by Carl Hiaasen
“Why? What’s going on?” Suddenly he was interested.
“Ask the Coast Guard,” I said, and hung up.
Dad, Mom, and Abbey were in the living room, gathered around Grandpa Bobby. When I came out of the kitchen, he motioned for me to sit down beside him. For the first time I noticed his resemblance to my father—Dad was taller and heavier, but he had the same square chin and light green eyes.
Grandpa Bobby took out a small photograph, worn and creased from being folded and unfolded. In the picture, his curly hair was blond, not silvery, and there was no scar on his cheek. He was lifting some half-naked little kid high over his head. The kid was laughing and kicking his chubby white legs.
The kid was me.
“You were only two years old,” my grandfather said.
It was the first photograph of him that I’d ever seen. My parents had lost all their family albums when a tropical storm flooded our house on the night before my third birthday.
Grandpa Bobby passed the snapshot around. Then he carefully refolded it into a square and slipped it in his pocket. Turning back to me, he said, “You wanna go first, champ?”
“No thanks. You go.”
He took a slow sip from a coffee mug. “Lord, where do I start? I guess by sayin’ how bad I feel for keepin’ out of touch the last ten years or so.”
“Out of touch? Everybody thought you were dead!” Abbey exclaimed.
“I’m sorry, I truly am,” Grandpa Bobby said. “Paine, Donna—believe me when I say I had good reasons for stayin’ out of your life.”
I could tell that Mom and Dad were glad to have Grandpa Bobby back, but they were also kind of dazed and quiet. My sister wasn’t dazed at all, since she’d never met him. He had disappeared before she was born.
“It’s not a happy story,” he began. “One day a man came along, said he needed a captain to make a couple of trips down to South America. The money was right, and I didn’t ask many questions. Wasn’t like I didn’t know what to ask—I just chose not to. Anyways, the first run went fine. No problems with the second run, either. But the third time, oh man …”
“Were you smuggling drugs?” I asked. Even Abbey seemed shocked to hear me say it.
“No, champ, I’ve got no fondness for dopers. It was stones,” Grandpa Bobby said. “Little green stones called emeralds. But smugglin’ is smugglin’, and stupid is stupid. And that’s what I was—world-class stupid—because the guys I trusted turned out to be greedy, back-stabbin’ liars. Actually, face-stabbin’ liars.” He pointed ruefully at the M-shaped scar. “Anyways, the details don’t hardly matter. There was some serious ugliness, and yours truly had to go underground.”
Up close he didn’t look so much like a pirate—at least not the kind of pirate you see in the movies. His teeth were too straight and his manners were too good.
But he also didn’t look like the kind of grandpa you usually see in the movies. His belly was still flat and his muscles were hard, and he was brimming with some strange wild energy. You could tell he’d never spent a minute of his life dozing in a rocking chair.
Dad asked, “What happened to the Amanda Rose?”
That was Grandpa Bobby’s fishing boat, which he’d named after his wife, my grandmother. I never got to meet her because she passed away when my father was just a kid, about Abbey’s age. Some sort of rare cancer, Mom told us. It was one of the only things my dad wouldn’t talk about. Not ever.
“Paine, they stole the Amanda Rose,” my grandfather said sadly, “the same night they tried to kill me. Ever since then I’ve spent every bleepin’ minute trying to track down those rat bastards—pardon the language—and get back my boat.”
Mom spoke up. “We kept getting different stories from the State Department. Somebody said your appendix ruptured. Somebody else said it was a bar fight.”
Grandpa Bobby slapped his gut. “Far as I know, my appendix is fine and dandy. As for bar fights, well, who’s countin’?”
“Then why’d they tell us you were dead when you weren’t?” I asked.
“Because there was a dead American, Noah. They found him near a little village outside Barranquilla. My wallet happened to be in the man’s pocket, so the Colombian cops figured that he was me,” Grandpa Bobby explained. “That’s the body your daddy’s been writing letters to Washington about. The coffin never got dug up and shipped back to the States because I paid off a police captain to make sure it wouldn’t.” He grinned slyly. “See, I didn’t want to miss my own funeral.”
Abbey folded her arms. “Hold on. How did some dead guy end up with your wallet?”
