by Carl Hiaasen
“I’ll need the names of your two friends.”
“Here, I wrote everything down.” She took a paper from her purse and handed it to him. “I appreciate it,” she said. “This is important.”
Skinner turned toward the river, where a snook was blasting minnows under the dock lights.
“It sucks that you’re not tellin’ me everything,” he said.
“When are you gonna stop worrying?”
“Maybe when you get a grip on the world.”
“Boy, that’s a shitty thing to say.” But Honey could barely hear her own words above the melodies clashing in her brainpan.
Six
Three days later, Eugenie Fonda sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, listening to Sacco’s theory that Bill Gates was not only the Antichrist but the illegitimate spawn of Jesse Helms and Grace Slick.
Evidently it had been Sacco’s misfortune to sign on with a software company that vaingloriously decided to compete with some arcane pop-up blocking service provided by Microsoft. The technical details were beyond Eugenie’s grasp, or interest, but she had no difficulty understanding the reason for Sacco’s consumptive bitterness. At one point the young man had been worth approximately two million dollars on paper, a figure reduced to bus change by his firm’s brief skirmish with Sir William Gates.
Sacco’s sorrowful tale was related from the depths of Eugenie’s claw-footed tub, where he’d retreated morosely after a late lunch at which he’d refused wine, beer and several choices of hard liquor. Eugenie was perturbed to see he had no intention of relaxing, not even for a fifteen-minute hump on the sofa. Sacco was obsessed, and nothing was more tedious than a man with an obsession.
“It’s getting late,” Eugenie hinted.
“They talk about free enterprise but in America it’s a myth. They talk about a level playing field, ha! It’s tilted sideways,” Sacco declared, “so that every last penny rolls into Bill Gates’s pocket. That four-eyed fucker’s wired himself a monopoly over the whole damn universe!”
He arose, dripping and agitated. “Where’s your PC? I’ll prove it to you, Genie.”
“I don’t have a PC,” she said.
Sacco looked mortified. “You aren’t serious?”
“Listen, sport, you want to do it or not? Because I need to get ready for work.”
She’d had her hopes up, having persuaded Sacco first to admit that he was a heterosexual, and then to visit her apartment. It was the inaugural step of her commitment to refocus on unmarried men.
Yet, appraising the bony, mirthless figure in her bathroom, Eugenie Fonda thought: Am I hard up or what?
Sacco said, “You don’t give a damn what they did to me, do you?”
Eugenie tossed him a towel. “Hey. Sometimes life is a shit-flavored Popsicle.”
“Don’t you at least want to hear about the lawsuit, and how they paid off the judge with a free laptop and lifetime DSL?”
“Not really.”
Sacco mulled over this information, then stepped purposefully out of the tub. “Well, I suppose we could try having sex,” he said.
Try? thought Eugenie.
“Lord, I wouldn’t want you to damage yourself,” she said. So much for the quiet, brooding types.
“No, Genie, it’ll be great,” Sacco said.
She doubted that. “Why don’t you go wait for me on the couch.”
“How about the bed?”
“It’s broken. Don’t ask.” Eugenie nudged him out the door, removed the pearl stud from her tongue and dashed cold water on her face. She peeled down to her underwear, but that was as far as she could go.
When she came out, Sacco was obediently stationed on the sofa. He had folded the towel triangularly across his lap, a quaint act of modesty that Eugenie might have found charming under other circumstances.
“I cannot believe you haven’t got a PC,” he remarked. “Don’t you feel totally lost and out of touch?”
“You have no idea.”
Sacco flinched when she jerked the towel away.
“How tall are you, anyway?” he asked.
“Six feet even, but don’t be intimidated,” she said, hoping just the opposite.
Sacco said, “You wanna hear something weird? I’m the exact same height as Gates.”
“Cool. Are your cocks the same size, too?”
