by Carl Hiaasen
“One, two, three, four...,” Roy said aloud. When he reached fifty, he whipped the hood off his head and wheeled around. He was alone in the middle of the driving range, surrounded by acres of golf balls.
The barefoot boy was gone, again.
Roy ran all the way back to his bicycle and rode home as fast as he could. He wasn’t frightened and he wasn’t discouraged. He was more excited than ever.
SIX
At breakfast the next morning, Roy asked if it was against the law for a kid his age not to go to school.
His mother said, “Well, I’m not sure if it’s an actual law but—”
“Oh yes, it is,” his father cut in. “Truancy is what it’s called.”
“Can they put you in jail?” Roy asked.
“Usually they just put you back in school,” Mr. Eberhardt said. Half-jokingly he added, “You weren’t thinking of dropping out, were you?”
Roy said no, school was all right.
“I bet I know what this is about,” Mrs. Eberhardt said. “You’re worried about bumping into that Matherson boy again. See, didn’t I tell you the apology letter was too assertive?”
“The letter was just fine,” Roy’s father said, spreading open the newspaper.
“If it was ‘just fine,’ then why is Roy so scared? Why’s he talking about dropping out of school?”
“I’m not scared,” Roy said, “and I don’t want to drop out of Trace Middle. It’s just ...”
His mother eyed him. “What?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
Roy decided not to tell his parents about his encounter with Mullet Fingers, the running boy. Being in law enforcement, Roy’s father probably was required to report all crimes, even truancy. Roy didn’t want to get the kid in trouble.
“Listen to this,” Mr. Eberhardt said, and began reading aloud from the newspaper: “ ‘A Coconut Cove police cruiser was vandalized early Monday morning while parked at a construction site on East Oriole Avenue. The officer had fallen asleep inside the car at the time, according to a police spokesperson.’ Can you believe that?”
Roy’s mother clucked. “Sleeping on duty? That’s disgraceful. They should fire that fellow.”
Roy thought the story was pretty amusing.
“It gets better,” his father said. “Listen: ‘The incident happened shortly before sunrise, when an unknown prankster sneaked up to the patrol car, a 2001 Crown Victoria, and spray-painted the windows with black paint.’ ”
Roy, who had a mouthful of raisin bran, burst out laughing. Milk dribbled down his chin.
Mr. Eberhardt was also smiling as he continued: “ ‘Coconut Cove Police Chief Merle Deacon declined to release the name of the officer who fell asleep, saying that he is part of a special surveillance team investigating property crimes on the east side of town. Deacon said the officer has recently been ill with the flu and had been given medication that made him drowsy.’ ”
Roy’s father looked up from the article. “Medication, ha!”
“What else does the story say?” Mrs. Eberhardt asked.
“Let’s see....It says this was the third suspicious incident within a week at this location, which is the future home of a Mother Paula’s All-American Pancake House.”
Roy’s mother brightened. “We’re getting a Mother Paula’s here in Coconut Cove? That’ll be nice.”
Roy swabbed a napkin across his chin. “Dad, what else happened out there?”
“I was wondering the same thing.” Mr. Eberhardt skimmed the rest of the article. “Here it is: ‘Last Monday, unknown intruders uprooted survey stakes from the property. Four days later, vandals entered the site and placed live alligators in three portable toilets. According to police, the reptiles were captured unharmed and later released into a nearby canal. No arrests have been made.’ ”
Mrs. Eberhardt rose and started clearing the breakfast dishes. “Alligators!” she said. “Good heavens, what next?”
Mr. Eberhardt folded the paper and tossed it on the kitchen counter. “This is turning out to be an interesting little town after all, isn’t it, Roy?”
Roy picked up the newspaper to see for himself. East Oriole Avenue sounded familiar. As he read the story, Roy remembered where he’d seen that street sign. Beatrice Leep’s bus stop, the place he had first spotted the running boy, was on West Oriole Avenue, just the other side of the main highway.