“He stole it from me, which was a large mistake.” Grandpa Bobby took another sip of coffee. “It tore me up on the inside, knowin’ y’all thought I was planted in some pauper’s grave in the middle of nowhere. But I couldn’t come back to Florida and bring the kind of trouble that was attached to me. You folks had a solid, decent life goin’ here—young Noah gettin’ started. Abbey on the way.”
“You could’ve called,” my sister said sharply. “They’ve got telephones in South America, don’t they?”
“Or sent a letter, at least,” I cut in, “just to let Dad know you were okay.”
Grandpa Bobby sat back and smiled. “Kids, lemme tell you somethin’ about your daddy. He’s a good man, but sometimes his brain takes a nap and lets his heart take the tiller.”
My father shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, come on, Pop.”
But Grandpa Bobby was on a roll. He addressed Abbey and me directly. “When your father was a boy, you know what his nickname was at school? ‘Paine-in-the-Butt’ Underwood.”
Abbey and I busted out laughing.
“See, he had a bad habit of doing the very first thing that popped into his mind, no matter how foolish,” my grandfather said. “Now, whaddya think he would’ve done if he’d found out I was still alive and scramblin’ to stay that way, down in the jungles of Colombia? He would’ve hopped a plane or a boat or a donkey, whatever, and gone lookin’ for me! Am I right, son? And likely gotten himself killed in the bargain.”
Dad stared down at his shoes.
My mother asked, “So what made you come back, Pop?”
“This is first-rate coffee. Can I pour myself another cup?”
While Grandpa Bobby was in the kitchen, Abbey nudged my father and whispered: “They really called you Paine-in-the-Butt? You are so busted.”
“Keep it up,” Dad said with a tight smile. “I’ll deal with you and your brother later.”
Grandpa Bobby returned with a full mug and a jelly donut. He took two bites of the donut and said, “Here’s what happened: I’m sittin’ in a bar in this little harbor town, waitin’ to meet up with some dock rat who claims he saw the Amanda Rose over in the Grenadines. Anyways, they love their satellite TV down there, and it so happens that this particular cantina picks up one of the Miami stations loud and clear.”
“Channel 10?” I asked.
“That’s right, Noah. So there I am, drinkin’ a beer, mindin’ my own business, when all of a sudden I look up and who do I see on the tube? Mr. Paine Lee Underwood, my own son, your own daddy!”
Grandpa Bobby paused and shook his woolly head. “He’s wearin’ the latest in jailhouse fashions, a nifty puke-orange jumpsuit, if I recall. And he’s runnin’ off at the mouth about why he sunk some jerk’s boat, all because the man was dumpin’ toilet poo into the water. My jaw dropped so far it damn near broke my kneecaps. There was my boy in jail!”
Dad looked up. “Tell ’em what you did next, Pop.”
“You mean hitchin’ a ride to Key West on that billionaire’s yacht?”
“He didn’t hitch,” my father said to me and Abbey. “He stowed away.” Grandpa Bobby had already given Dad the full story, while they were out on the towboat searching for our dinghy.
“Where’d you hide?” Abbey asked.
My grandfather beamed. “The wine locker, darlin’.”
“Perfect,” Mom said with a sigh.
“I didn�
��t touch a drop, Donna, I swear,” Grandpa Bobby insisted. “Anyways, I knew the Customs boys would sweep the yacht clean, once we docked in Key West. So as soon as we cleared the harbor, I went overboard. Swam to the Mallory docks and thumbed a ride north with a red-headed insurance adjuster who tried her best to save my heathen soul. She dropped me at Tavernier, where I made camp under the Snake Creek bridge. Found a bunch of old newspapers there. Caught up on what was happening with Paine’s court case.”
“Why’d you start tailing me and Abbey?” I asked.
“Just a hunch,” my grandfather said. “In one of those papers was a story where they quoted you, Noah, talkin’ about your father. You ‘member that?”
“Hey, it wasn’t my idea.” I shot a sour look at Dad.
