by Carl Hiaasen
SEVENTEEN
Curly stared hard at the phone, as if staring would make it quit ringing. Finally he braced himself and picked up the receiver.
On the other end was Chuck Muckle, of course.
“Do I hear the sound of bulldozers, Mr. Branitt?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not? It’s Monday morning here in beautiful Memphis, Tennessee. Isn’t it Monday morning in Florida, too?”
“I got some good news,” Curly said, “and I got some bad news.”
“The good news being that you’ve found employment elsewhere?”
“Please, lemme finish.”
“Sure,” said Chuck Muckle, “while you’re cleaning out your desk.”
Curly hastily spilled his version of what had happened Saturday night. The part about the missing bulldozer seats definitely took some shine off the rest of the story. Not wishing to make things worse, Curly didn’t mention that his pistol had somehow ended up submerged in a portable toilet.
A fuzzy silence lingered at the Memphis end of the conversation. Curly wondered if Mother Paula’s vice-president for corporate relations had hung up on him.
“Hullo?” Curly said. “You there?”
“Oh, I’m here,” Chuck Muckle replied tartly. “Let me get this straight, Mr. Branitt. A young man was arrested for attempted burglary on our property—”
“Right. Assault and trespassing, too!”
“—but then on the very same evening, another person or persons unknown removed the seats from the bulldozers and backhoes and whatevers.”
“Yessir. That would be the not-so-good news,” Curly said.
“Did you report this theft to the police?”
“ ’Course not. I didn’t want it to get in the newspaper.”
“Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” said Chuck Muckle. He asked Curly if it was possible to operate the machines without driver’s seats.
“Only if you’re some kinda octopus.”
“So I’m correct in assuming there’ll be no bulldozing today.”
“Or tomorrow,” Curly reported grimly. “I got new seats on order from the wholesaler in Sarasota, but they won’t be here till Wednesday.”
“What a happy coincidence,” Chuck Muckle said. “That turns out to be the last day that Miss Kimberly Lou Dixon is available to us. Her mutant-insect movie begins shooting next weekend in New Mexico.”
Curly swallowed. “You wanna do the groundbreaking this Wednesday? What about the site clearing?”
“Change of plans. Blame it on Hollywood,” said Chuck Muckle. “We’ll do the ceremony first, and as soon as everybody leaves you can crank up the machines—assuming they haven’t been stripped down to the axles by then.”
“But it’s just ... Wednesday’s the day after tomorrow!”
“No need to soil yourself, Mr. Branitt. We’ll arrange all the details from our end—the advertising, the press releases, and so forth. I’ll get in touch with the mayor’s office and the chamber of commerce. Meanwhile, your job is incredibly simple—not that you won’t find a way to screw it up.”
“What’s that?”
“All you’ve got to do is lock down the construction site for the next forty-eight hours. Think you can handle that?”
“Sure,” Curly said.
“No more alligators, no more poisonous snakes, no more stealing,” Chuck Muckle said. “No more problems, period. Comprendo?”
“I got a quick question about the owls.”
“What owls?” Chuck Muckle shot back. “Those burrows are abandoned, remember?”
Curly thought: I guess somebody forgot to tell the birds.
“There’s no law against destroying abandoned nests,” the vice-president was saying. “Anybody asks, that’s your answer. ‘The burrows are deserted.’ ”
“But what if one a them owls shows up?” Curly asked.
“What owls!” Chuck Muckle practically shouted. “There are no owls on that property and don’t you forget it, Mr. Branitt. Zero owls. Nada. Somebody sees one, you tell him it’s a—I don’t know, a robin or a wild chicken or something.”
A chicken? Curly thought.
“By the way,” said Chuck Muckle, “I’ll be flying down to Coconut Cove so I can personally accompany the lovely Miss Dixon to our groundbreaking. Let’s pray that you and I have nothing more to talk about when I arrive.”
“Don’t worry,” Curly said, though he was plenty worried himself.
