by Carl Hiaasen
“I’m sure they will, sooner or later.” He shrugged. “You doing okay?”
“How come you won’t let Mom bail you out?” I asked.
“Because it’s important for me to be here right now.”
“Important how? She says you’ll lose your job if you stay locked up.”
“She’s probably right,” my dad admitted.
He’d been driving a taxi for the past year and a half. Before that he was a fishing guide—a good one, too, until the Coast Guard took away his captain’s license.
He said, “Noah, it’s not like I robbed a bank or something.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Did you go see what I did?”
“Not yet,” I said.
He gave me a wink. “It’s impressive.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
He was in a surprisingly good mood. I’d never been to a jail before, though honestly it wasn’t much of a jail. Two holding cells, my dad told me. The main county lockup was miles away in Key West.
“Mom wants to know if she should call the lawyer,” I said.
“I suppose.”
“The same one from last time? She wasn’t sure.”
“Yeah, he’s all right,” my father said.
His clothes were rumpled and he looked tired, but he said the food was decent and the police were treating him fine.
“Dad, what if you just said you’re sorry and offered to pay for what you did?”
“But I’m not sorry for what I did, Noah. The only thing I’m sorry about is that you’ve got to see me locked up like an ax murderer.”
The other times my dad had gotten in trouble, they wouldn’t let me come to the jail because I was too young.
“I’m not a common criminal.” Dad reached across and put a hand on my arm. “I know right from wrong. Good from bad. Sometimes I just get carried away.”
“Nobody thinks you’re a criminal.”
“Dusty Muleman sure does.”
“That’s because you sunk his boat,” I pointed out. “If you just paid to get it fixed, maybe then—”
“That’s a seventy-three-footer,” my dad cut in. “You’ve got to know what you’re doing to sink one of those pigs. You ought to go have a look.”
“Maybe later,” I said.
The deputy standing by the door made a grunting noise and held up five chubby fingers, which was the number of minutes left before he took my father back to the cell.
“Is your mom still ticked off at me?” Dad asked.
“What do you think?”
“I tried to explain it to her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Then maybe you can explain it to me,” I said. “I’m old enough to understand.”
Dad smiled. “I believe you are, Noah.”
My father was born and raised here in Florida, so he grew up on the water. His dad—my Grandpa Bobby—ran a charter boat out of Haulover Marina on Miami Beach. Grandpa Bobby passed away when I was little, so I honestly didn’t remember him. We’d heard different stories about what happened—one was that his appendix burst; another was that he got hurt real bad in a bar fight. All we knew for sure is that he took his fishing boat down to South America on some sort of job, and he never came back.
One day a man from the U.S. State Department showed up at our house and told my parents that Grandpa Bobby was dead and buried near some little village in Colombia. For some weird reason they couldn’t bring his body home for a funeral—I knew this because I’d seen the paperwork. My dad kept a file, and at least four or five times a year he would write to Washington, D.C., asking someone to please help get his father’s coffin back to Florida. This is, like, ten years later. Mom worked with my dad on the letters—she’s a legal secretary, and she gets straight to the point.
My mom and dad first met while they were standing in line to pay speeding tickets at the Dade County Courthouse, and they got married six weeks later. I know this for a fact because Mom put the speeding tickets in a scrapbook, along with their wedding pictures and stuff like that. The ticket my mother got was for driving 44 miles an hour in a 35-mile-per-hour zone. My father’s ticket was much worse—he was doing 93 on the turnpike. In the album Dad’s ticket looks sort of lumpy and wrinkled because he’d crumpled it into a ball when the state trooper handed it to him. My mother said she used a laundry iron to flatten it out before pasting it next to hers in the scrapbook.