“Well, you came off like a bright, sensible young fella. Still, I couldn’t help thinkin’ that if you were just a little too much like your daddy or granddaddy, you wouldn’t sit still and let this Muleman creep get away with trashin’ our family name, not to mention the Atlantic Ocean.” Grandpa Bobby winked, then inhaled the rest of his donut. “So I decided to keep an eye on you and Miss Abbey, just in case you tried somethin’ crazy.”
“Thank goodness you did,” Mom said.
My grandfather told us he’d been laying low during the day, fishing with a handline under the bridge. After sunset he’d hide out at the marina, waiting for us to make a move.
“Hiding where?” I asked.
“Last night it was the tuna tower of a big Bertram,” he said.
Abbey was delighted. “I hid there, too! I even got video!”
“It’s a long ways up,” Grandpa Bobby said, “but a short trip down. That bald ape never knew what hit him.”
“His name’s Luno,” I said.
“I don’t care if his name is Mildred, I won’t be sendin’ him a get-well card.” Grandpa Bobby paused to finish his coffee.
Dad picked up the story. “Mom and I got home from the movies around twelve-thirty. When we saw your beds were empty, we knew right away where you’d gone. She wanted to call the sheriff, but I said no way, I’ve had enough of their hospitality. So we hopped in the pickup, peeled out of the driveway, and there he was, larger than life—”
“In the middle of the road,” Mom said. “No shirt, no shoes, dripping with sweat.”
“Flailing his arms and running straight at us,” Dad said, “my old man!”
“What’d you do?” I asked.
“I turned very calmly to your mother and said, ‘Either that’s a ghost, or the government’s given us some bad information.’”
Grandpa Bobby said he’d planned to keep his visit a secret—until he saw me and Abbey escape in the blue dinghy. “The engine on that thing sounded like a bucket of nails in a blender. I knew you kids wouldn’t get very far,” he said, “so I ran and fetched your folks.”
“Wait a minute—you would’ve gone all the way back to South America without even saying hello?” Abbey was steaming. “Without even letting us know you were alive? That’s horrible.”
My grandfather sat forward and took one of her hands. “Now listen here, tiger. All those years, there wasn’t a day went by that I didn’t want to pick up a phone and call your daddy. I missed him more than I can ever put into words.
“But it would’ve been wrong to drag him into the middle of my situation, which was deadly serious. So my plan was to sneak into the Keys on the sly and see what I might do behind the scenes. I brought along some cash for bail, lawyers, bribes, whatever. There was plenty more in a lockbox up in Hallandale, though I hear your Aunt Sandy and Uncle Del already helped themselves.”
Dad said, “We don’t need any money.”
Grandpa Bobby raised one silvery eyebrow. “Really? Since when did you win the lottery?”
“We’ll be fine,” Mom said warmly. “But thank you, Pop.”
He smiled. “I understand.”
“Well, I don’t,” my sister grumbled. She snatched her hand away from my grandfather. “Know what I think? I think you’re a big—”
“Abbey, knock it off,” I said. “He saved our lives.”
“Not quite,” said Grandpa Bobby. “Some private plane spotted your dinghy and called in the location. Your daddy had his VHF radio dialed to the Coast Guard’s channel—turns out we were only about three miles away, so we beat the Coasties no sweat. Your daddy’s the one who knew where to search. I went along for the ride is all.”
“No, I’m not talking about the rescue,” I said, “I’m talking about what happened on the docks—about Luno and the gun.”
My mother went stiff. “What gun?”
“The guy was going to waste us!” Abbey burst out. “I mean, we were history. Then Noah dived on top of me, and then he”—she nodded toward Grandpa Bobby—“he jumped the goon and took the pistol away.”
Immediately I was sorry that I’d brought it up. My mom’s face had gone white.
“He tried to kill you?” She looked at Grandpa Bobby. “Is that true? He tried to kill the children?”
“Donna, it was a flare gun. He probably wanted to scare the you-know-what out of ’em,” my grandfather said.
“Just a flare gun?” Abbey sounded disappointed.
“It’s still bad,” Dad said angrily. “He could’ve set the dinghy on fire. Or your clothes.”
Grandpa Bobby told all of us to calm down. “The main thing is, nobody got hurt except for Baldy. Now, I believe it’s Noah’s turn to tell us his story. You ready, champ?”
“I guess.”