“The article doesn’t say how big those gators were,” Roy remarked.
His father chuckled. “I don’t think it’s important, son. I think it’s the thought that counts.”
The police captain said, “I’ve read your report, David. Is there anything else you’d like to add?”
Officer Delinko shook his head. His hands were folded on his lap. What could he say?
His sergeant spoke up: “David understands how serious this is.”
“ ‘Embarrassing’ is the word,” the captain said. “The chief has been sharing some of the e-mails and phone messages with me. It’s not pretty. Did you see the newspaper?”
Officer Delinko nodded. He had read and reread the article a dozen times. Each time it made his stomach churn.
“You probably noticed that your name wasn’t mentioned,” the captain said. “That’s because we refused to release it to the media.”
“Yes. Thank you,” Officer Delinko said. “I’m very sorry about all this, sir.”
“And you read Chief Deacon’s explanation for what happened? I assume you’re comfortable with that.”
“To be honest, sir, I haven’t had the flu. And I wasn’t taking any medication yesterday—”
“David,” the sergeant cut in, “if the chief says you were taking flu medicine, you were definitely taking flu medicine. And if the chief says that’s why you fell asleep in your patrol car, then that’s exactly what happened. Understand?”
“Oh. Yes, sir.”
The captain held up a yellow slip of paper. “This is a bill from the Ford dealership for four hundred and ten bucks. They got that black paint off your windows, that’s the good news. Took ’em all day, but they did it.”
Officer Delinko was sure that the captain was going to hand him the repair bill, but he didn’t. Instead he placed it inside the patrolman’s personnel file, which lay open on his desk.
“Officer, I don’t know what to do with you. I just don’t.” The captain’s tone was one of paternal disappointment.
“I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again, sir.”
Officer Delinko’s sergeant said, “Captain, I ought to tell you that David volunteered for this surveillance duty at the construction site. And he went out early in the morning, on his own off-duty time.”
“His own time?” The captain folded his arms. “Well, that’s commendable. David, can I ask why you did that?”
“Because I wanted to catch the perpetrators,” Officer Delinko replied. “I knew it was a priority with you and the chief.”
“That’s the only reason? You didn’t have some sort of personal stake in this case?”
I do now, thought Officer Delinko. Now that they’ve made a fool of me.
“No, sir,” he said.
The captain turned his attention toward the sergeant. “Well, there’s got to be some type of punishment, whether we like it or not. The chief’s taking too much grief over this.”
“I agree,” the sergeant said.
Officer Delinko’s heart sank. Any disciplinary action would automatically become part of his permanent record. It might be an issue when it came time for a promotion.
“Sir, I’ll pay that bill myself,” Officer Delinko offered. Four hundred and ten dollars was a serious chunk out of his paycheck, but keeping his record spotless was worth every penny.
The captain said it wasn’t necessary for Officer Delinko to cover the bill—and that wouldn’t satisfy the chief, anyway. “So I’m putting you on desk duty,” he said, “for a month.”
“David can live with that,” said the sergeant.
&
nbsp; “But what about the Mother Paula’s surveillance?” Officer Delinko asked.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get it covered. We’ll pull somebody off the midnight shift.”
“Yes, sir.” Officer Delinko was depressed at the idea of being stuck behind a desk, doing nothing for a whole boring month. Still, it was better than being suspended. The only thing worse than sitting at headquarters would be sitting at home.
The captain stood up, which meant the meeting was over. He said, “David, if anything like this ever happens again ...”
“It won’t. I promise.”
“Next time you’re definitely going to see your name in the newspaper.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Under a headline that says: OFFICER TERMINATED. Is that clear?”
Officer Delinko cringed inwardly. “I understand, sir,” he said quietly to the captain.
He wondered if the little jerks who’d sprayed his Crown Victoria realized how much trouble they were getting him into. My whole career is in jeopardy, Officer Delinko thought angrily, all because of some smart-ass juvenile delinquents. He was more determined than ever to catch them in the act.
