by Carl Hiaasen
Anyway, my dad said that running “those puppy-whipping lowlifes” out of the islands was worth the legal hassle. A public service, is what he called it. The two chocolate Labs ended up with some friends of ours, nice people who run an Italian restaurant down in Marathon.
I listened while Miles Umlatt went through the whole story again.
“Dad just lost his temper,” I said when he was done. “But those people were wrong. It’s against the law to treat animals like that.”
Miles Umlatt wrote that down on his pad, which made me a little nervous. So did the tiny green light blinking on his tape recorder.
“Dad’s just got to work on his self-control,” I added.
“Are you ever afraid of him?”
I burst out laughing, it was such a lame question.
“Afraid of my dad? You serious?”
“Well, Noah, you’ve got to admit,” Miles Umlatt said, “his behavior has been erratic. Unpredictable, I mean.”
I knew perfectly well what “erratic” meant.
“Dad wouldn’t hurt a flea,” I said firmly.
“But would he hurt a human who would hurt a flea?”
That’s when Mom breezed in to refill Miles Umlatt’s coffee cup, or at least that was her excuse.
“How’s it going, fellas?” she asked.
“Just fine, Mrs. Underwood,” said Miles Umlatt. “Noah’s a bright young man.”
I felt like sticking my finger down my throat. Mom flashed her fake-polite smile and said, “Yes, we’re very proud of him.”
She hung around for a while, making small talk, until the phone rang in the kitchen. As soon as we were alone again, Miles Umlatt leaned forward and said, “Noah, what can you tell me about the incident with Derek Mays?”
“Not much.” I was sure he already knew the whole story. Everybody in the Upper Keys did. And what he didn’t know he could have found out from the Coast Guard files.
“Derek says he was afraid for his life,” Miles Umlatt said.
“Maybe he was just afraid of getting busted.”
Here’s what my dad said had happened: He was out bonefishing with two doctors from New Jersey when he spotted Derek Mays stringing a gill net near Little Rabbit Key. Gill nets were outlawed years ago in Florida because they kill everything that gets tangled, not just the baitfish but sharks, reds, snook, tarpon, turtles—you name it, it dies. To make things worse, the island where Derek Mays was poaching was deep in Everglades National Park, which is totally protected. Or supposed to be.
When he spotted my father, Derek hauled in the gill net and made a run for it. Dad’s skiff is super quick, and it didn’t take long for him to catch up. Derek refused to stop, so my father leaped right into his boat. Then it turned into a wrestling match and things got ugly. By the time the park rangers arrived, Dad had wrapped up Derek in his own net, like a big dumb mullet.
But here’s the part that really got to me: Not a darn thing happened to Derek because none of the rangers actually witnessed what he was doing at Little Rabbit. Meanwhile, Dad gets accused of, like, assault, and then the government takes away his captain’s license because (they said) he “endangered” the lives of his customers by chasing after Derek at high speed. Of course, the two doctors on Dad’s boat said they’d never had so much fun, but that didn’t count for squat with the Coast Guard.
Which is why my father had to start driving a cab.
Miles Umlatt said, “There seems to be a pattern to these episodes, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s not like it happens every day,” I said.
The guy was definitely getting on my nerves. I was sort of annoyed at my father for choosing me to be the one for the interview. The only reason, I knew, was that Mom had refused to do it.
“Let’s talk about what happened to the Coral Queen,” said Miles Umlatt, and he droned through that whole story. He told me that Dusty Muleman denied flushing polluted water from his gambling boat, which was no big surprise. Why would he ever admit to the crime?
“He threatened to sue your father for slander,” Miles Umlatt said.
“What’s that?”
“Saying something bad about a person that isn’t true.”
“Dad doesn’t lie,” I said. “He might do some crazy stuff, but he always tells the truth.”
“Are you proud of him, Noah?”
That was a tricky one. I wasn’t proud that my dad was sitting in jail, but I knew he was a good person. Even when he flies off the handle, at least he’s fighting for something close to his heart. Too many people these days, they just turn their backs or close their eyes, pretending everything is wonderful in the world. Well, it’s not.