Beatrice Leep was gone when Roy awoke. He had no idea how she had slipped out of the house unnoticed, but he was glad she’d made it.
Over breakfast, Roy’s father read aloud the brief newspaper account of Dana Matherson’s arrest. The headline said: “Local Youth Nabbed in Break-in Attempt.”
Because Dana was under eighteen, the authorities weren’t allowed to release his name to the media—a fact that rankled Roy’s mother, who believed Dana’s mug shot should have been plastered on the front page. The story identified him only as a student at Trace Middle and said that the police considered him a suspect in several recent vandalisms. It didn’t specifically mention Mother Paula’s as the target.
Dana’s arrest was the major buzz around school. Many kids were aware that he’d been picking on Roy, so they were eager to get Roy’s reaction to the news that his tormentor had been nailed by the cops.
Roy was careful not to gloat or joke about it, or to draw any special attention to himself. If Dana blabbed about the imaginary cigarette stash, he might try to blame Roy for the bungled theft. The police had no reason to believe anything the kid said, but Roy wasn’t taking any chances.
As soon as the bell rang ending homeroom, Garrett took him aside to share a weird new detail.
“Rattraps,” he said, cupping a hand over his mouth.
“What are you talking about?” Roy asked.
“When they caught him, he had rattraps stuck on his shoes. That’s how come he couldn’t run away.”
“I’m so sure.”
“Seriously, dude. The cops told my mom he stepped on ’em while he was sneakin’ around the trailer.”
Knowing Dana, Roy could actually picture it.
“Broke three of his toes,” Garrett said.
“Oh, come on.”
“Absolutely! We’re talkin’ humongous rattraps.” Garrett held his hands a foot apart to illustrate.
“Whatever.” Roy knew that Garrett was famous for exaggerating. “Did the police tell your mom anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Like what Dana was after.”
“Smokes is what he said, but the cops don’t believe him.”
“Who would?” said Roy, hoisting his book bag over his shoulder.
All morning he looked for Beatrice Leep between classes, but he never saw her in the hallways. At lunch hour,the girl soccer players were sitting together in the cafeteria, but Beatrice wasn’t among them. Roy approached the table and asked if anybody knew where she was.
“At the dentist,” said one of her teammates, a gangly Cuban girl. “She fell down some steps at home and broke a tooth. But she’ll be ready for the game tonight.”
“Great,” said Roy, but he didn’t feel so good about what he’d just heard.
Beatrice was such a phenomenal athlete that Roy couldn’t imagine her falling down the stairs like some ordinary klutz. And after seeing what she could do to a bicycle tire, he couldn’t picture her breaking a tooth, either.
Roy was still thinking about Beatrice when he sat down in American history. He found himself struggling to concentrate on Mr. Ryan’s quiz, though it really wasn’t that difficult.
The final question was the same one that Mr. Ryan had asked him in the hallway on Friday: Who won the Battle of Lake Erie? Without hesitation, Roy wrote: “Commodore Oliver Perry.”
It was the only answer that he was sure he got right.
On the bus ride home, Roy kept a wary eye on Dana Matherson’s hulking friends, but they didn’t glance once in hi
s direction. Either Dana hadn’t gotten the word out about what Roy had done, or his buddies didn’t care all that much.
The police captain was reading the arrest report when Officer Delinko and the sergeant came in. The captain motioned for both men to sit down.
“Nice work,” he told Officer Delinko. “You’ve made my life a whole lot easier. I just got off the horn with Councilman Grandy, and he’s one happy camper.”
“I’m glad, sir,” Officer Delinko said.
“What do you make of this Matherson kid? What’s he told you?”
“Not much.”
The interrogation of Dana Matherson hadn’t gone as smoothly as Officer Delinko had hoped. In the training films, the suspects always caved in and confessed to their crimes. However, Dana had remained stubbornly uncooperative, and his statements were confusing.
At first he’d said he was snooping around the Mother Paula’s property in order to heist a load of Gladiator cigarettes. However, after speaking with a lawyer, the boy changed his story. He claimed he’d actually gone to the trailer to bum a cigarette, but the foreman mistook him for a burglar and came after him with a gun.