Sacco looked down at himself in a clinical way, pondering the possibility. Eugenie Fonda was alarmed to think that she’d once regarded this man as intriguing. He was simply fucked-up, and not in a particularly interesting way.
“It’s getting late,” she repeated, hoping he’d pick up on her lack of enthusiasm.
“Then let’s get busy. I’m ready,” Sacco said.
“You are?”
He patted the tops of his spidery-haired legs, inviting her to hop aboard.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Eugenie said.
“You can’t hurt me. I’m beyond pain.”
Just my luck, Eugenie thought. She placed herself on Sacco’s lap, facing away. He made a growling sound and said they should pretend they were riding a Harley.
“More like a Lark scooter,” she muttered.
“What’d you say?”
Miraculously the doorbell rang. Eugenie briskly unsaddled and snatched up the towel, covering herself as she hurried to the foyer. Through the peephole she saw him.
“Boyd?”
“Please, Genie.”
She opened the door and whispered, “What’s all this?”
He had shown up in flip-flops, baggy surfer shorts and a loose citrus-colored shirt with palm trees all over it.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
“Absolutely not.” She stepped outside into a cold drizzle, shutting the door behind her.
“You just get out of the shower?”
“No, Boyd, I’m dancing in the Dallas ballet. What are you doing here?”
Nervously he ran his tongue across his teeth. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. About me being so…”
“Dull?” Eugenie Fonda said.
“Predictable. And you’re completely right.”
“It’s forty-eight degrees out here, Boyd, and I’m wearing a towel. Could you get to the goddamn point?”
“Here’s the point: I’ll change.”
“Sure you will.”
“Give me a chance,” Shreave said. “Just look at me!”
Eugenie was certain she heard breathing on the other side of the door—her hot date, eavesdropping. She couldn’t decide which sight was more comical, Sacco ranting in the nude or Boyd Shreave dressed up like one of the Beach Boys and freezing his ass off.
“Genie, close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake.”
“Please,” Shreave said.
Eugenie did what he asked, thinking: If he gives me a ring, I’ll throttle him.
“There. You can look now,” he said.
In her palm was a ticket envelope bearing the red-and-blue logo of American Airlines.
“Where to?” she asked warily.
“Florida. You and me are going kayaking through the Ten Thousand Islands,” Shreave announced in his platinum voice, “where the weather today is seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit under clear and sunny skies.”
Eugenie Fonda felt her heart begin to hammer. She shivered and blinked the chilly raindrops from her eyelashes. Inside the apartment, Sacco was lurking like some randy underfed ape, and Eugenie felt appalled that she’d come so close to seducing him. Boyd Shreave was a lump and also married, but at least he wasn’t a paranoid geek.
And Florida was Florida, especially in the dead of winter.
“When do we leave?” she asked.
Shreave beamed in triumph. “Day after tomorrow,” he said, and kissed her so hard that it curled some if not all of her toes.
Fry waited until they were almost at the Naples city limits before telling his mother. Otherwise she would have whipped a U-turn a
nd hauled back to Everglades City and made a scene.
“Somebody hurt Mr. Piejack real bad,” Fry said.
“Hurt him how?” Honey Santana pivoted in the driver’s seat.
“Eyes on the road, Mom.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“They jammed one of his hands into a stone-crab trap,” Fry said, “while it was full of stone crabs.”
Honey grimaced. “Ouch. Mediums or larges?”
“Jumbos,” the boy said.
“Uh-oh.”
“Three of his fingers got pinched off and the other two got broken. It happened yesterday afternoon.”
Honey nodded. “I thought I heard an ambulance coming across the causeway.”
Fry said, “Here’s where it gets nasty. The paramedics opened the trap and busted off all the crab claws, with his fingers still caught in the pincers. They put ’em on ice in a cooler, but supposedly they forgot to mark which of the fingers went where—”
“Oh stop!”
