by Carl Hiaasen
Mullet Fingers grinned. “ ‘We’?”
“All I mean is—”
“You’re sayin’ it’s a lost cause, right? Come on, Tex, you gotta start thinkin’ like an outlaw.”
“But I’m not an outlaw.”
“Yeah, you are. Last night at the hospital—that was definitely an outlaw move.”
“You were sick. You needed help,” Roy said.
Mullet Fingers finished off the water and tossed the empty bottle. He stood up, stretching like a cat.
“You crossed the line, and why? ’Cause you cared about what happened to me,” he said to Roy, “just like I care about what happens to them weird little owls.”
“They’re burrowing owls. I’ve been reading up on them,” Roy said, “which reminds me—they probably aren’t too crazy about hamburger meat. They eat mostly bugs and worms, according to the bird books.”
“So I’ll catch ’em some bugs.” The boy spoke with a touch of impatience. “Point is, it ain’t right, what’s happening out there. That land belonged to the owls long before it belonged to the pancake house. Where you from, Tex?”
“Montana,” Roy replied automatically. Then he added, “Well, actually, I was born in Detroit. But we lived in Montana right before we moved down here.”
“Never been out West,” Mullet Fingers said, “but I know they got mountains.”
“Yeah. Awesome mountains.”
“That’s what we need here,” said the boy. “Florida’s so flat, there’s nothing to stop ’em from bulldozin’ one coast to the other.”
Roy didn’t have the heart to tell him that even mountains aren’t safe from machines like that.
“Ever since I was little,” Mullet Fingers said, “I’ve been watchin’ this place disappear—the piney woods, the scrub, the creeks, the glades. Even the beaches, man—they put up all these giant hotels and only goober tourists are allowed. It really sucks.”
Roy said, “Same thing happens everywhere.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t fight back. Here, check it out.” From a pocket of his torn jeans the boy produced a crumpled piece of paper. “I tried, Tex, see? Had Beatrice write a letter, telling ’em about the owls and all. Here’s what they sent back.”
Roy smoothed out the paper, which bore the Mother Paula’s company emblem at the top. It said:
Dear Ms. Leep,
Thank you very much for your letter.
We here at Mother Paula,s All-American Pancake Houses, Inc., take pride in our strong commitment to the environment. Every possible effort will be made to address your concerns.
You have my personal assurance that Mother Paula,s is working closely with local authorities, in full compliance with all laws, codes, and regulations.
Sincerely,
Chuck E. Muckle
Vice-President for Corporate Relations
“Lame,” Roy said, handing the paper back to Beatrice’s stepbrother.
“Yeah, it’s just a whatcha-call-it ... a form letter. Didn’t even mention the owls.”
They stepped out of the ice-cream truck into the sunlight. Ripples of heat rose from the junked cars, which were lined up in rows as far as Roy could see.
“How long are you going to hide here?” he asked the boy.
“Till they chase me out. Hey, what’re you doin’ tonight?”
“Homework.”
In truth Roy had only one short chapter to read for Mr. Ryan’s history class, but he wanted an excuse to stay home. He sensed that Mullet Fingers was planning another illegal visit to the Mother Paula’s site.
“Well, you change your mind, meet me you-know-where at sunset,” the boy said, “and bring a socket wrench.”
Roy felt a strange mixture of apprehension and excitement. Part of him was worried about the tactics used by Beatrice’s stepbrother, and part of him was rooting for the kid.
“You’ve been sick,” Roy said. “You need to rest up.”
“Ha! No time for that.”
“But the stuff you’re doing, it won’t work,” Roy persisted. “It might slow things down but it won’t stop ’em. Mother Paula’s is a big company. They’re not just going to give up and go away.”
“Neither am I, Tex.”
“Sooner or later they’ll catch you, and then you’ll end up in juvenile hall and—”
“Then I’ll run away again. Same as always.”
“But don’t you miss, like, a normal life?”
“Can’t miss what you never had,” said Beatrice’s stepbrother. Roy detected no bitterness in his voice.
“Maybe someday I’ll go back to school,” the boy went on, “but for now I’m ’bout as smart as I need to be. Maybe I can’t do algebra or say ‘Nice poodle’ in French or tell you who discovered Brazil, but I can make a fire with two dry sticks and a rock. I can climb a coconut palm and get me enough fresh milk to last a month—”
They heard a motor start and ducked back into the ice-cream truck.