“Matherson’s a hard case,” Officer Delinko told the captain.
“Yeah,” the sergeant said, “he’s been around the block a few times.”
The captain nodded. “I saw his rap sheet. But here’s what bothers me: The kid’s a thief, not a practical joker. I can’t picture him dumping alligators in port-a-potties. Stealing port-a-potties maybe.”
“I wondered about that, too,” Officer Delinko said.
The Mother Paula’s vandal had displayed a darksense of humor that didn’t fit the Matherson boy’s dim-witted criminal history. He seemed more likely to stripthe wheels from a patrol car than to paint the windshield black or hang his shirt like a pennant from the antenna.
“What’s his motive for the funny stuff?” the captain wondered aloud.
“I asked him if he had a gripe against Mother Paula’s pancakes,” Officer Delinko said, “and he did say IHOP’s were better.”
“That’s it? He likes IHOP pancakes better?”
“Except for the buttermilks,” Officer Delinko reported. “He had nice things to say about Mother Paula’s buttermilks.”
Gruffly, the sergeant interjected: “Aw, the kid’s jerking our chain, is all.”
The captain pushed back slowly from his desk. He could feel another crusher of a headache coming on.
“Okay, I’m making a command decision here,” he said. “Considering we’ve got nothing better to work with, I intend to tell Chief Deacon that the Mother Paula’s vandal has been apprehended. Case closed.”
Officer Delinko cleared his throat. “Sir, I found a piece of a shirt at the crime scene—a shirt that’s way too small to fit the Matherson boy.”
He didn’t mention that the remainder of the shirt had been tied, tauntingly, to the antenna of his squad car.
“We need more than a rag,” the captain grunted. “We need a warm body, and the only one we’ve got is sitting in juvenile detention. So officially he’s our perpetrator, understand?”
Officer Delinko and his sergeant agreed in unison.
“I’m going out on a limb here, so you know what that means,” the captain said. “If another crime happens on that property, I’ll look like a complete bozo. And if I end up looking like a bozo, certain people around here are going to spend the rest of their careers cleaning dimes out of parking meters. Am I making myself clear?”
Again Officer Delinko and his sergeant said yes.
“Excellent,” said the captain. “So your mission, basically, is to make sure there’s no more surprises between now and the Mother Paula’s groundbreaking ceremony on Wednesday.”
“No sweat.” The sergeant rose to his feet. “Can we tell David the good news?”
“Sooner the better,” said the captain. “Officer Delinko, you’re back on the road, effective immediately. In addition, the sergeant has written a letter commending the outstanding job you did in capturing our suspect. This will become part of your permanent file.”
Officer Delinko was beaming. “Thank you, sir!”
“There’s more. Because of your experience on this case, I’m assigning you to a special patrol at the Mother Paula’s construction site. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off, beginning tonight at dusk. You up for that?”
“Absolutely, Captain.”
“Then go home and take a nap,” the captain advised, “because if you doze off out there again, I’ll be writing a much shorter letter for your file. A termination letter.”
Outside the captain’s office, Officer Delinko’s sergeant gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Two nights and we’re home free, David. You psyched?”
“One question, sir. Will I be on duty out there alone?”
“Well, we’re hurting on the night shift right now,” the sergeant told him. “Kirby got stung by a yellow jacket, and Miller’s out with a sinus infection. Looks like you’ll be riding solo.”
“That’s okay,” Officer Delinko said, though he would have preferred to have a partner, under the circumstances. Curly probably would be staying at the trailer, though he wasn’t the best company.
“You drink coffee, David?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Drink twice as much as usual,” the sergeant said. “I don’t expect anything to happen, but you’d better be wide awake if it does.”
On the way home, Officer Delinko stopped at a souvenir shop along the main highway. Then he swung by the Juvenile Detention Center to take one more crack at Dana Matherson. It would be such a relief if the boy admitted to even one of the earlier vandalisms.