“I’m serious. They finally got Mr. Piejack into surgery, but then the nurses started arguing with the doctors about who’d get to keep the claws for dinner,” Fry said, “and then the lights went out in the middle of the operation—anyhow, it was a major cluster. Somehow Mr. Piejack ends up with his pinkie sewn to his thumb stump, and his thumb stitched to the nub of his index finger, I don’t remember exactly…”
Honey whistled softly. “I guess he’ll be selling his piano.”
“Mom, what are you doing? Why’re you stopping here?”
“I’m not stopping. I’m waiting for the traffic to pass so I can turn the car around,” she explained. “I need to speak with your ex-father.”
Fry deftly snatched the keys from the ignition.
“Give me those,” his mother said.
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you want to kill us both? We’re parked in the middle of Route 41, or didn’t you notice?”
She has a point, Fry thought. It was a good way to get flattened by an eighteen-wheeler.
“Dad’s in Miami,” he said, “so there’s no point racing home.”
“Did they catch whoever did this? Have they arrested anybody?”
“No, but Mr. Piejack told the cops it was three Spanish-speaking guys he’d never seen before. So don’t automatically assume Dad was involved,” Fry said, though he himself assumed the same thing.
His mother laughed. “Who else could it be? A normal person would’ve had Louis beat up or shot. It’s just like Perry to get carried away and hire a gang of sadistic gangsters. Stone crabs, I mean, how sick is that!”
Cars and trucks and campers were stacking up, honking behind them.
“The keys, please.” Honey held out a hand.
“What—you think he was trying to impress you or something?” the boy asked. “Maybe he was just pissed off.”
Honey sighed and adjusted the rearview mirror in order to better appraise the chaos mounting behind them. Fry sullenly tossed her the car keys.
“Attaboy. Now let’s go buy some kayaks,” she said.
“Whatever.”
Fry didn’t know what his mother was planning, but he feared that she was slipping into one of her manic spirals. She’d made no credible effort to land another job, even though the manager at Wal-Mart had left two phone messages asking her to come in for an interview.
Meanwhile she was spending hours at the kitchen table poring over marine charts of the Ten Thousand Islands. The more she gibbered about starting an ecotour business, the more Fry regretted not telling his father how concerned he was. Honey Santana had no innate sense of direction, frequently getting lost in broad daylight in an automobile, on a grid bristling with street signs. Out on the water, the possibilities for calamity were infinite.
Still, Fry tried to remain optimistic. After all, several days had passed since his mother had mentioned the foulmouthed telemarketer. That could only mean she’d already confronted (and probably crucified) the a-hole, either by telephone or snail mail.
Which was good, Fry thought. She’d gotten all that venom out of her system without harming a soul, including herself.
On the other hand, she continued to skate around all questions pertaining to the two airline tickets. Fry was exasperated, and more than a little suspicious.
“So, who are these friends that you’re flying in?” he asked when they were stopped at a traffic light.
“I told you about seventeen times—it’s been like forever since I’ve seen ’em.”
“You guys go to high school together or something?”
“Junior high.” Honey kept her eyes fixed on the highway. “But we’ve stayed in touch. They send a fruitcake every Christmas.”
Fry pointed out that he’d never seen a fruitcake in their home.
“That’s because I throw the damn things out immediately. Stuff’ll rot your teeth like battery acid,” his mother said.
She was obviously winging it, so Fry dropped the subject. He also decided not to inquire why she’d stopped shaving her right leg—he couldn’t imagine any response that would put his mind at ease.
They stopped at an upscale outfitter’s shop, where some over-tanned Yuppie wearing razor-pressed khakis informed them that a thousand dollars wasn’t nearly enough for two new tandem ocean kayaks. Prowling in the rear of the shop, Honey Santana discovered a pair of used fifteen-footers, one red and one yellow. In no time she talked Khaki Jack into selling her both, plus paddles and travel racks, for nine hundred even.