About a year after they got married, my parents moved down to the Keys. I’m sure this was Dad’s idea, because he’d been coming here ever since he was a kid and he hated the big city. I was actually born in a 1989 Chevrolet Caprice on U.S. Highway One, my dad racing up the eighteen-mile stretch from Key Largo to the mainland. He was trying to get my mother to the hospital in Homestead. She was lying in the backseat of the car, and that’s where I was born. Mom did it all by herself—she didn’t tell my dad to pull over and stop because she didn’t want him interfering. They still argue about this. (She says he’s got a tendency to get overexcited, which is the understatement of the century.) He didn’t even realize I was born until they got to Florida City and I started bawling.
Abbey came along three years later. Dad talked my mom into naming her after one of his favorite writers, some weird old bird who’s buried out west in the middle of a desert.
Most of my friends aren’t crazy about their sisters, but Abbey’s all right. Maybe it’s not cool to say so, but the truth is the truth. She’s funny and tough and not nearly as irritating as most of the girls at school. Over the years Abbey and I developed a pretty good system: She keeps an eye on Mom, and I keep an eye on Dad. Sometimes, though, I need extra help.
“So, what’s the deal?” Abbey asked after I got back from the jail.
We were sitting at the kitchen table. For lunch Mom had fixed us the usual, ham-and-cheese sandwiches.
“He says he got carried away again,” I said.
Abbey raised her eyebrows and snorted. “No duh.”
Mom set two glasses of milk on the table. “Noah, why does he insist on staying in jail? It’s Father’s Day, for heaven’s sake.”
“I guess he’s trying to make a point.”
“All he’s making,” my sister said, “is a jackass of himself.”
“Hush, Abbey,” Mom told her.
“He said it’s okay to call the lawyer,” I added.
“He’s not pleading guilty?” Abbey asked. “How can he not plead guilty? He did it, didn’t he?”
“It’s still smart to have an attorney,” said my mother. She seemed much calmer now. When the police first called, she’d gotten real mad and said some pretty harsh things about Dad. Honestly, I couldn’t blame her. Even for him this was a major screwup.
“Noah, how are you doing?” she asked.
I knew she was worried that the jailhouse visit had shaken me up, so I told her I was fine.
She said, “I’m sure it wasn’t easy seeing your father behind bars.”
“They brought him to a private room,” I said. “He wasn’t even wearing handcuffs.”
My mother frowned slightly. “Still, it’s not a happy picture.”
Abbey said, “Maybe he ought to plead insanity.”
Mom ignored her. “Your father has many good qualities,” she said to me, “but he’s not the most stable role model for a young man like yourself. He’d be the first to admit it, Noah.”
Whenever I get this speech, I listen patiently and don’t say a word. She won’t come right out and say so, but Mom worries that I’m too much like my dad.
“Drink your milk,” she said, and went to the den to call our lawyer, a man named Mr. Shine.
As soon as we were alone, Abbey reached over and twisted the hair on my arm. “Tell me everything,” she said.
“Not now.” I jerked my head toward the doorway. “Not with Mom around.”
Abbey said, “It’s all right. She’s on the phone.”
I shook my head firmly and took a bite of my sandwich.
“Finish your lunch,” I said, “then we’ll go for a ride.”
The Coral Queen had gone down stern-first in twelve feet of water. Her hull had settled on the marly bottom at a slight angle with the bow aiming upward.
She was a big one, too. Even at high tide the top two decks were above the waterline. It was like a big ugly apartment building had fallen out of the sky and landed in the basin.
Abbey hopped off my handlebars and walked to the water’s edge. She planted her hands on her hips and stared at the crime scene.
“Whoa,” she said. “He really did it this time.”
“It’s bad,” I agreed.
The Coral Queen was one of those gambling boats where passengers line up to play blackjack and electronic poker, and to stuff their faces at the all-you-can-eat buffet. It didn’t sound like a ton of fun to me, but the Coral Queen was packed to the rafters every night.
There was one major difference between Dusty Muleman’s operation and the gambling cruises up in Miami: The Coral Queen didn’t actually go anywhere. That’s one reason it was so popular.