In the hallway outside the captain’s office, the sergeant told him, “You can pick up your car at the motor pool. But remember, David, you’re off road patrol. That means you’re allowed to drive the unit home and back, but that’s all.”
“Right,” said Officer Delinko. “Home and back.”
He had already thought of a route that would take him directly past the corner of East Oriole and Woodbury, the future location of Mother Paula’s All-American Pancake House.
Nobody said he couldn’t leave his house extra early in the morning. Nobody said he couldn’t take his sweet time getting to work.
Dana Matherson was absent from school again. Roy felt somewhat relieved, though not enough to relax. The longer Dana had to stay away so his nose could recover from Roy’s punch, the nastier he would be when he finally returned to Trace Middle.
“You’ve still got time to blow town,” Garrett suggested helpfully.
“I’m not running away. Whatever happens just happens.”
Roy wasn’t trying to act cool. He’d thought a lot about the Dana situation. Another confrontation seemed inevitable, and part of him simply wanted to get it over with. He wasn’t cocky, but he had a stubborn streak of pride. He had no intention of spending the rest of the year cowering in the rest room or sneaking through the halls just to avoid some dumb bully.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” said Garrett, “but some of the kids are taking bets.”
“Great. They’re betting on whether Dana’s going to beat me up?”
“No, on how many times he’s going to beat you up.”
“Nice,” Roy said.
Actually, two good things had come out of the altercation with Dana Matherson. The first was Roy successfully tailing the barefoot boy to the golf course. The second was Roy being booted off the bus for two weeks by the vice-principal.
It was nice having his mother pick him up at school. They got to chat in the car, and Roy arrived home twenty minutes earlier than usual.
The phone was ringing when they walked in the door. It was his mother’s sister calling from California to chat. Roy seized the opportunity to retrieve a cardboard shoe box from his room and slip quietly out the back door of the house.
He was heading for the golf course again, with a slight detour. Instead of making a left on West Oriole, toward the bus stop, Roy rode his bicycle across the highway to East Oriole. He’d gone less than two blocks when he came upon a scrub-covered lot with a dented work trailer in one corner.
Parked beside the trailer was a blue pickup truck. Not far away sat three bulldozer-type vehicles and a row of portable toilets. Roy figured this had to be the same place where the police car got spray-painted and the alligators were hidden inside the latrines.
As soon as Roy stopped his bicycle, the door of the trailer flew open and a stocky bald man charged out. He wore stiff tan work pants and a tan shirt that had a name stitched to the breast. Roy was too far away to read it.
“What do you want?” the man snapped, his face flushed with anger. “Hey, kid, I’m talking to you!”
Roy thought: What’s his problem?
The man came toward him, pointing. “What’s in that box?” he yelled. “What’ve you and your little buddies got planned for tonight, huh?”
Roy spun his bike around and started pedaling away. The guy was acting like a total psycho.
“That’s right, and don’t you come back!” the bald man hollered, shaking a fist. “Next time there’ll be guard dogs waiting for you. The meanest damn dogs you ever saw!”
Roy pedaled faster. He didn’t turn around. The clouds were darkening, and he thought he felt a raindrop on one cheek. From the distance came a rumble of thunder.
Even after crossing the highway to West Oriole, Roy didn’t slow his pace. By the time he made it to the golf course, a steady drizzle was coming down. He hopped off his bicycle and, shielding the shoe box with both arms, began to jog across the deserted greens and fairways.
Soon he reached the thicket of pepper trees where he’d encountered the boy called Mullet Fingers. Roy had mentally prepared himself to be blindfolded and tied up again—he’d even composed a short speech for the occasion. He was determined to persuade Mullet Fingers that he was someone to be trusted, that he hadn’t come to interfere but rather to help, if Mullet Fingers needed it.
While working his way through the thicket, Roy grabbed a dead branch off the ground. It was heavy enough to make an impression on a cottonmouth moccasin, though he hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.
