Carl Hiaasen Collection: Hoot, Flush, Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

Jimmy Lee Bayliss understood how Duane Scrod Sr.’s son could have become a troubled youth. He felt a pang of sympathy for the boy, whom he intended to frame for arson.

  “Whaddya say, Nadine baby? Wanna snack?” Duane Scrod Sr. teased the macaw, who was eyeing the prisoner with great interest. Jimmy Lee Bayliss carefully reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of cash, which he held out to his captor.

  Duane Scrod Sr. counted the money and said, “Nineteen dollars? You think you can buy your freedom for nineteen lousy bucks?”

  He began feeding the dollar bills, one at a time, to his bird. “I told you people about a thousand times, I’ll be happy to start payin’ my taxes again, soon as somebody puts a new transmission in my Tahoe.”

  “Aaaccchhhhh,” warbled Jimmy Lee Bayliss, who’d heard enough. He kicked hard at one of Duane Scrod Sr.’s bare kneecaps and made solid contact. The man hollered and let go of the needle-nose pliers, which hung momentarily from Jimmy Lee Bayliss’s face before dropping to the floor.

  As Duane Scrod Sr. hopped in circles, swearing and clutching his bruised knee, the macaw squawked furiously and took flight. Jimmy Lee Bayliss ran for the screen door, but he was too slow—the bird caught him from behind and locked its jagged beak on his scalp, trying to shuck him like a coconut.

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss fell to his knees and flailed at the vicious devil bird, which refused to let go. Dragging himself across the moldy shag carpet, Jimmy Lee Bayliss came upon a heavy nylon satchel with arm straps. He picked it up and began beating himself about the head, a painful but effective strategy. Several of the blows struck Nadine, scattering blue and gold feathers. The bird cursed in German, released Jimmy Lee Bayliss, and flew back toward Duane Scrod Sr., who by now was searching madly for his pliers.

  Dizzy from clobbering himself, Jimmy Lee Bayliss lurched down the front steps and dove into his rental car. He was halfway to the interstate before he came to his senses and noticed that he still had the bulky backpack with which he’d fought off the killer macaw. It was right there on the front seat next to him: a camo-patterned book bag.

  A kid’s book bag.

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss thought: This is too good to be true.

  From the parking lot, Nick’s mother phoned Dr. Dressler, who gave permission for Nick to leave school early. On the drive home, Nick peppered his father with questions until his mom told him to slow down and catch his breath.

  “So the infection must be gone, right?” Nick asked.

  “It’s getting better,” Capt. Gregory Waters said. “There’s a V.A. outpatient clinic in Fort Myers where I can get my checkups.”

  Nick noticed that the welts and burn marks on his dad’s face were healing, and that his hair was slowly starting to grow back.

  “How’s the rehab?”

  “Good, Nicky. I hear we’re going to be partners.” Nick’s father pointed at Nick’s wrapped right arm. “What kind of exercises are you doing with your other one?”

  “Mostly trying to write and do math,” Nick said. “It’s harder than I thought.”

  His mother interjected: “You should see him on the computer, Greg. He can type almost as fast with one hand as he could with two. And last night he was throwing the baseball!”

  Nick’s father lit up. “Pitching lefty? That’s fantastic.”

  A bit embarrassed, Nick said, “I look kind of spazzy on my windup.”

  “You do not look ‘spazzy,’ ” said his mom emphatically. “You’re doing great.”

  “I can’t wait to see,” his father said.

  “No way, Dad, I’m not ready.”

  “Come on, I could use the inspiration.”

  “Maybe later,” Nick said.

  When they arrived at the house, Nick and his mother helped Greg Waters walk to the bedroom, where he quickly lay down and zonked out. He slept all afternoon and woke up hungry.

  Over his wife’s objection, he declared that dinner would be a left-handed speed-eating contest, with five dollars to the winner. He and Nick made a total mess, mangling their salads and stabbing at their ravioli and green beans. By the end of the meal, they were laughing so hard that they couldn’t swallow their food. Nick’s mother declared the race to be a tie, and for dessert she served chocolate milkshakes so that both Nick and his dad could rest their arms.

