by Carl Hiaasen
She felt a hand lightly brush one of her cheeks. He was checking for tears. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m so over that.”
“Figure we’ve got almost one healthy ego between us. That ought to be enough.”
“Why are you helping me?” Joey heard herself ask.
“Because I miss chasing after guys like Chaz. It was the best part of my job, sending shitheads up the river.”
“You’re not just trying to get in my pants?”
Stranahan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You know, I’d be just fine if you didn’t keep bringing up the subject.”
“God, I’m starved. Let’s grab something to eat.”
“We’ll be home in an hour,” he said.
Joey didn’t argue. She knew how much Mick hated the city.
“Sometimes I think about killing Chaz. Seriously,” she admitted. “Last night I dreamed I beat him to death with one of his umbrellas. Is that crazy?”
Stranahan said she’d be crazy not to feel angry. “But this is a much smarter way of dealing with it. With any luck, neither of us will end up in prison or the nuthouse.”
“Did we really accomplish anything today? I mean, besides watering the lawn.”
“Definitely.” Stranahan patted his breast pocket. “The chart I took from Chaz’s backpack is used for recording phosphorus levels at water-sampling stations. Those were probably the numbers he was writing down that day he wigged out on you.”
“Phosphorus—is that the same as phosphate?” Joey asked. “Like in fertilizer.”
“Yes indeed.”
“Not good for the Everglades.”
“Not according to what I’ve read, no,” Stranahan said.
Joey was struggling to make it all fit. “Okay, say Chaz was slacking at work. Instead of schlepping out to the boonies, he sneaks off to play golf. Later he cooks up a bogus water chart to fool his boss.”
“Sounds like our boy.”
“Then I come home unexpectedly, ask one innocent question,” Joey said, “and he’s so paranoid that he thinks I’ve figured out the whole scam. Caught him red-handed.”
“And then he loses it.”
“Yeah, but hold on. Do you really believe he tried to kill me over that? Over fertilizer?”
“I’m not saying this is the whole answer. It’s just a piece of the puzzle,” Stranahan said.
Joey was skeptical. It seemed entirely possible that Chaz’s tantrum two months ago had nothing to do with what had happened last week on the cruise ship. Even if he’d been fudging some scientific data, the guy wasn’t exactly trading in atomic secrets.
She said, “Before this is over, I want a one-on-one with him. Can you make that happen?”
“Joey, it all depends.”
When they got to Dinner Key, Stranahan parked the Suburban next to the old Cordoba under the ficus tree. A chilly rain started falling as they reached the skiff, and they shared a poncho on the choppy ride out to the island.
Karl Rolvaag drove north on U.S. 27, the glistening sedge of the Everglades giving way to cane fields as far as he could see. At Lake Okeechobee the detective headed west on State Road 80, toward the town of LaBelle. He was taking his time, enjoying the wide-open drive. The flat farmlands checkered in shades of green reminded him of western Minnesota in the summer.
The address of Red’s Tomato Exchange turned out to be the same as that of Hammernut Farms. Rolvaag followed a straight gravel road for a half mile until it dead-ended at a modern brick complex that belonged in a suburban office park. The receptionist peered at Rolvaag’s badge, made a quiet call and then offered him coffee, soda or lemonade. A woman identifying herself as Mr. Hammernut’s “executive assistant” appeared and led the detective to a conference room overlooking a stagnant though perfectly circular pond. On the paneled walls of the room were framed photographs of governors, congressmen, Norman Schwarzkopf, Nancy Reagan, Bill Clinton, the three Bushes and even Jesse Helms—each posing with a shorter, reddish-haired man, whom Rolvaag assumed to be Samuel Johnson Hammernut. Undoubtedly the pictures were displayed to remind Hammernut’s guests that they were dealing with a heavy hitter. From his own hasty Internet research, Rolvaag had learned that Hammernut’s enterprises extended well beyond Florida; soybeans in Arkansas, peanuts in Georgia, cotton in South Carolina. Plainly he made important friends wherever he chose to do business. He’d also gotten into occasional trouble for brutal labor practices and a casual disregard for pollution laws. That he had skated away with only comical fines was hardly surprising to Rolvaag, considering Hammernut’s deep-pocket connections with both political parties.