“I am proud of my father,” I said to Miles Umlatt, “for standing up for what he believes. But, like I said, once in a while he goes too far.”
Miles Umlatt jotted down every word. “Your dad said he considers himself a political prisoner. Would you agree with that?”
Political prisoner? I thought. Give me a break. I knew Mom wasn’t eavesdropping, because she would have blown a fuse.
“I don’t know much about politics,” I said carefully, “but he’s definitely a prisoner.”
Miles Umlatt seemed to think that was very funny. He wrote it down, closed his notebook, and switched off his tape recorder.
“Thank you, Noah. That was perfect,” he said. Then he shook my hand and skittered out the front door.
My mother was still on the phone in the kitchen. She gave me a thumbs-up signal when I came in to grab some cookies. On the way to my room I stopped outside Abbey’s doorway and listened. She was crying, which got me worried because my sister hardly ever cries.
I opened the door to check on her. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with a box of Kleenex on her lap and a pile of pink crumpled-up tissues on the floor. I could tell she was really upset because she didn’t holler at me for barging in without knocking.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s Mom,” she sniffled.
“But I just saw her. She seemed okay.”
Abbey shook her head. “That lawyer. Sh-Sh-Shine.” She was trying to catch her breath between sobs.
“What about him? He won’t take Dad’s case?”
“W-w-worse,” Abbey stammered. “I heard Mom ask him …”
Here she paused to snatch another tissue and dab at her eyes.
“Ask him what?” I said impatiently.
“She d-d-didn’t know I was standing by the d-d-door.”
“Abbey, it’s all right. Calm down, okay?”
“Okay.” She straightened up and swallowed hard, and for a moment she looked like her old brave self.
“Now tell me,” I said, “what was Mom asking Mr. Shine about?”
“The d-word,” my sister whispered.
“Divorce?”
Abbey nodded. Her lower lip began to tremble, and her shoulders went kind of slack, so I sat on the bed and put one arm around her and tried to act stronger than I felt.
FIVE
Everybody was quiet at breakfast the next morning. Mom said she was taking Abbey shopping. I told her I was going fishing again, which was a possibility.
First, though, I had to have another talk with my father. I wanted him to know that Mom had mentioned the d-word—surely that would shake him up enough to come home.
As soon as Mom and Abbey left, I got on my bike and headed up the highway toward the jail. I wasn’t sure they’d let me in without Mom calling to arrange it, so I brought along a letter that had arrived for my father at the house. It was from the U.S. State Department, and the seal on the envelope made it look very important.
I already knew what the letter said because my mother had opened it. The government was telling us (for about the fifteenth time) that the body of Robert Lee Underwood, my Grandpa Bobby, was still down in Colombia. They couldn’t bring him home because there was a problem with the paperwork, and the police in the village “were not responding to inquiries from the
United States Embassy.” The news wasn’t going to cheer up Dad, but at least it gave me an excuse to see him again.
When I showed the envelope to the deputy at the desk, he didn’t seem very impressed. He peeked inside to make sure that it was only a letter, and he said he’d give it to my father later.
“Can’t I give it to him myself?” I asked.
“No, he’s busy this morning,” the deputy said.
Busy? I thought. Doing what—pretending to play chess?
“Is he all right?” I said.
The deputy chuckled. “Yeah, he’s fine. There’s a TV crew that drove down from Miami to see him.”
“TV?”
“Yeah, Channel 10. They said they’ll need at least an hour.”
“Then I’ll come back later,” I said.
The deputy shook his head. “Sorry, sport. Inmates are allowed only one short visit per day, and we’re already bending the rules for this TV thing. Maybe tomorrow you can see your old man. But call first, okay?”
Sure enough, there was a shiny new van from Channel 10 parked outside the sheriff’s station. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it before. I rode away wondering how to tell my mother that Dad was now doing television interviews from jail. She’d find out sooner or later, when it was on the news, because all the Miami TV stations broadcast to the Keys.