  Afterward they went out to the backyard. His father sat down in a patio chair and said, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Nick picked up the ball and approached the homemade pitcher’s mound. The framed net stood about forty feet away, and Nick eyed it apprehensively. He and his father had been playing catch since Nick was three years old, and he’d never felt any pressure—until now.

  This wasn’t about baseball, it was about hope. Nick wanted to show his dad that you could do practically anything with one arm that you could do with two.

  “Relax. Take it smooth,” his father advised.

  “Don’t laugh if I screw up.”

  “In DoubleA I played with a guy who was ambidextrous—he could throw out a base runner with either arm. He played right field left-handed and left field right-handed.”

  “Are you serious?” Nick said.

  “Incredible athlete. Unfortunately, he couldn’t hit a curveball to save his life,” Greg Waters said. “Now he’s selling washing machines in Pensacola.”

  Turning the baseball in his free hand, Nick lined up his first two fingers with the stitches. Having his other arm bound to his back made him feel out of balance, almost tippy.

  “Nice and easy,” his dad said.

  Nick uncoiled and heaved the ball as hard as he could. It bounced six feet in front of the net and rolled into the mesh.

  Blushing, he kicked at the ground. “God, I throw like a girl!”

  His father chuckled. “Don’t let your mom hear you say that—she was the strikeout ace on her college softball team. Now do it again, only slow your motion.”

  Nick retrieved the baseball and tried throwing with an easier rhythm. This time his pitch caught the lower half of the net.

  “That’s better. Take a longer step toward your target,” Greg Waters suggested.

  By the tenth throw, Nick was consistently hitting the strike zone. The pitches weren’t very fast, but at least they were straight.

  His father said, “Nicky, that’s pretty darn good. I mean it.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Can I give it a shot?”

  “Sure.”

  But as soon as Greg Waters stood up, he began to sway. Nick rushed over and steadied him.

  “Let’s wait till tomorrow, Dad. You’ve had a long day.”

  “I’m all right. Let me have the ball.”

  “You sure?” Nick glanced back toward the house and saw his mother watching anxiously from the kitchen window.

  “Ball, please.” Greg Waters held out his left hand.

  Nick gave him the baseball, and he headed for the mound. His uncertain gait and heavily bandaged shoulder made him appear bulky, almost bearlike.

  “Remember—nice and easy,” Nick called out.

  “You bet.”

  His father stared down an imaginary batter, nodded at an imaginary catcher, and then rocked back into a jerky version of his normal windup motion. The pitch flew wildly past the net, through the hedge and over the fence. They heard a distinct gong as the baseball bounced off their neighbor’s barbecue grill.

  “Oh, crap,” Greg Waters muttered.

  Nick didn’t want him to be discouraged. “You’ve still got plenty of heat, Dad.”

  “Could you go get it? I want to try one more time.”

  “Not tonight. You need to rest.”

  “Nicky, go find the ball,” his dad said sharply.

  It was floating in the neighbor’s pool. Nick hurriedly fished it out and scrambled back over the fence. He was glad to see that his mother had come out of the house; he hoped that she would talk his dad into taking a rest.

  “There’s someone at the front door to see you,�
� she said to Nick.

  “Who is it?”

  Greg Waters reached for the baseball, but Nick’s mother grabbed it first. “You’re benched for the night, big fella,” she told him.

  “Who’s at the door, Mom?” Nick asked again.

  “Some boy with a motorcycle,” she said. “He says he’s in your biology class.”

  FIFTEEN

  Duane Scrod Jr. stood motionless in the driveway, his back to the house. He appeared to be watching the sun go down.

  “Hi, Smoke. What’s up?” said Nick.

  When the kid turned around, Nick saw that he was still wearing his Truman School blazer and necktie.

  “Hey, Waters.” Smoke looked uneasy about being there, almost shy. “Listen, dude, I need to borrow your biology book. I’ll give it back tomorrow.”

  “No problem,” Nick said. “I missed the last part of class today. Did Wacko Waxmo give us homework?”

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s no longer a factor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s history, man.” Smoke made a slashing motion across his throat. “Gone. Done. Over.”