When he got to the ditch, he saw no signs of the deadly sparkle-tailed snakes. The running boy’s camp was gone—cleaned out. All the plastic bags had been removed, and the fire pit had been buried. Roy poked the tip of the dead branch through the loose dirt, but it yielded no clues. Glumly he checked for footprints and found not one.
Mullet Fingers had fled without a trace.
As Roy emerged into the fairway, the purple sky opened up. Rain slashed down in wind-driven sheets that stung his face, and lightning crashed ominously nearby. Roy shivered and took off running. In an electrical storm, the worst place to be was on a golf course, standing near trees.
As he ran, flinching at every thunderclap, he began to feel guilty about sneaking away from the house. His mother would be worried sick once she realized he was out in this weather. She might even get in the car and come searching for him, a prospect that troubled Roy. He didn’t want his mom driving around in such dangerous conditions; the rain was so heavy that she wouldn’t be able to see the road very well.
As wet and weary as he was, Roy forced himself to run faster. Squinting through the downpour, he kept thinking: It can’t be much farther.
He was looking for the water fountain where he’d left his bicycle. Finally, as another wild burst of lightning illuminated the fairway, he spotted it twenty yards ahead of him.
But his bicycle wasn’t there.
At first Roy thought it was the wrong fountain. He thought he must have lost his direction in the storm. Then he recognized a nearby utility shed and a wooden kiosk with a soda machine.
This was the place, all right. Roy stood in the rain and stared miserably at the spot where he’d left his bike. Usually he was careful about locking it, but today he’d been in too much of a hurry.
Now it was missing. Stolen, undoubtedly.
To get away from the rain, Roy dashed into the wooden kiosk. The soggy cardboard box was coming apart in his hands. It would be a very long walk home, and Roy knew he couldn’t get there before nightfall. His parents would be going bananas.
For ten minutes Roy stood in the kiosk, dripping on the floor, waiting for the downpour to slacken. The lightning and thunder seemed to be rolling eastward but the rain just wouldn’t quit. Finally Roy stepped outside, lowered his head, and started trudging i
n the direction of his neighborhood. Every step made a splash. Raindrops streaked down his forehead and clung to his eyelashes. He wished he’d worn a cap.
When he got to the sidewalk he tried to run but it was like sloshing through the shallows of an endless lake. Roy had noticed this about Florida: It was so low and flat that puddles took forever to drain. He plodded onward and soon he reached the bus stop where he’d first spotted the running boy. Roy didn’t pause to look around. It was growing darker by the minute.
Just as he made it to the corner of West Oriole and the highway, the streetlights flickered on.
Oh brother, he thought. I’m really late.
Traffic was steady in both directions, creeping through the standing water. Roy waited impatiently. Every car pushed a wake that splashed against his shins. He didn’t care. He was already soaked to the bone.
Spying a gap in the traffic, Roy ventured into the road.
“Watch it!” shouted a voice behind him.
Roy jumped back on the curb and spun around. There was Beatrice Leep, sitting on his bicycle.
She said, “What’s in the shoe box, cowgirl?”
SEVEN
How it happened was no big mystery.
Like all students, Beatrice the Bear lived in the vicinity of her school bus stop. Roy likely had ridden right past her front door, and when Beatrice had spotted him, she’d simply tailed him to the golf course.
“That’s my bike,” he said to her.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Can I have it back?”
“Maybe later,” she said. “Hop on.”
“What?”
“The handlebars, you dork. Get on the handlebars. We’re goin’ for a ride.”
Roy did what he was told. He wanted to retrieve his bicycle and go home.
Two years of pushing up and down high hills in Montana’s thin air had made Roy a powerful rider, but Beatrice Leep was stronger. Even through deep puddles she pedaled swiftly and effortlessly, as if Roy were weightless. Perched uncomfortably on the handlebars, he clutched the sodden cardboard box.
“Where are we going?” he shouted.
