by Eoin Colfer
“Well I never,” said Vern. “I got me a regular spa going on here.” He looked around the small room. “Where is ‘here,’ by the way? No memory foam today?”
Elodie smiled, a touch embarrassed. “Thing is, Mister Vern, you’re in our tub. Seemed like the best place, with you being more or less submerged and all. I padded it nice with towels and one of those travel cushions for your neck.”
Vern shifted a little and heard the slow slosh of oil around his flanks. “Fine idea. Yours?”
“No. Everett’s been doing the thinking for all of us. Lord knows where he found the strength but he took me and you both down here in his canoe, evading the various members of law enforcement coming to storm your island. You should see that place now: like Disneyland it is, with all the lights and folks in space suits.”
Vern sighed. “That’s another safe house up in smoke, so to speak. How’s Bodi?”
“Mister Irwin is all kinds of fine,” said Elodie. “A hero, is what he is. He always suspected Constable Hooke was running drugs up the Pearl, and in the course of his snooping—a little white lie we concocted—he was caught in a crossfire of crooked cops, all part of Ivory Conti’s operation that used to be, according to a notebook recovered from Regence Hooke’s person.
“So Mister Bodi Irwin has been sworn in as caretaker constable by unanimous vote of the town council.”
Vern whistled. “Good for you, Green Day. And Squib?”
“The entire plan was all my boy’s. He’s being run ragged, doing shifts at the bar and trucking oil over here. I am mighty pleased to see that young man has finally learned some responsibility.”
Vern slumped down in his oil bath till only his wings and snout punctured the surface tension. He was feeling better by the second; his stomach was growing before his eyes.
“Your face looks okay,” he said to Elodie.
Squib’s momma glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror. “Oh Lord, that woman sure did put a hurt on me. I swear my entire head is still ringing. My face looks like I been in a cage fight.”
Vern chuckled. “I’ll bet Green Day don’t mind. I swear that man is smitten.”
“I’m a mite smitten myself, Mister Vern,” admitted Elodie. “We go way back. And now that Hooke ain’t marking his territory . . .”
This particular caused Vern to flash on that time he’d pissed all over Miss Elodie.
“Yeah, marking his territory,” said Vern, sinking a little lower. “About that . . .”
Elodie waved away the looming apology. “God, no, Mister Vern. You were saving us. I get that now—and anyways, I was unconscious. My jeans did get a little bleached, though. Nice pattern, actually, all these interlocking loops. My dragon jeans, I call ’em now.”
She’s funny, thought Vern. I see where Squib gets it from. He sank entirely below the gloopy surface. Looks like all’s well, apart from old Highfire. He’s up the creek, and it ain’t the creek he lives in.
Vern blinked up through the golden film and saw the Moreau bathroom grow convex above him.
I might stay down here a spell, he thought, absorb some more of this fat.
And for the thousandth time, he resolved to find out something about his own workings.
A dragon can’t just go around ignorant his whole life.
There had been physicians back on Highfire, but Vern had neglected his sciences in favor of more outdoorsy activities, so intent had he been on proving his baby brother Jubelus wrong vis-à-vis him being a waste of space on the battlefield. And so now he had no one to ask.
So far as I know.
Maybe it was time he had a look for another dragon, took a more active role in his own future besides just lazing around in it. But there were loose ends to be tied up here first.
I need to do some deep thinking on these matters, thought Vern, and closed his eyes.
VERN DIDN’T COME fully out of it for another week, and by then the swamp sideshow was packed up, by and large, according to his sources. The dragon woke one evening to find the tub bone-dry, and his wings busted out of their bandages, so he elected to give his old bones a turn around the Moreau shack, the first time he’d so much as ventured outside the tub, never mind the bathroom. Following an undignified tumble onto the tiles, he found the quaint bathroom did not accurately preview the rest of Chez Moreau, as the rest of the small hut was bare wood and worn Formica, basic but clean, except where Squib left his teenage mark. The boy’s main mess items were various chargers snaking across every surface, and water bottles stuffed behind just about anywhere a bottle could be stuffed—and a few places they could not, unless they’d been crumpled to fit.