So I’d have to tell her, even though she wouldn’t be happy about it. Maybe Dad thought of himself as a political prisoner, but Mom thought he was being a selfish jerk.
* * *
Lice Peeking was actually awake and semi-alert when I stopped at the trailer. Shelly wasn’t there, which was sort of a relief and a disappointment at the same time. She made me real nervous—but she also kept Lice Peeking from acting up.
“Well, lookie who’s here,” he said with a wormy smile.
He was lounging on the front stoop, sucking on a cigarette. His hair was wet and tangly, and his shirt was damp. I couldn’t tell whether he’d taken a shower or sprayed himself down with a garden hose.
“So, how’s the jailbird?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s real funny.” I didn’t appreciate him talking that way about Dad. It was different when Abbey did it because she was family. Lice Peeking was just a lazy lump who didn’t know anything about my father.
“Well, what’d he say?” Lice Peeking asked. “Can he come up with some money or not?”
I said, “We don’t have any money, but he’ll give you his flats skiff. It’s worth twelve thousand dollars.”
Lice Peeking squinted one bloodshot eye. “Says who?”
“Come see for yourself. It’s on a trailer behind our house.” I told him what kind of boat it was, and that the engine had fewer than a hundred hours on it.
“Seriously?” he said.
“My father doesn’t lie.”
“And it’s free and clear, this boat? The bank don’t own a piece?”
“Dad paid off the loan last year,” I said.
Lice Peeking scratched his chin, which was raw and peeling. “Where’s your house at?” he asked.
I gave him directions. It nearly broke my heart to think of a loser like that taking our skiff and selling it for cash. But what else could we do?
Lice Peeking flicked his cigarette butt under the trailer and pulled himself upright. “Let’s go have a look,” he said, which caught me by surprise.
“It’s a long way to walk,” I said.
“Who’s walkin’, boy?” He laughed and pointed at my bicycle. “Hop up on the handlebars.”
And that’s what I did.
It had been a while since Lice Peeking had pedaled a bike, and he was wheezing by the time we got to the house. He seemed shocked that there was no beer in the refrigerator, but he settled for a Diet Coke. We went out back to see Dad’s skiff, and Lice Peeking made up his mind right away. It was a cool-looking boat.
“We definitely got us a deal,” he said. “I’ll be back with Shelly and the Jeep to pick it up—say tomorrow ‘round noon?”
“Hold on,” I said. “It’s not free.”
Lice Peeking sniffed. “Chill out, junior, I know that.”
“My dad wants you to sign a statement telling what you saw when you worked on the Coral Queen. You know, about Mr. Muleman making them empty the dirty holding tank into the water.”
“Sure, no sweat,” Lice Peeking said.
“And anything else illegal you know about. Like, if they’re dumping garbage or oil, too. You need to write it all down.”
“You bet.” He was walking back and forth, admiring the skiff from different angles. “Now, the trailer’s included, right?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Could you please bring the statement when you come get the boat?”
Lice Peeking made a face and looked down at me. “You want it tomorrow? Seriously?”
“Yes, sir. And Dad says it’s got to be signed and witnessed,” I told him. “That’s the deal.”
“Geez, you’re quite the young hardass, ain’t ya?”
“No, sir,” I said. “My father’s in jail and I want to help him out. That’s all.”
On the way back to the trailer court we passed Jasper Muleman Jr. and Bull pushing a wheelbarrow down the bike path. It was obviously a strain, and as we rode past I saw why. Balanced upside down in the wheelbarrow was the mud-splattered outboard motor from the johnboat that had sunk in Snake Creek. The engine’s propeller was dented and caked with greenish crud.
Jasper Jr. called out something nasty as we rode by, but I was surprised when Lice Peeking braked the bicycle and spun around. I told him to forget about it, just keep going, but he was mad. He pedaled straight up to Jasper Jr. and Bull, blocking their path.
