disappears over the horizon. Why, I’ve got no earthly idea. Sunset on the water ought to be a quiet and easy time, but I guess some people can’t stand a little silence.
“Speaking of mommas,” Shelly said, “yours’ll start freakin’ out, we don’t get you home pretty soon.”
That night, before bed, I took the rust dust out of my pocket and showed it to Abbey. I told her all about the bogus sewage tank at the boat dock; about Lice suddenly disappearing and the bloodstains in the Jeep; about Shelly going back to her old job on the Coral Queen to help us nail Dusty Muleman.
Abbey was her usual skeptical self. “You’re saying that the same goon who grabbed me at the marina kidnapped Lice Peeking and snuffed him? No way.”
“It’s a possibility,” I said.
“In Miami, yeah. But this is the Keys!”
When I told her how much money Dusty was making from the casino boat, Abbey’s eyes widened.
“What if we went to the police and told them everything?” she asked excitedly.
“They’d think we’re a couple of whack jobs. We need witnesses, Abbey, not just a hole in a sewer tank.”
“Does this Shelly person have a plan?”
“We’re still working on it,” I said.
“We? Oh, great.”
“Any ideas would be welcome.”
“Noah, this isn’t a game,” my sister said. “If there’s a killer out there—which I doubt, but if it’s true—there’s only one possible plan.”
“Which is?”
“We pack up and move to Canada immediately. You, me, Mom, Dad—we drive straight to Saskatchewan and move in with Grandpa Kenneth and Grandma Janet. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Good night, Abbey.”
I was so tired that I fell asleep in my clothes. Right away I started dreaming about fishing, which wasn’t unusual for me. In the dream I was alone in a small wooden boat, hooked up to a humongous tarpon that was dragging me out to sea. The water was getting rougher, and the salt spray was whipping at my cheeks and stinging my eyes. Before long it got dark and I couldn’t see a thing.
All I had to do to save myself was let go of the stupid fishing rod, but it was the biggest tarpon I’d ever seen and I wanted desperately to catch it. The fish was pullin
g so hard that the little boat was plowing and lurching through the waves. Somehow I managed to steady myself in the bow, leaning with all my might against the muscle of the fish. Every so often the line would hiss upward, slacken, and then a tremendous splash could be heard in the distance. I knew it was the sound of my tarpon jumping, trying to shake out the hook.
Eventually the black gloom was broken by a bright white burst, and I realized we were passing the lighthouse at Alligator Reef. In the dream I started thinking about all the monster barracudas and sharks that lived on the reef, and what a bad thing it would be to tumble overboard there.
Next, something terrifying happened. The boat was lifted by an enormous claw-shaped wave and tossed like a toy, high in the air. The spinning rod flew from my grip and I pitched backward, expecting at any moment to crack my skull against the planks of the transom.
But instead I just kept falling, as if tumbling through a high mountain canyon. I tried to wake myself but I couldn’t, which is the worst feeling when you’re in the middle of a bad dream. As I fell, something invisible began rocking me back and forth—lightly at first, but then harder and harder until I was flopping around like a rag doll.
With both arms I swiped out blindly, groping for something to cling to. What I ended up grabbing was a round, mossy-topped rock—or so I thought, until the rock started speaking.
“Noah,” it whispered. “Please let go of my face.”
I opened my eyes. “Dad?”
“Sorry if I scared you.”
I bolted upright and reached for the lamp. There was my father kneeling by the bed, still wearing the orange jail-house jumpsuit. He was definitely not part of my dream.
“It’s good to see you, buddy.”
“Good to see you, too,” I said. “But what are you doing here?”
“I escaped,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Escaped? From jail?”
“I’m afraid they left me no choice.”
I didn’t bother to ask who he was talking about because it didn’t matter. This time he’d gone too far.
“Does Mom know you’re out?”
“Not yet. I wanted to wake you and Abbey first.”