Dana was brought to the interview room by a uniformed guard, who took a position outside the door. The kid was dressed in a rumpled gray jumpsuit with the word INMATE stenciled in capital letters across the back. He wore only socks because his toes were still swollen from the rattraps. Officer Delinko offered him a stick of gum, which the kid crammed into his cheeks.
“So, young man, you’ve had some time to think.”
“ ’Bout what?” Dana blew a bubble and popped it.
“You know. Your situation.”
“I don’t need to think,” the boy said. “That’s how come I got a lawyer.”
Officer Delinko leaned forward. “Forget the lawyers, okay? I’ll put in a good word with the judge if you’ll just help me clear up some other cases. Are you the one who painted the windows of my patrol car?”
The boy snorted. “Why would I do a dumb-ass thing like that?”
“Come on, Dana, I can make things easier for you. Just tell me the truth.”
“I got a better idea,” the boy said. “Why don’t you just kiss my big fat butt?”
Officer Delinko folded his arms. “See, that’s exactly the sort of disrespect for authority that got you here in the first place.”
“No, man, I’ll tell you what got me here. That little dork Roy Eberhardt is what got me here.”
“Not this again,” Officer Delinko said, rising. “Obviously we’re wasting our time.”
Dana Matherson sneered. “Duh-uh.”
He pointed at the small shopping bag that the patrolman had placed on the table. “You finally bring me some smokes?”
“No, but I got you something else.” Officer Delinko reached into the bag. “A little buddy to keep you company,” he said, casually dropping it in the boy’s lap.
Dana Matherson howled and bucked and tried to knock it away, toppling his chair in the panic. He leaped up from the floor and scrambled out the door, where the guard clamped a brawny hand on his arm and led him off.
Officer Delinko was left alone to ponder the object lying on the linoleum tile—toothy, scaly, and lifelike, except for the $3.95 price sticker glued to its snout.
It was a rubber alligator, which Officer Delinko had purchased at the tourist shop.
Dana Matherson’s reaction to the harmless toy convinced the patrol
man that he couldn’t possibly be the Mother Paula’s vandal. Anyone so freaked out by a puny fake wasn’t capable of handling a real alligator, especially in the forbidding darkness of a Travelin’ Johnny.
The true culprit was still out there somewhere, dreaming up a new scheme. Officer Delinko had two long, nervous nights ahead of him.
The Eberhardts owned a home computer, which Roy was allowed to use for homework assignments and for playing video snowboard games.
He was good at browsing the Internet, so with no difficulty he was able to Google up plenty of information about the burrowing owl. For instance, the type found in Florida went by the Latin name of Athene cunicularia floridana and had darker feathers than the Western variety. It was a shy little bird and, like other owls, was most active after dark. Nesting usually occurred between February and July, but fledglings had been observed in dens as late as October....
Systematically, Roy scrolled down the search items one by one until he finally hit the jackpot. He printed out two single-spaced pages, zippered them into his backpack, and hopped on his bicycle.
It was a quick ride to the Coconut Cove City Hall. Roy locked up his bike and followed the signs to the building-and-zoning department.
Behind the counter stood a pale freckle-faced man with pinched-looking shoulders. When the man failed to take notice of him, Roy boldly stepped forward and requested the file for Mother Paula’s All-American Pancake House.
The clerk seemed amused. “Do you have a legal description?”
“Of what?”
“The property.”
“Sure. It’s the corner of East Oriole and Woodbury.”
The clerk said, “That’s not a legal description. It’s barely even a proper address.”
“Sorry. It’s all I’ve got.”
“Is this for a school project?” the clerk asked.
Why not? mused Roy. “Yes,” he said.
He didn’t see the harm in a tiny fib if it helped save the owls.
The clerk told Roy to wait while he cross-checked the street location. He returned to the counter carrying a fat stack of files in his arms. “Now, which one of these did you want to see?” he asked with a slight smirk.
Roy stared in bewilderment. He had no idea where to begin.