“What was that you just said, boy?” Lice Peeking demanded.
“I wasn’t talkin’ to you,” Jasper Jr. mumbled.
“He was talking to me. Honest,” I said to Lice Peeking. I didn’t want any trouble right there on the main highway, where everybody could see us.
But Lice Peeking didn’t let up.
“Sounds like you got your daddy’s potty mouth,” he said to Jasper Jr. “Keep it up, you’ll need a whole new setta choppers before you’re eighteen.”
Bull said, “Come on, Lice, he didn’t mean nothin’. That’s the truth.”
“Shut up, Bull,” said Lice Peeking. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it stung you on the butt. Now, Jasper, how ‘bout you apologize to me and my friend?”
I could have gone my whole entire life without Lice Peeking calling me his “friend.” On the inside I was cringing.
Jasper Jr. shot me a vicious glare. Then he turned sulky and looked down at his feet.
“I’m waitin’, boy,” said Lice Peeking.
“I’ll ’polgize to you,” Jasper Jr. said finally, “but not to him.”
He jerked his grimy chin toward me.
Bull blurted, “Underwood’s old man sunk Jasper’s pappy’s boat!”
“Like I care,” Lice Peeking said.
He placed one boot on the rim of the wheelbarrow and gave a push. It turned over sideways, toppling the outboard motor with a crunch onto the hard asphalt. A gush of oily gray fluid spilled from the cracked cowling.
Bull groaned. Jasper Jr.’s jaw fell open.
“Don’t call people names,” Lice Peeking said. “It ain’t polite.”
Then we rode away.
That night, after dinner, Mom put on a CD by a singer named Sheryl Crow. One of the songs was called “My Favorite Mistake,” and my mother liked to joke that she could have written it herself—about my dad.
This time, though, she didn’t smile when the song came on.
I was going to tell her about Dad doing that interview with Channel 10, but I decided to wait until she was in a better mood. I didn’t tell my sister, either, because she’d get ticked off and start throwing stuff around her room. Abbey has a hot temper.
Around ten-fifteen Mom turned off the stereo, gave me a hug, and went off to bed.
I was pretty tired, but I stayed up reading a skateboard magazine and kept one eye on the clock. At exactly midnight I crept down the hall and tapped on Abbey’s door. She was wide awake and ready to go. We snuck out through the kitchen and got our bicycles from the garage.
It didn’t take long to reach the marina. The Coral Queen had just closed and the passengers were filing off, laughing and talking loudly. Abbey and I hid nearby, on one of the deep-sea charter boats. We crouched low in the stern so that nobody could see us.
A yellow crescent moon peeked out from behind the clouds, and the mosquitoes weren’t too bad. We just sat there not saying a word, looking up at the sky and waiting for the docks to quiet down. By the time all the gamblers were gone, we could hear the jacks and tarpon crashing schools of minnows in the basin.
When I peered over the gunwale, I spotted Dusty Muleman’s big black Escalade parked under one of the lampposts near the Coral Queen. The sound of men’s voices carried across the still water, and I could see figures moving around on the casino boat. My sister got on her knees beside me.
“How long you want to wait here?” she asked anxiously. “Mom’s gonna freak if she wakes up and we’re gone.”
I checked my watch: ten minutes after one. “We’ll give it to one-thirty,” I said, “then we’ll go home.”
The way Dad had explained it, big boats like the Coral Queen are supposed to pump their toilet waste from onboard holding tanks into a sealed vat onshore. Later a sewage truck collects the stuff and hauls it to a treatment plant.
Dad believed that Dusty Muleman’s boat was flushing hundreds of gallons of poop directly into the basin, which is not only gross (as Abbey would say) but also a big-time crime. All we had to do was catch him in the act and call the Coast Guard to come arrest him.
Then everybody in town would know that my father wasn’t some kind of loony troublemaker, that he was just a guy who cared about the kids and the beaches and the things that lived in the sea. And when the truth about Dusty came out and everyone saw that Dad was right, Mom would feel better about staying married to him.