“That guy couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, twenty-six years old,” Honey remarked on the trip home. “I can’t believe he asked for my phone number.”
“I can’t believe you gave it to him,” Fry grumbled.
“Actually, I didn’t.”
“Then whose number was that?”
“Oh, I just made one up.”
Again Honey wasn’t being truthful. It was Perry Skinner’s number she handed out to men who wanted to call her but whom she had no intention of dating. One conversation with her ex-husband usually cooled their interest, Honey had found, while simultaneously serving to remind Perry that not all guys thought she was a basket case.
“Hey, I need a favor,” she said to her son. “Would you mind crashing at your ex-father’s place for a few days?”
“Can you please stop calling him that?”
“Thing is, I invited my friends to stay at the trailer, which means I’ll have to sleep in your room,” Honey said.
Fry hitched his eyebrows.
“Honest to God, I won’t peek in the closet.”
“Damn straight.”
“Or under your mattress.”
“How do you know what’s under the mattress?” Fry demanded.
“Because that’s where all teenage boys hide their porn, isn’t it?” Honey said. “It’s only for three or four days, I promise. And I won’t touch the computer, either.”
“Why can’t they get a motel?”
“Because they’re on a budget, young man. Not everybody’s rolling in dough like the president’s millionaire pals in the oil racket. Or Mr. Perry Skinner, the dope smuggler.”
“Knock it off, Mom. And watch where you’re going, ’kay?”
“I’m doing fine!” she snapped.
“In England you’d be doing fine. In this country we use the other side of the road.”
His mother’s driving skills eroded dramatically whenever she got frazzled.
“I don’t mind going to Dad’s,” Fry told her in a calming tone. “I’ll ask him as soon as he gets back from Miami.”
“Thank you.” Honey exhaled with relief. “I owe you a big one.”
She seemed to relax, and almost immediately the car found its way back to the proper lane. Later she began humming a tune that resembled in no way the song on the radio.
Another ominous sign, her son knew.
He said, “So when will they be here? Your friends.”
“Day after tomorrow,�
�� his mother replied.
“You never even told me their names.”
Honey Santana drummed her fingernails on the steering wheel. “Oh, we’ll all get together for dinner one night. I promise.”
He counted three young men and three young women. Their beer cans glinted in the firelight. Thanks to a thundering boom box (with which one of them was now doing a tango), they hadn’t heard Sammy Tigertail’s somewhat unstealthy approach. He crouched in a line of palmettos and watched the kids frisking around a wind-whipped fire that they’d built on a dry spit of beach. Nearby were three gum ball–colored canoes that had been dragged ashore and emptied. Numerous articles of clothing, including bras and bathing suits, had been laid out to dry on the upturned hulls.
Sammy Tigertail guessed that the intruders were about his age, probably college students on holiday break. Most likely they were harmless, yet he wanted them to go away. He wished not to be seen by any other humans. The battery in his cell phone had died, so for all he knew, a police manhunt was under way for the missing Wilson and the Indian airboat driver with whom he’d last been seen.
It was Sonny Tigertail’s third night of spying on the strangers, and finally he’d settled on a plan. Frightening them off would be easy; a couple of rifle shots over their pale heads would do the job. But first he needed to steal a canoe, a small crime requiring grit and patience.
He stretched out behind a dune to nap, waiting for the campers to pass out. He envisioned himself as his great-great-great-grandfather, stalking General Jesup or that swine Zachary Taylor. The grandiose fantasy was jarringly interrupted by Wilson, the dead tourist. An underwater scavenger had nibbled off one of his earlobes, and a colony of purple barnacles had taken up residence on a bare patch of his scalp.
“Man, I need a favor,” Wilson’s spirit said.
“Like what?”
“I want you to move me.”
“That’s not funny,” said Sammy Tigertail.
“Get my body out of that river, please? Come on, bro, it’s so goddamn cold at night. Move me someplace dry.”
“No, sir. I can’t.”