“Goddamn, kid,” muttered Vern. “There’s a trash bin right there.”
The shack was empty, but Vern could smell Squib close by.
“Still using that packet soap,” he muttered, snagging a raincoat from a hook and draping it over his shoulders. His wings retracted with barely a twinge, and Vern thanked his stars for the restorative power of fat.
I don’t know why the magic works, Highlander, he thought. I’m just glad that it does.
Vern peeked through the screen door, checking for stranger danger, but there was only one human in view: Squib, passed out in a lawn chair on the porch with a newspaper draped across his legs.
Newspaper, thought Vern. They’re still making those?
He ducked outside and sat opposite Squib, reading the headline upside down:
HONEY ISLAND MONSTER REVEALED TO BE CROOKED COP IN COSTUME
“Heh,” said Vern. “Nice.”
“That was part of my plan,” said Squib, who was apparently awake. “Wrap it up nice and neat for Five-O. All those monster clips? Nothing but a drug-running cop in a dragon suit scaring people away from his pipeline. They found a ton of evidence in the river, and I sent a photo of Hooke wearing the skin into the Times-Picayune, just to make sure we got a little traction.”
“Clever,” said Vern. “And the Feds bought that?”
Squib rubbed his eyes. “Nah. Too many holes. Like, what was Hooke doing playing dress-up in New Orleans? That sort of thing.”
“But it keeps the public happy?”
“Yeah. It’s much easier not to believe in you, I guess.”
Vern propped his feet on the little lawn table. “Yup. That’s the way I like it.” Then he thought of something. “A photo? When did you take a photo of Hooke in my skin?”
Squib hummed and hawed a spell and then came out with it. “It weren’t Hooke, boss.”
“It was you,” said Vern. “Couldn’t resist it, right?”
“You know us young folk,” said Squib. “We can’t let a photo op pass us by.”
“I hope you ain’t signed your own arrest warrant with that photograph.”
Squib waved that away. “Nah. I printed out a hard copy. Dunked it in a barrel of oil. Put it through the dryer then copied it in a printer. Don’t look like nobody now but it all adds up to the public, I guess.”
Vern squinted at him. “So you been gallivanting around in my skin?”
Squib stretched, then changed the subject. “Okay, so while you been healing in the tub, I’ve been thinking. Obviously the island is blown. The Feds have a dozen webcams running 24/7, and there are still a couple of agents boarding at the Pearl—real Mulder and Scully types, lady even has red hair. You believe that?”
Vern whistled the X-Files theme and realized that his missing tusk was growing back. A little stubby, but getting there.
“Exactly, boss,” said Squib.
“I loved that show when it was monster-of-the-week,” said Vern. “Then they started with the world-building shit and I lost interest.”
“Too political,” said Squib, not because he’d ever seen The X-Files but because they’d been down this conversational road before.
“Yeah, too political,” said Vern. “Just shoot a chupacabra, for Christ’s sake, and spare me that cigarette guy.”
“Die, chupacabra,” said Squib, shooting finger guns.
“Anyway, kid, I cut across you there. You’ve been thinking?”
“I’ve been thinking: The island is too hot for now, but how long are those agents gonna hang out on the government dollar? Couple of months, tops, then we’re back in business. Highfire and Moreau, Part 2: The Burn is Back.”
“Nice title. I can see the poster,” said Vern.
Squib was encouraged. “So, Momma says you are welcome to stay here until the smoke clears or dies down or whatever. You can have my bed. And then by Christmas you’re swimming with the gators. What do you think, boss? Makes sense, right?”
“Almost,” said Vern, “if you squint at it. If you don’t examine it too close.”
Squib chewed this over for a minute. “The skin,” he said at last.
“Yup,” said Vern, “the skin. Lady Fed Scully is gonna analyze that and figure out it’s not gator, kid. So at the very least those cameras ain’t going nowhere any time soon.”
Squib wasn’t ready to cry uncle just yet. “I can fix the cameras—maybe point the lenses up a boar’s asshole, or just bust ’em every coupla weeks.”