  That didn’t sound good. Nick experienced a moment of dread. “What happened? Did he die or something?”

  Smoke chuckled. “Relax, man. Waxmo ain’t dead—nobody laid a finger on him. But after what he did to you today, why do you care?”

  Nick was mildly embarrassed to hear the kid mention the scene in class when the lunatic substitute had ordered Nick to sing a Christmas song and Marta had piped up in his defense. Nick half expected Smoke to make fun of him for letting a girl fight his battles.

  He said, “It was no big deal. I don’t want anything bad happening to the guy.”

  “That’s real sweet. Can I have the book now? I’m late somewhere.”

  “Sure,” Nick said, and he went into the house.

  His mother intercepted him before he got to his room. “Who’s that boy?” she asked. “Why don’t you invite him in?”

  “It’s Duane Scrod Jr.”

  “The pencil-eater? But he looks so neat and normal.”

  “Neat, maybe. Definitely not normal,” said Nick.

  The biology book was at the bottom of his cluttered backpack. He hurried back outside and handed it to Smoke, who was waiting on the motorcycle. He’d put on leather riding gloves and also a helmet with a black plastic face shield. Nick could no longer see his expression.

  “Smoke, can I ask you something—how come you need to borrow the book?”

  “ ’Cause I lost my backpack.”

  “What I meant is, why do you need the book if we don’t have any homework?”

  Smoke didn’t answer right away. He tucked the book under one arm and kick-started his motorcycle. “ ’Cause I gotta study,” he said.

  Nick could barely hear him. “What?”

  “I GOTTA REVIEW FOR THE EXAM!” he shouted through his face mask.

  What exam? Nick wondered, and he motioned for the kid to wait. Nick wanted to ask him about the fire in the Black Vine Swamp, and if he was the person that Marta had seen riding shotgun in Mrs. Starch’s blue Prius, and also if he was acquainted with the man called Twilly who claimed to be Mrs. Starch’s nephew ….

  But most of all, Nick wanted to find out if Duane Scrod Jr. knew where Mrs. Starch was.

  “Can you shut off the bike for a minute?” he yelled.

  The kid revved the engine louder.

  “Please? It’s important!”

  “How’s your dad?” Smoke shouted, catching Nick off guard.

  “He’s doing good. He came home today,” Nick hollered back. “Hey, I really need to talk to you—”

  Smoke gave a slight wave and roared down the street.

  Nick’s mother opened the door. “What did he want?” she asked.

  “To borrow a book,” Nick said. “And I have no idea why he picked me to ask.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have any other friends.”

  “But he’s hardly said five words to me since elementary school. I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend.”

  “Well, maybe he thinks you are,” Nick’s mom said.

  “Now go help your father. He’s determined to have a shower, and I don’t want him falling down and breaking his butt, along with everything else.”

  “Who’s gonna watch him while I’m at school and you’re at work?”

  “He says he’s going to take care of himself, Nicky.”

  “But what about rehab?”

  “Guess what he asked me to buy for him.”

  “Baseballs?” Nick said.

  “Yep.” His mother made a pitching motion. “Four dozen baseballs is what he wants. I guess he’s going to throw at that darn net all day long. Can you believe it? He just got out of the hospital!”

  “I believe it,” said Nick. He couldn’t have been any happier.

  When Dr. Dressler arrived at the Truman School early the next day, he found a note stuck to his office door asking him to call Wendell Waxmo as soon as possible.

  Dr. Dressler had no desire to speak to Wendell Waxmo first thing in the morning. In truth, he preferred not to speak to Wendell Waxmo at all. The man was a total flake, a menace in the classroom.

  Not a day went by that Dr. Dressler didn’t receive irate phone calls from parents complaining about Wendell Waxmo’s nutty antics and demanding that he be fired or hauled off to a psychiatric institution. Dr. Dressler always assured them that he would look into the matter promptly and take appropriate action.

  He was only stalling, of course, hoping that word of the daily chaos would reach Bunny Starch and that she’d come charging back to Truman to rescue her pupils from the clutches of the world’s worst substitute.