“Call me Red,” he said after a sniffling and somewhat unimposing entrance. “Damn allergies get me every spring. What can I do you for?”
The detective told Hammernut about the unusual man in the minivan at West Boca Dunes Phase II. “The license tag came back to a Hertz agency. They said the rental was billed to a corporate credit card—Red’s Tomato Exchange.”
Hammernut nodded. “I own that company, yessir. And half a dozen others.”
“You know a person named Earl Edward O’Toole?”
“Not off the toppa my head. Did he say he worked for me?”
“I didn’t speak with him personally, but I got a good look. He’s a very distinctive individual,” Rolvaag said.
“How so?”
“Sizewise.”
“We hire lotsa large fellas out here. Lemme ask Lisbeth.” Hammernut leaned across the table and poked a button on the speaker phone. “Lisbeth, we got anybody on the payroll name of Earl Edward”—he turned back to Rolvaag—“what was it again?”
“O’Toole. That’s what was on the car-rental contract.”
“O’Toole,” Hammernut repeated for Lisbeth, who said she would check. Less than a minute later the phone buzzed. This time Hammernut turned off the speaker and snatched up the receiver.
“Hmmm. Okay, yeah, I think I ’member him. Thank you, darlin’.”
The detective opened his notebook and waited.
Hammernut hung up and said, “That big ole boy used to be a crew boss round here, but not for some time. I don’t know how he come to get hold of that credit card, but I aim to find out.”
“Do you know where he works now?”
“Nope. Lisbeth says he left on account of medical problems,” Hammernut said. “It’s hard, runnin’ a crew. Maybe he just got broke-down and wore-out.”
Rolvaag went through the motions of scribbling in his notebook. “Can you think of any reason Mr. O’Toole was hanging around that particular neighborhood in Boca? He didn’t hurt anybody, but still it’s a matter of concern for some of the residents—you can understand.”
“Oh hell yes,” Red Hammernut said. “If he’s the same ol’ boy I’m thinkin’ of, he could scare hot piss out of an igloo.”
Rolvaag managed a chuckle. “Mind if I take a look at his personnel file?”
“What file? Ha!” Hammernut roared. “We got, like, index cards. Half these fellas, we’re lucky they cop to their real names. That’s a problem with your itinerant labor.”
The detective nodded commiseratively. “You’d tell me, I’m sure, if your records showed that Mr. O’Toole had a history of violence or mental instability.”
Hammernut sneezed and groped in his pockets for a handkerchief. “Psychos ain’t much use on a farm operation like mine. Somebody turns out to be a goony bird, he don’t last long.”
“But you get all kinds, I bet,” Rolvaag said.
“You say this boy hasn’t hurt nobody, right? I’m curious how come you drove all the way from Broward County to check up on him. Is he what you call ‘under investigation’?”
The detective had no intention of telling Red Hammernut the truth—that he was fishing for leads in a possible homicide; that he had nothing better to do than track down some dumb gorilla who seemed to be surveilling his prime suspect; that he needed an excuse to get out of the office anyway, before Captain Gallo tossed
a new case in his lap.
“No, but you’re right. Normally this is worth a phone call,” Rolvaag said, “or even a fax. But some of the folks who live in that neighborhood where Mr. O’Toole was seen . . . how can I put this? They’ve been very loyal supporters of our sheriff—”
“Meaning they give serious bucks to his re-election campaigns,” Hammernut cut in, “so when they got a problem, the sheriff, he takes a personal interest. Right?”
“I’m glad you understand.” Rolvaag let his gaze wander appreciatively across the photographs on the wall. “I had a feeling you would.”
Hammernut smiled sagely. “Works the same way everywhere, don’t it? Politics, I mean.”
The detective smiled back. “Anyway, I’m supposed to make sure this O’Toole character isn’t some sort of serial killer waiting to pounce on unsuspecting Republican housewives.”
Another cataclysmic sneeze erupted from Hammernut, who swabbed daintily at his florid nose. “You go on home and tell your sheriff not to worry about ol’ Earl Edward whatever. He won’t bother nobody. I’ll see to it.”