By Florida law, gambling boats are supposed to travel at least three miles offshore—beyond the state boundaries—before anyone is allowed to start betting. Rough weather is real bad for business because lots of customers get seasick. As soon as they start throwing up, they quit spending money.
According to my father, Dusty Muleman’s dream was to open a gambling boat that never left the calm and safety of its harbor. That way the passengers would never get too queasy to party.
Only Indian tribes are allowed to run casino operations in Florida, so Dusty somehow persuaded a couple of rich Miccosukees from Miami to buy the marina and make it part of their reservation. Dad said the government raised a stink but later backed off because the Indians had better lawyers.
Anyway, Dusty got his gambling boat—and he got rich.
My dad had waited until three in the morning, when the last of the crew was gone, to sneak aboard. He’d untied the ropes and started one of the engines and idled out to the mouth of the basin, where he’d opened the seacocks and cut the hoses and disconnected the bilge pumps and then dived overboard.
The Coral Queen had gone down crosswise in the channel, which meant that no other vessels could get in or out of the basin. In other words, Dusty Muleman wasn’t the only captain in town who wanted to strangle my dad on Father’s Day.
I locked my bike to a buttonwood tree and walked down to the charter docks, Abbey trailing behind. Two small skiffs and a Coast Guard inflatable were nosing around the Coral Queen. We could hear the men in the skiffs talking about what had to be done to float the boat. It was a major project.
“He’s lost his marbles,” Abbey muttered.
“Who—Dad? No way,” I said.
“Then why did he do it?”
“Because Dusty Muleman has been dumping his holding tank into the water,” I said.
Abbey grimaced. “Yuck. From the toilets?”
“Yep. In the middle of the night, when there’s nobody around.”
“That is so gross.”
“And totally illegal,” I said. “He only does it to save money.”
According to my father, Dusty Muleman was such a pathetic cheapskate that he wouldn’t pay to have the Coral Queen’s sewage hauled away. Instead his crew had standing orders to flush the waste into the basin, which was already murky. The tide later carried most of the filth out to open water.
“But why didn’t Dad just call the Coast Guard?” my sister asked. “Wouldn’t that have been the grown-up thing to do?”
“He told me he tried. He said he called everybody he could think of, but they could never catch Dusty in the act,” I said. “Dad thinks somebody’s tipping him off.”
“Oh, please,” Abbey groaned.
Now she was starting to annoy me.
“When the wind and the current are right, the poop from the gambling boat floats out of the basin and down the shoreline,” I said, “straight to Thunder Beach.”
Abbey made a pukey face. “Ugh. So that’s why they close the park sometimes.”
“You know how many kids go swimming there? What Dusty’s doing can make you real sick at both ends. Hospital-sick, Dad says. So it’s not only disgusting, it’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I didn’t say it was right, Abbey, what Dad did. I’m only telling you why.”
My father hadn’t even tried to get away. After swimming back to the dock, he’d sat down in a folding chair, opened a can of root beer, and watched the Coral Queen go down. He was still there at dawn, sleeping, when the police arrived.
“So what now?” Abbey asked.
A dark bluish slick surrounded the boat, and the men in the Coast Guard inflatable were laying out yellow floating bumpers, to keep the oil and grease from spreading. By sinking the Coral Queen, my father himself had managed to make quite a mess.
I said, “Dad asked me to help him.”
Abbey made a face. “Help him what—break out of jail?”
“Get serious.”
“Then what, Noah? Tell me.”
I knew she wasn’t going to like it. “He wants me to help him nail Dusty Muleman,” I said.
A long silence followed, so I figured Abbey was thinking up something snarky to say. But it turned out that she wasn’t.
“I didn’t give Dad an answer yet,” I said.
“I already know your answer,” said my sister.
“His heart’s in the right place, Abbey. It really is.”
“It’s not his heart I’m worried about, it’s his brain,” she said. “You’d better be careful, Noah.”
