by Carl Hiaasen
“There she is,” he said proudly.
It was a picture of the Amanda Rose. She was a classic, too.
“That was taken in Cat Cay,” he said. “Summer before you were born.”
“Wow.”
“She’s forty-six feet. Twin diesels, eight hundred horses.”
The gleaming sportfisherman was tied stern-first to a wooden dock, where a monster blue marlin hung glassy-eyed from a tall pole. In the picture Grandpa Bobby’s curly hair was so long, it looked like a blond Afro. He was poised on the teakwood transom, raising a beer in a toast to the great fish.
“The dirtbags who hijacked my Amanda Rose, they’ve repainted the hull and changed her name. But that won’t fly,” he said confidently, “because I’ll recognize her, no matter what.”
“But what if you can’t find her?” I asked.
“Oh, I most definitely will, Noah. You can bet the damn ranch on that.” He didn’t take his eyes off the photograph. “I built her myself. Started shortly after your grandmother passed on. It was this boat that carried me through those terrible times. That, and raising your daddy and his brother and sister.”
He folded up the snapshot and went back to fishing.
“All this might be tough for you to understand,” he said quietly.
“Not at all.”
“Ten years is ridiculous, Noah. Ten years without so much as a postcard. I’m lucky your father forgave me.”
“I wish I could’ve seen his face the night you showed up,” I said.
Grandpa Bobby laughed. “Know what he did? He jumped from the truck and snatched me up and swung me ‘round in circles like a doll—same as I did to him when he was a little shrimp! He’s got some serious muscle on his bones, your old man does. Hey, what’s this? Finally somebody got hungry.”
He jerked up on the rod and reeled in a small blue runner, which he tossed back. He caught another one on the very next cast.
“Hey, aren’t you gonna fish?” he asked me.
“Sure.” I threw my bucktail into the deeper water and started bouncing it along the bottom.
“How come you’re so quiet?” he said.
The truth was, I felt as bummed out as Abbey—I didn’t want Grandpa Bobby to go away again. At the same time I didn’t want to make him feel guilty by saying so.
He said, “You don’t believe I’ll ever be back, do you?”
“I’m worried, that’s all.” It was impossible not to worry. The knife scar on his cheek was a pretty strong clue that the men my grandfather was chasing were not model citizens.
“Whatever else they say about me, champ, I do keep my promises.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Hey, are you snagged on a rock?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
It was a fish. As soon as I set the hook, it smoked thirty yards of line off the spool. Grandpa Bobby whistled.
“Probably just a big jack,” I said.
“Wanna bet?”
The fish fought hard, dogging back and forth across the flats. It made several more zippy runs—one between my ankles—before I was able to steer it to the beach.
My grandfather was right. It wasn’t a jack. It was a fat pink snapper. Triumphantly he pointed at the black telltale spot on its side. “That’s a muttonfish, Noah!”
“Sweet,” I said. It was the best snapper I’d ever caught. “How big do you think it is?”
He smiled. “How big do you want it to be?”
“Just the truth,” I told him.
“The truth? Six pounds,” he said, “but that’s still one helluva catch on a bucktail jig from a shoreline.”
I held the fish still while Grandpa Bobby unhooked it. You have to be super careful because snappers can bite through a human finger, no problem.
“Noah, you hungry? I’m not.”
“Me neither.”
“Good,” said Grandpa Bobby.
He nudged the fish back into the water. It kicked its tail and tore off.
“Must be some kind of mystic Underwood karma,” he said. “This looks like the very same spot where I caught that nice mutton with your daddy, gotta be twenty-five, thirty years ago.”
“How big was yours again?” I knew it was either fourteen or fifteen pounds, depending on who was telling the story. I was curious to hear which version Grandpa Bobby was in the mood for.
He said, “Your daddy recalls it as fourteen on the button, and his memory’s likely better than mine.”
“Still a beast.”