Rolvaag put away his notebook and rose to leave. He considered tossing out the name of Charles Perrone to see what reaction it might elicit, but he changed his mind. Red Hammernut was too sharp to admit having a connection to the scientist, if there was one.
The detective said, “You can prosecute Mr. O’Toole for using that credit card.”
“I could do that. I could also get him some, whatchacallit, private counselin’.” Red Hammernut winked. “Big and hairy as he is, I got some boys even bigger and hairier. Know what I mean?”
The detective had not mentioned O’Toole’s startling pelt, which meant that Hammernut plainly remembered the man more clearly than he’d let on.
At the door, the bantam tycoon slapped a hand on Rolvaag’s shoulder and asked if he wanted to take home a crate of fresh-picked escarole. Rolvaag said leafy greens gave him indigestion, but he thanked Hammernut just the same.
Driving back toward the highway, the detective swerved to miss a baby snake that was sunning itself on the gravel. It was a speckled king, the size of a child’s necklace, and right away the detective noticed it was grossly deformed. The snake had been born with only one eye, and on the ebony tip of its nose was a growth the size of an acorn. Rolvaag knew it probably wouldn’t survive much longer, but he released it in a nearby grove anyway.
Thinking: Poor little guy. What a lousy roll of the dice he got.
Red Hammernut remembered the day he first met Charles Perrone. Lisbeth had fluttered into his office, saying there was a young man wanting to see him about a job; a persistent young man, she’d said, wouldn’t speak to anybody but the boss himself. Red Hammernut’s first impulse was to call security and have the impertinent punk heaved off the property, but then he glanced at the man’s résumé and said what the hell, give him five minutes. Red Hammernut was curious to know why anybody with a master’s degree in marine biology was so keen on working for a vegetable farm.
Chaz Perrone walked in wearing a blue blazer, tan trousers and a club tie. He pumped Red Hammernut’s hand, installed himself on the other side of the desk and started yakking like he was pushing timeshares. His cockiness was so annoying that Red Hammernut couldn’t help interrupting now and then with a belch, but after a while the young man started making a certain amount of sense.
Perrone opened a file and took out a recent newspaper clipping that Red glumly recognized, the headline reading local farm cited as glades polluter. The article was about a series of water samples taken downstream from Red Hammernut’s vegetable operation. Phosphorus had been measured in suspension at 302 parts per billion, nearly thirty times higher than the legal limit for runoff into the Everglades. By itself, Hammernut Farms was flushing more fertilizer per gallon into South Florida’s water than the state’s largest cattle ranch and sugarcane grower combined, an act of pollution so egregious that even Red Hammernut’s powerful cronies in Washington dared not intercede.
It was Chaz Perrone’s opinion that Hammernut Farms would continue to face harsh scrutiny from regulatory agencies as well as the news media, which is why he was generously offering his services as an environmental consultant. When Red Hammernut pointed out that Perrone had no background whatsoever in agricultural waste treatment, Chaz replied that he was a quick learner. He described his experience defending his current employer, a renowned cosmetics firm, against charges that their products contained carcinogens and industrial corrosives. Proudly he recalled the time that his testimony had cast critical doubt upon that of a female plaintiff whose cheekbones had mysteriously delaminated after an application of designer blush. Chaz asserted it was important for corporations to have their own experts, people who could credibly challenge accusers on points of science, or at least muddle the debate.
Red Hammernut liked Chaz Perrone’s attitude. It was a pleasure to encounter a young biologist so unfettered by idealism, so unabashedly sympathetic to the needs of private enterprise. Morever, Chaz wasn’t nerdy and soft-spoken like some of the scientists Red Hammernut had hired in the past. He was sharp-looking and glib, and would come across credibly on TV. Unfortunately, a master’s degree in sea lice wouldn’t cut it. “You need a Ph.D. on swamps and such,” Red Hammernut had informed Chaz, “else these enviros gonna eat you for breakfast.”