My sister pretended to hold her nose. “Don’t leave out the part about the seagull,” she said.
I didn’t leave out anything, even the stuff that made me look the opposite of brilliant. Nobody interrupted with questions. They just sat there and listened.
When I was finished, Dad clicked his teeth and said, “You crashed into a manatee?”
Then Mom said, “Who’s this Shelly person?”
Then Abbey said, “The Mermaids’ bathroom? You perv!”
Then Grandpa Bobby stood up and took the chain from around his neck. He placed it in my hand and said, “You earned it, Noah.”
The gold coin on the end of that chain was heavier than any coin I’d ever held. I couldn’t believe he was giving it to me.
“Once belonged to the queen of Spain,” he said, “about four hundred years ago.”
“Where’d you get it?” Dad asked.
“Won it in a dice game. Or maybe it was poker.” Grandpa Bobby shrugged as if he honestly couldn’t remember. “Come on, troops, let’s go for a ride.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“Thunder Beach,” he said. “Where else?”
EIGHTEEN
The food coloring didn’t show up as brightly in the sea as it did in the store bottles, but you could definitely see it. As Abbey and I had hoped, the current and the wind were in our favor, transporting the dye down the shoreline in a shiny stream from Dusty Muleman’s basin.
Dad and Grandpa Bobby stood together on Thunder Beach, admiring the telltale trail of fuchsia.
“I’m impressed,” my father said. “This was your idea, Noah?”
“Abbey’s, too,” I said.
“All I did was pick out the color,” she said.
“That’s not true. We were fifty-fifty partners the whole way.”
My grandfather slapped a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Paine, you and Donna really lucked out with these youngsters. They’re true champs, both of ’em.”
“Most of the time,” Dad said, shooting us a sideways glance.
“You gotta admit,” said Grandpa Bobby, “this is a whole lot neater than sinkin’ the man’s boat.”
“Yeah, Pop, thanks for bringing that up.”
Mom kept staring at the purplish slick in the shallows. Even though she was wearing sunglasses, we could tell she was upset. At first I thought she was mad at Abbey and me, but it turned out that she wasn’t. She was mad at Dusty Muleman.
“Unb
elievable!” she exploded finally. “How can a person do something like that! A father, for heaven’s sake! All the kids on the island go swimming here—and he’s poisoning the place with all this … this…”
“Ca-ca?” said Abbey.
“Whatever,” my mother fumed. “The man ought to be in jail. He’s a menace to the public health.”
Dad has a long list of people that he says should be locked up for one thing or another, but this was the first time I’d ever heard Mom say that about anybody.
My grandfather also was angered by what he saw, although he tried not to show it. “Jail’s too good for the lowlife who did this,” he said evenly, “but it’s a start.”
Abbey and I looked uneasily at each other. We’d seen Grandpa Bobby in action before.
“Paine, you ‘member that big muttonfish I caught here?” he asked my father. “The fifteen-pounder?”
“You bet I remember. Only it was fourteen pounds,” Dad said. “Fourteen even.”
“Sure? Anyways, it was a helluva catch,” said Grandpa Bobby. “That was back before they dropped fish traps all over the reefs. Back before certain creeps started dumping their crapola in the sea.”
There was a rumbly edge to his voice, like he was struggling to keep his temper under control.
Mom said, “Don’t worry, Pop. Someday Dusty Muleman will get exactly what he deserves. People like him always do.”
This was her famous what-goes-around-comes-around theory. My grandfather obviously didn’t buy it, although he was too polite to say so. He picked up a branch of driftwood and swept it back and forth through the stained water.
“Somebody probably oughta notify the Coast Guard, while the tide’s right,” he said.
I didn’t mention the phone call I’d made earlier at the house. As if on cue, a sound like a rolling drumbeat rose from the north.
Abbey said, “Listen, guys! You hear that?”
Thwock-a-thwock-a-thwock …
We all turned and looked up.
“Over there!” said Dad. He has eyes like an osprey; the rest of us couldn’t see a thing.
After a while my grandfather spotted it, too, and pointed where to look. At first it was just a small fuzzy dot in the wide open blueness of the sky. But as the dot grew larger, it turned blaze-orange and took on the shape of a helicopter.