“Nah,” said Vern, “that’s just drawing attention, and before you know it, there’s a satellite taking shots from space.”
“Okay then, we relocate to Honey Island. Island-hopping, right, like how all the celebrities do.”
“That’s a negative, son. I need distance—somewhere south of the border.”
Squib knew where this was going; he’d been dreading it.
Vern had, too, truth be told.
“So we gotta leave?” asked the boy.
Vern almost went for that. Almost. But exile only worked solo. “‘We’? That would be nice, kid. Real nice. But I gotta fly outta here stealth-mode-style. Ain’t no passengers, not long-distance.”
Squib covered his face with his hands, and Vern wondered what was going on behind there.
“When you going?” asked the boy, his words muffled.
“Soon,” said Vern. “The authorities are gonna extend the scope of their inquiries, and we’re the first stop on the river right here.”
“Where you going?”
Vern flapped his lips. “Not certain exactly. South America, I think. Get outta the jurisdiction, you know. Sounds sensible. Also, I want to make sure I really am the last, and South America might be a good place to start. I always figured the Internet rumors were the usual bullshit, like that cat who plays a keyboard, but after my own reveal I’ve changed my outlook a little. Time to investigate.”
Squib opened his fingers a little, revealing his eyes. “What about my job?”
“You’ll be okay,” said Vern. “I know Waxman wanted you in his boat house. That place is a palace. Everything hidden in there is yours and your mamma’s.”
Squib nodded. He had been hoping Elodie would move to Waxman’s with him, but now with this new romance on the stove it didn’t seem likely. Still, he had his own place on the water, which opened up a world of possibilities.
“What about you, boss? You gonna be okay? You lost your buddy. Old Wax was a character.”
Vern shrugged. “I ain’t been okay for a long time, kid. But I’m a helluva lot better with you on the payroll.”
“So stay,” said Squib. “You can tell me stories about Waxman. Work that shit out. I can be like a therapist.”
Vern laughed. “I can’t afford no therapist.”
Squib didn’t like that comment. “It ain’t about money, boss.”
“I know, kid,” said Vern. “I was kidding. You’ve been invaluable to me. I never had a familiar like you. I would go so far as to say you’re my partner. Junior partner, of course.”
Squib dropped his hands, and he was smiling just a little. “Junior partner? I like that.”
“In fact,” said Vern, “as junior partner, it’s your moral responsibility to look after my business affairs while I’m out of the country.”
“You got business affairs, boss?”
“Sure I got business affairs. Real estate, for one.”
Squib laughed. “I know you ain’t talking about the shack?”
“Yes, the shack, but I got capital, too, and I can’t be taking it with me.”
“Capital, like cash?”
Vern grinned. “Like cash, but shiny. Confederate shiny.”
The penny dropped on something Vern had said.
“Wait a minute, boss,” said Squib. “You said ‘while I’m out of the country.’ I am inferring from that that you’re coming back.”
“You’re inferring? Well, fuck-a-ducka-doodah all the day,” said Vern, straight-faced. “Miss Ingram is responsible for that term, I’m guessing. Maybe if you’re inferring, I’m implying, huh? Not as stupid as I look.”
“So you are coming back.”
“Ain’t that what I said?”
“I ain’t certain, boss.”
“Me neither. But I do plan to come back. Or bring you down to me when your schooling is done.”
Squib blinked. “Schooling? Schooling? You ain’t gone all Catholic on me, Vern?”
Vern leaned in, as if to impart great wisdom. “Most schooling ain’t worth shit, that’s no secret. Schooling in general is a broken system perpetuated by educators: ‘You need what we got, so let us sell it to you.’”
“Exactly,” said Squib. “I been saying that exact same thing for years.”
“But,” said Vern, raising one finger, “Miss Ingram seems like the real deal. So I want you to get your diploma.”
“My diploma!” exclaimed Squib. “So what, I can wipe my ass with it?”
Vern wasn’t finished. “And . . .”
“And? There’s more?”