And so it unfolded that Charles Regis Perrone was enrolled in a doctoral program at Duke University’s Wetland Center. His improbable acceptance at such a lofty institution coincided with a substantial cash endowment from Mr. S. J. Hammernut, who also happened to be paying Chaz’s tuition. Red Hammernut guessed correctly that, being in the heart of tobacco country, Duke would have no qualms about accepting phosphorus-tainted farm dollars.
Unlike during his stay at the University of Miami, Chaz Perrone required no whip cracking on his quest for a Ph.D. Although he didn’t distinguish himself academically at Duke, he didn’t embarrass himself, either. This time he was self-motivated; this time he smelled real money down the line. Upon graduation he expected to be presented with a lucrative consulting contract for Hammernut Farms, but Red had other plans. After pulling a few strings, he’d landed Chaz a gig as a state biologist, testing water purity in a particular sector of the Everglades Agricultural Area. The young biologist was profoundly disappointed, but Red assured him that a six-figure position (and an air-conditioned office) awaited—if he proved himself in the field.
And that Chaz was doing. Less than six weeks after he took the job, phosphorus levels in the runoff from Hammernut Farms were recorded at 150 parts per billion, a startling reduction of more than 50 percent. Two months later, the figure dropped to 78 ppb. Six months after that, field surveys showed the phosphorus discharge holding steady at about 9 ppb, a level so low that regulators removed Hammernut Farms from their target list of outlaw polluters. The local Sierra Club even gave a plaque to Red Hammernut, and planted a cypress seedling in his honor.
Red was pleased by the positive publicity, and he was glad to get those goddamn tree-huggers off his case. More important to the bottom line, however, was that the fictitious phosphorus readings allowed Red Hammernut to escape the costly inconveniences being imposed on his neighbors in the name of wetlands restoration. Unlike other farms in the area, Red’s operation wasn’t forced to cut back on the potent amounts of fertilizer it was dumping on crops, for example, or made to spend millions building filtration ponds to strain out the phosphate crud. Thanks to the innovative fieldwork of Dr. Charles Perrone, Hammernut Farms could continue using the Everglades as a cesspit.
Of course it was imperative that the corrupt arrangement between Chaz and Red remain secret, and in that regard Chaz’s serial philandering proved to be a continuing source of concern. More than once Red Hammernut reminded Chaz that his fortunes would take a radically negative turn if he told any of his girlfriends the name of his true employer. Ironically, the woman about whom Red Hammernut worried least was Chaz’s wife, because it seemed tha
t Chaz didn’t tell her much of anything.
Then came the phone call, Chaz jabbering frantically that Joey had caught him forging the water data. Red asking over and over: “You sure she knows what it is?” Chaz saying that he couldn’t be certain, because Joey had just dropped the subject afterward. Over the phone, though, he had sounded suspicious. Definitely spooked. Red Hammernut had urged him to stay cool: “Don’t assume nuthin’. Wait and see what she says about it.”
And Joey Perrone hadn’t said anything, not a word. Still, Chaz had remained anxious, and it rubbed off on Red. What if wifey had figured out the Everglades deal and decided to keep quiet and bide her time? In Red’s worst nightmare, Joey would catch Chaz with his weenie in the wrong bun and become so enraged that she’d blab to the water district about his phony samples. Trying to buy her silence would be useless because she didn’t need the dough—according to Chaz, Joey was worth millions.
As the days had turned into weeks, Chaz seemed to calm down. He hadn’t talked so much about his wife or what she might suspect, so Red Hammernut had assumed that the situation on the home front had ironed itself out. Suddenly Joey Perrone was dead, and now somebody was trying to blackmail Chaz. Or so he said. Red Hammernut couldn’t rule out the possibility that the young man might be trying to rip him off; it would not be entirely out of character.
“You’re sure it’s the detective?” Red asked.
“Who the hell else could it be? He’s the only one who’s been hassling me about Joey.” Chaz was waving his hands in agitation. “He tried to disguise his voice over the phone and make like he was Charlton Heston!”
Tool grunted quizzically.
“That NRA guy,” Red explained. “The one’s got old-timer’s disease.”
“He’s also in the movies,” Chaz said thinly.