  Yet so far, nearing the end of Wendell Waxmo’s first week, Mrs. Starch remained silent and out of sight. Dr. Dressler didn’t know how much longer he could fend off the angry mothers and fathers before they took their complaints to the board of trustees. The headmaster had even called Mrs. Starch’s answering machine and left a message, pretending to complain about Wendell Waxmo’s bad behavior and inquiring (in a gentle but urgent tone) when Mrs. Starch might return to school.

  Yet again there was no response.

  And now Wendell Waxmo himself had called, re questing to speak with Dr. Dressler. As the headmaster reluctantly dialed Wendell Waxmo’s phone number, he anticipated being trapped in a conversation that made no sense whatsoever, just like the substitute’s teaching practices.

  So he was surprised when Wendell Waxmo straight forwardly stated: “I won’t be coming back to Truman. I’m afraid you’ll have to find another teacher to handle Mrs. Starch’s classes.”

  “You haven’t left me much time—the first bell is only an hour away.”

  “It can’t be helped, Dr. Dressler. I’m afraid I’m quite ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is it serious?”

  “Very serious. It’s the Burmese jungle rot.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Burmese jungle rot!” snapped Wendell Waxmo. “Surely you’ve heard of the disease.”

  “Of course,” the headmaster lied. Not that it mattered, but Wendell Waxmo didn’t sound sick at all.

  “It’s a terrible condition, Dr. Dressler. Makes your skin turn green and fall off.”

  “Really?”

  “And the doctors believe I caught it at your school! From unsanitary conditions in the cafeteria!”

  Dr. Dressler seriously doubted that. On his desktop computer he had called up Yahoo and typed in the term “jungle rot.”

  Wendell Waxmo said, “I’m in pretty bad shape here. Pretty bad shape.”

  “But it’s a foot fungus,” the headmaster remarked after reading the definition. “You can treat it with topical anti biotics, according to these medical Web sites I’m looking at.”

  “No, no, no—that’s regular jungle rot. Burmese jungle rot is a hundred times worse. There’s no known cure!”

  “Hmmmm,” said Dr. Dre
ssler. “How in the world would you catch something like that in our cafeteria?”

  “From the salad bar, no doubt.”

  “Did you put your feet in our salad bar, Wendell?”

  “The point is, I’m an extremely sick person.”

  No kidding, thought Dr. Dressler. Sick in the head.

  “Sadly, I won’t be returning to teach at Truman—ever,” Wendell Waxmo continued. “Kindly remove my name from your list of available substitutes.”

  No great loss, mused Dr. Dressler, but now how do I lure Bunny Starch back to school?

  “I’ve got a long, painful struggle ahead,” Wendell Waxmo said dramatically.

  “We’ll all be praying for your jungle rot to go away.”

  “I appreciate that, Dr. Dressler.”

  “But don’t even think about suing us.”

  “Good heavens, no!”

  “Because things would get ugly, Wendell. No offense, but you haven’t made many friends here at Truman.”

  “Well, I march to the tune of my own tuba,” Wendell Waxmo said.

  “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.” The headmaster didn’t know the true reason Wendell Waxmo was leaving, nor did he intend to waste his time trying to find out. Nothing the man said or did seemed very logical.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Wendell Waxmo said. “Please inform my replacement that the students are on page 263.”

  “In which class?” Dr. Dressler asked.

  “In all the classes,” Wendell Waxmo replied matter-of-factly. “Today’s Friday, and on Fridays we always study page 263. No exceptions.”

  The headmaster rolled his eyes but restrained himself from saying something cruel into the phone. “Every Friday, the same page?”

  “Of course. Focus, focus, focus!”

  “Goodbye, Wendell. Get well soon.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Dressler.”

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss hadn’t said a word to his boss about the arson investigation, but Drake McBride found out anyway. Apparently the helicopter pilot was a blabbermouth.

  “When did you plan on telling me—or did you?” Drake McBride asked tartly.

  “I didn’t think it was necessary, sir. I got everything under control,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.

  They were sitting in Drake McBride’s office, which had a grand view of Tampa Bay. In the distance, sailboats tacked back and forth across the choppy water.