“Yeah, but you got your whole life to catch one bigger. You’ll do it, too, there’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Because of the karma?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he said. “You done fishin’?”
“I think so.”
“Me too.”
We put down our rods and sat on the sand. With the change of tide a breeze had kicked up, blowing in from the direction of the lighthouse. We could see two tankers and a cruise ship, all northbound in the Gulf Stream.
Another loggerhead turtle surfaced in the chop off the beach. It was twice as big and crusty as the one I’d seen with Abbey and Shelly. This time, though, I didn’t need to jump in and scare it away.
Today the water looked perfect, the way it was a million years ago, before people started using the ocean as a latrine. Today it was awesomely pure and bright, and totally safe for an old loggerhead to browse the grassy flats. Chow down. Chill out. Take a snooze.
“Don’t be surprised,” Grandpa Bobby said, “if one sunny day you’re swimmin’ here at the beach—or maybe just takin’ a stroll with some girl—when a certain magnificent forty-six-footer comes haulin’ ass over that pearly blue horizon, yours truly up in the tuna tower.”
The thing was, I could picture the moment perfectly in my mind. All I had to do was close my eyes, and there was Robert Lee Underwood streaking across the waves in the Amanda Rose.
“Now, Noah, I’m not tellin’ you to sit around and wait for me. That would be downright pathetic.” He laughed and chucked my arm. “All I’m sayin’ is, don’t be surprised when the day comes.”
“I won’t,” I said. “Not even a little bit.”
TWENTY
The summer ended quietly, and that was fine with me. Rado came back from Colorado with an infected cactus needle in his chin, and Thom came back from North Carolina with spider bites in both armpits. I didn’t have any gross wounds to show off, but I had the story of Operation Royal Flush to tell, which made both my friends wish they’d been here to help.
A few days after school started, a check for a thousand dollars arrived in the mail at our house. The check was made out to my father, who thought it was a mistake. It wasn’t.
The Florida Keys are a national marine sanctuary, which means that the islands are supposedly protected by special laws against pollution, poaching, and other man-made damage. The sanctuary program offers cash rewards to anybody who calls in tips about serious environmental crimes.
Dad’s reward was one thousand dollars.
“But I wasn’t the one who phoned in about the gambling boat,” he told a man at the sanctuary office.
“Then it was somebody using your name and phone number,” the man said. “If I were you, Mr. Underwood, I’d keep the money and forget about it.”
I purposely hadn’t told my father that it was me who called the Coast Guard on Dusty Muleman the morning after we’d flushed the dye. If Dad had known, he would have insisted that me and Abbey keep the reward.
We figured he could use the money to cover some of the damage caused to the casino boat when he sunk it. Dad still had to repay Dusty, even though Dusty had been busted.
So I felt pretty good seeing that check on the kitchen counter. It was a thousand bucks that didn’t have to come out of my father’s pocket.
Before long my sister and I were so caught up with school that neither of us thought much about the Coral Queen, or about what might happen to Dusty Muleman. We just assumed t
hat the government would put him out of business—after all, he’d been caught cold, dumping hundreds of gallons of poop into protected state waters. It was one of the worst cases ever documented in Monroe County, according to the Island Examiner.
Meanwhile, something good was in the works. A bunch of the other fishing guides had written to the Coast Guard, saying Dad ought to be given one more chance with his captain’s license. And to almost everyone’s surprise, the Coast Guard agreed—but only if Dad finished his anger-control therapy and got a letter saying he was all better.
It was sweet news for our family. Although my father was making good money at Tropical Rescue, his patience for numskull behavior was running out. Almost every night he’d tell us a new horror story about some macho moron driving a go-fast boat aground and gouging a hundred-yard scar across the turtle grass.
I had a feeling it was only a matter of time before Dad towed one of those knuckleheads somewhere other than back to the dock; somewhere far away, where it would be a long, hot, miserable wait until anybody found them.