Vern sat back and folded his arms, waiting out the bluster, which took a full minute until finally Squib calmed himself.
“That was quite a display,” said Vern, disapproval written all over his snout. “Not exactly junior-partner behavior.”
Squib was sulking so hard his neck had disappeared. “Yeah, well, you’s talking education. I ain’t got time for that. I got shit to do.”
“Damn right you got shit to do: You gotta manage my business, and you gotta find out everything you can about my dragon-ness.”
“‘Dragon-ness’ ain’t even a word.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t,” said Vern, “and that there’s exactly the kind of thing you need to verify. Far as I can see, there’s a lot of knowledge neither of us is privy to that one of us needs to find out. Besides, in today’s business market, I’d be a fool to employ a junior partner without no college degree.”
Squib was like to fall off his chair. “College degree? I got to go to college now?”
“Damn straight,” said Vern. “I need to know what makes the markets tick and what makes me tick, so you gotta do some kind of combination degree: business and dragon studies.”
“Business and dragon studies? You can do that?”
Vern nodded with exaggerated confidence. “Sure you can—they got everything these days. You can do a Star Wars degree, Obi-Wan fucking Moreau.”
“Cool,” said Squib.
“So, you get some tutoring from this Ingram lady, then off with your skinny ass to UNO for a couple years, all the time monitoring my portfolio.”
“You mean putting your stash in a hole in the ground?”
“Yeah, minus what you take out for your scholarship and salary. Keep records, mind. Of every cent.”
This was a lot of long-term information to absorb for a young man who rarely thought past his next payday. “Can I think about it?”
Vern’s expression said no, as did his voice. “Negative on that, kiddo. This here is what they call a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, boy. I’ll be fancying me some travel in years to come, and I’m gonna need a college-educated feller by my side. So there’s the terms.”
“I ain’t never stuck at schooling, boss,” whined Squib.
“Who the fuck are you? Huck Finn? Just take the goddamn deal.” Vern stuck out his hand
. “This hand goes away in five seconds. One-time offer only.”
Squib took a good look at the massive scaly hand and the claws on each fingertip, which not that long ago had been on the point of slitting his throat. That seemed like a different time and a different Vern, and he realized that offering that hand was a giant step for Vern and taking it would be life-changing for him. He also knew that if he didn’t shake Vern’s hand, that would be it for him and the dragon, which was unthinkable.
Squib waited three seconds, then shook the hand. “Shit, boss. College. I thought we was like action heroes, all intrigue and rescues. Now I got to study?”
Vern was feeling all mentor-like. He said, “Students are the real heroes.”
Which cracked them both up for near to a minute.
VERN WHISTLED THROUGH his shrinking tusk hole when Bodi Irwin explained step one of the plan.
“That is audacious shit,” he said, “riding with the narcos. How you know all this shit, Green Day?”
Bodi was proud and offended at the same time, which translated to approximately the expression brought on by trapped wind. “Less of the ‘Green Day.’ It’s Constable Irwin now. I ain’t even wearing no Green Day T-shirt, see? I got a hat and shit. And I know this shit because I wasn’t the law before yesterday and a fella has to get his weed somewhere.”
They were assembled in the Moreau lounge, which was also the kitchen and Elodie’s bedroom. Vern was squished into the single armchair, with a Moreau perched on each arm. Bodi had hunkered down hunter-style for a few minutes until his knees popped and he was forced to shift back onto the coffee table. Elodie gave him a smile as he scooched. Effort’s gotta be rewarded.
“If you two are done mooning,” said Vern, “then maybe we could get on. Word is the Feebs are knocking on doors as we speak.”
“Hush your mouth, Vern,” said Elodie, who had obviously grown accustomed to having a dragon in her parlor/lounge/kitchen. “Bodi is still healing.”
Bodi appreciated the support. “Yeah, Vern, we can’t all take a bath in a deep fryer.”
“Zing,” said Squib. “Burned, boss.”
Vern worked hard to keep a straight face. “Zip it, Phi Beta Kappa. We ain’t outta the swamp yet. How about jokes and shit when I’m safe in Mexico?”