“Are you going to tell Mom?”
“I haven’t decided.” She gave me a sideways look that told me she probably wouldn’t.
Like I said, my sister’s all right.
TWO
Lucky for us, it was summertime and school was out. That meant that Abbey and I didn’t have to face all the other kids at once. It’s a pretty small town and news gets around fast, so by now it was no secret that our father was in the slammer for sinking Dusty Muleman’s casino boat. Everybody would be talking about it.
The kid I most didn’t want to see was Jasper Muleman Jr., who was Dusty’s son. He was a well-known jerk, which I partly blamed on the fact that his parents had named him Jasper. That would be enough to make anybody mean and mad at the world.
Unfortunately, he was at the marina the next morning when I stopped by to see the salvage crew float the Coral Queen. Scuba divers were feeding fat black hoses into the sunken half of the boat, though I couldn’t tell if they were pumping water out or pumping air in. I spotted Jasper Jr. before he spotted me, but for some reason I didn’t sneak away. I just stood around watching the divers wrestle with the hoses until Jasper Jr. came over and called me a name that wasn’t very original.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your dad’s boat,” I said, trying my hardest to sound sincere.
When Jasper Jr. shoved me, I wasn’t totally surprised. He isn’t a big kid but he’s wiry and strong, and he likes to fight. It’s one of the only things he does well.
“Lay off,” I said, and naturally he pushed me again.
“Your crazy father sunk our boat!” Jasper Jr. snarled.
“I said I was sorry.”
“You’re gonna pay for this, Underwood.”
Normally I try to stick to the truth, but I wasn’t in the mood to get punched in the face, which is what Jasper Jr. had in mind. So, to calm him down, I said, “I just came by to see if I could help.”
“I’m so sure.”
“Honest!”
Jasper Jr. sneered, which is another thing he’s good at. I found myself studying the shape of his head, which reminded me of an extra-large walnut. He wore his hair in a buzz cut, and you could see shiny lumps and crinkles in the skin of his scalp. Maybe everybody’s skull is k
nobby and weird underneath their hair, but on Jasper Jr. it made him look even meaner.
He said, “Underwood, I’m gonna kick your butt from here to Miami.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah? And why don’t you think so, dorkface?”
“Because your dad’s about to come over here and kick yours,” I said, which was true.
Dusty Muleman had been hollering for his son from the other side of the basin. Jasper Jr. hadn’t heard him because he was too busy messing with me, and now his father was seriously ticked off. I pointed across the water to where Dusty Muleman stood glaring, his arms folded. Jasper Jr. spun around and saw for himself.
“Uh-oh,” he said, and took off running to join his father. “I’ll get you later!” he hollered at me over one shoulder.
A few minutes later Abbey showed up, and we hung around until the Coral Queen was off the bottom. We were surprised to see how easily they got her up, but of course there weren’t any holes in the hull or other damage that needed patching. My father had just pulled the plugs, basically.
“How does Dad know it’s the casino boat doing the dumping?” Abbey asked.
“Because they never had to close Thunder Beach before the Coral Queen got here. They never had a problem with poop in the water until now,” I said.
A small crowd had gathered to see the operation, but Abbey and I stayed off by ourselves, on the far side of the basin. We didn’t want to make Dusty Muleman any madder than he already was.
“What a phony,” my sister said. “Just look at him.”
At one time Dusty Muleman had been an ordinary fishing guide, the same as my father. Their skiffs were berthed next to each other at a place called Ted’s Marina. In the summertime, when business slowed down, Dusty would head out to Colorado and work at a dude ranch, taking tourists into the mountains for brook trout. Then one September he came back to the Keys and put his skiff up for sale. He told Dad and the other guides that he’d inherited some money from a rich uncle who’d died in an elephant stampede in Africa. I remember Mom’s eyes narrowing when Dad told us the story—it was the same look I get whenever I tell her I’m done with my homework and she knows better.