So we were really amped to know that Dad would soon be back in his skiff, guiding for bonefish and tarpon and snook. Almost overnight he seemed happy again, nearly as happy as when Grandpa Bobby had been here. Mom promised to take everybody out for stone crabs to celebrate when the big day arrived.
But less than a month before the Coast Guard was due to return Dad’s license, more trouble kicked up. I came home from school and found a large splintered hole in the center of our front door. There was another hole in the kitchen door, and still another in the door of the hallway bathroom.
It was impossible not to notice that each of the holes was about the same size as my father’s fist.
Mom looked frazzled when she came down the hall.
“What happened?” I asked.
She shook her head somberly. “Your dad got some bad news.”
My knees started to buckle—I was afraid something terrible had happened to Grandpa Bobby.
“It’s about Dusty Muleman,” my mother said. “His lawyers worked out some sweetheart deal with the government. He’s reopening the Coral Queen tonight, throwing a big party for the whole town….”
I should’ve been ticked off, too, but at that moment I was more worried about Dad.
“Mom, tell me he didn’t use his bare hands on the doors.”
“Oh yes, indeed.”
Just thinking about it was painful. I said, “Who’s teaching those anger-control classes—Mike Tyson?”
“It’s certainly a setback,” my mother said unhappily. “They’ve been counseling your dad to get rid of negative energy the moment it enters his head. Somehow I don’t think this is what they had in mind.”
“How bad is it?”
Mom motioned toward their bedroom. “He’s resting quietly now,” she said. “Why don’t you go have a talk with him? I’ve got to pick up your sister from her piano lesson.”
Dad was lying down, watching cheesy old music videos on VH1. Each of his hands was covered by a plaster cast, and each cast was as large as a honeydew melon.
He looked up with an embarrassed smile. “Could be worse,” he said.
“That’s true. At least you’re not in jail this time,” I said.
“And it was only doors that got smashed. Those I can fix myself.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to stare. I still couldn’t believe what he’d done to himself. “You really feel like you’re improving?” I asked.
My father nodded confidently. “I think the counseling has helped, Noah, I honestly do.”
Like I said, sometimes he’s on his own weird little planet.
A video came on with a chubby guy dressed up like a woman, lipstick and all. Dad hoisted one of his casts and dropped it on the remote control. The TV screen went blank.
“Be glad you weren’t around in the ’80s,” he said. “The worst music and the worst hair in the history of the human race—that’s no lie.”
“Mom’s pretty upset,” I told him.
“I’ve been a disappointment to her. I realize that.” Dad pulled himself upright and gazed out the window and didn’t say anything for a while.
“She’ll be all right,” I said, to break the silence.
“Yeah, she’s amazing. Rock solid.”
He turned to face me and cleared his throat a couple of times. “Noah, I’m going to tell you how things work in the real world. It might make you mad or sick to your stomach, whatever—but I want you to listen closely. Okay?”
I said sure—and braced for one of his rants.
“You know how much Dusty Muleman got fined for dumping his holding tank? For fouling nature with that awful crap? Guess what his punishment was!” My father was trembling with fury. “Ten thousand lousy dollars! Ten grand—that’s what he makes in one stinking night off that casino operation. It’s a joke, son. It’s chump change to a rich maggot like that!”
“Dad, take it easy—”
“No, you need to hear this. You need to know.” He hunched forward, eyes blazing. “Last year a few young hot-shots from the federal prosecutor’s office in Miami drove down here for a private bachelor party on the Coral Queen. You know what a bachelor party is, right?”
“No, but I’ll be glad to do some research.” I was trying to lighten the mood. “Yes, Dad, I know what a bachelor party is.”
“Don’t be a smartass, son. Just listen and learn. The party gets a little out of control, okay? On the boat there are some … well, let’s be nice and call them ‘dancers.’ Exotic-type dancers—”
“I get the idea, Dad.”
“Anyway, Dusty takes out a camera and he snaps some pictures. Now, these aren’t the sort of pictures that a person would necessarily want to frame and hang on the living-room wall—”
“Hold on,” I said. “You’re telling me that Dusty Muleman blackmailed the government’s lawyers?”
“Let’s say he didn’t hesitate to tell their boss what happened that night—and what was on that roll of film,” Dad said, “which I’m sure Dusty has locked away in a vault somewhere. Anyway, all of a sudden the feds are looking to cut a deal and close the case.”
“For a fine of ten thousand bucks.”
“It would’ve been even less, if it weren’t for Lice Peeking,” my father said. “He showed up one day at the Coast Guard station and gave a secret statement, testifying about what he saw when he used to work on the casino boat. He swore that Dusty ordered the crew to flush the holding tank whenever it got full, as long as nobody was around to see.”
I smiled to myself. That was pure Shelly—forcing Lice Peeking to step up and tell what he knew. It was obviously part of the price he had to pay if he wanted to be her boyfriend again.
“So Dusty agreed to cough up the ten grand,” Dad went on, “and he promised never, ever again to flush into the basin.”
“And they believed him? After all this?” I said. It was incredible.
“Oh, and dig this. To show how much he cares about the ocean, he offers to throw a big fund-raising benefit for the Save the Reef Foundation on the Coral Queen.” Dad chuckled bitterly. “It would be funny if only it were a movie and not real life.”
Now I understood why he’d slugged the doors. It was the surest way to stop himself from doing the same thing to Dusty Muleman.
“What happened to Luno?” I asked.
“He’s back in Morocco, probably living the high life,” my father said. “Dusty paid him off and put him on a jet, in case the feds went looking for him.”
“How’d you find this stuff out?”
“Shelly told me,” he said. “She’s slick. Dusty still hasn’t got a clue that she was in on your sting.”
Dad was thirsty, so I brought him some water and tipped the glass to his lips. He said that six of his ten knuckles had been fractured and that the doctors weren’t sure when the casts could come off.
“Until then, I guess I’m out of action,” he said dejectedly, “
unless I learn how to steer a boat with my feet.”
“But you’re still getting back your captain’s license, right?”
“Absolutely, Noah. There’s no law against punching out your own house.”
We heard Mom’s car rolling into the driveway.
“Why don’t you let me be the one to tell Abbey all this,” I suggested.
“Good idea,” Dad said, “but be sure to leave out the part about the dancers.”
That night I was jolted awake by wailing sirens, one after another. I figured there was a bad wreck somewhere on the highway. The clock by my bed said 4:20.
With all the noise, it took me a while to go back to sleep. The next thing I recall, it was daylight and Abbey was shaking me by the shoulders.
“Get up, Noah, hurry!” she whispered. “The cops are here to arrest Dad!”
I jumped into a pair of jeans and ran to the living room. Abbey was a half step behind me.
My father was still in his pajamas, and sitting in his favorite armchair. On each side of him stood a uniformed sheriff’s deputy. I recognized one of them as the jowly guy from the jailhouse.
Standing in front of Dad was a young, barrel-chested man wearing a shiny blue suit. The man was jotting in a notebook, except he wasn’t a newspaper reporter. He was a detective.
“This is Lieutenant Shucker,” said my mother.
Abbey and I nodded hello. We were real nervous, though not as nervous as Dad. Mom was pouring coffee into his mouth as fast as he could slurp it down.
“Mr. Underwood, what happened to your hands?” Lieutenant Shucker asked. “You didn’t happen to burn them, did you?”
“No, I didn’t burn ’em. I broke ’em,” my father said. “Donna, show him the door.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” the detective said curtly.
“No, I mean show him the holes in the doors,” Dad explained.
Lieutenant Shucker examined the damage, but he didn’t seem impressed.
“Where were you this morning,” he asked my dad, “between three A.M. and four A.M.?”
“He’s been right here with us,” my mother interjected.