“Old guy who owns the place,” Mullet Fingers whispered. “He’s got an ATV—it’s super cool. Goes flyin’ around here like he’s Jeff Gordon.”
When the growl of the all-terrain vehicle faded away toward the other side of the junkyard, the boy signaled that it was safe to leave the truck. He led Roy on a shortcut to the opening in the fence, and they slipped out together.
“Where you headed now?” Roy asked.
“I dunno. Maybe do some recon.”
“Recon?”
“You know. Reconnaissance,” Mullet Fingers said. “Scope out targets for tonight.”
“Oh.”
“Aren’t ya gonna ask what I got planned?”
Roy said, “It’s probably better if I don’t know.” He considered mentioning that his father was in law enforcement. Maybe it would help the boy understand Roy’s reluctance to participate, even though he sympathized with the owl crusade. Roy couldn’t bear the thought of facing his parents through jail bars if he and Mullet Fingers got caught.
“My dad works for the government,” Roy said.
“That’s swell,” said the boy. “My dad eats Hot Pockets and stares at ESPN all day long. Come on, Tex, I got somethin’ way cool to show you.”
“The name’s Roy.”
“Okay, Roy. Follow me.”
Then he took off running, again.
One summer in the late 1970s, long before Roy Eberhardt was born, a small but powerful tropical storm boiled out of the Gulf of Mexico and came ashore a few miles south of Coconut Cove. No one was injured or killed, though the ten-foot surge caused heavy damage to buildings and roads along the waterfront.
Among the casualties was a stone-crab boat called the Molly Bell, which was torn from her anchorage and swept up a swollen tidal creek, where she wallowed and sank from sight.
The storm blew itself out, the surge waters receded, and there, sticking halfway above the surface, was the lost crab boat. And there she stayed, for the creek was so slender and the currents so tricky and the oyster beds so perilous that no salvage captains would risk their own vessels to retrieve the Molly Bell.
Each season she grew more shrunken and dilapidated, surrendering her sturdy hull and deck to the ravages of woodworms, barnacles, and weather. After two decades, all of the Molly Bell that showed above the surface was the sloping, bleached roof of her pilothouse—just wide enough for two boys to sit side by side, faces upturned toward the sun, legs dangling over the pale green creek.
Roy was dazzled by the wondrous quiet, the bushy old mangroves sealing off the place from the honking and hammering of civilization. Beatrice’s stepbrother closed his eyes and gustily inhaled the salty breeze.
A lone osprey hovered overhead, attracted by a glimmer of baitfish in the shallows. Upstream a school of baby tarpon rolled, also with lunch on their minds. Nearby a white heron posed regally on one leg, in the same tree where the boys had hung their shoes before swimming to the derelict boat.
“Two weeks ago I saw a crocodile in here. Nine-footer,”
remarked Beatrice’s stepbrother.
“Great. Now you tell me,” Roy said with a laugh.
The truth was, he felt totally safe. The creek was incredibly beautiful and wild; a hidden sanctuary, only twenty minutes away from his own backyard.
I might have found this place all by myself, Roy thought, if I hadn’t spent so much time moping around being homesick for Montana.
The boy said, “It ain’t the crocs ya gotta worry about. It’s the mosquitoes.”
“Have you brought Beatrice out here?”
“Just once. A blue crab bit her on the big toe, and that’s all she wrote.”
“Poor crab,” said Roy.
“Yeah, it wasn’t pretty.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything but my name,” said Mullet Fingers. “I don’t want one and I don’t need one. Not out here.”
“What I wanted to ask about,” Roy said, “is you and your mom. What’s the deal?”
“I dunno. We just never connected,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “I quit sweatin’ it a long time ago.”
Roy found that hard to believe.
“What about your real dad?”
“Never knew him.” The boy shrugged. “Never even saw a picture.”
Roy couldn’t think of what to say, so he quietly dropped the subject. Downstream a disturbance shook the water, and a dozen silvery cigar-sized fish jumped in unison, trying to escape some hungry predator.
“Cool! Here they come.” Beatrice’s stepbrother pointed at the frantic V-shaped wake. He got flat on his belly and instructed Roy to hold his ankles.
“What for?”
“Hurry up, man, c’mon!”
With Roy anchoring his feet, the boy scooted himself forward over the rim of the pilothouse until his wiry upper torso was suspended out over the creek.
“Don’t let go!” he yelled, stretching his tan arms outward until his fingertips touched the water.
Roy’s hold began to slip, so he pitched forward, exerting his full weight upon the boy’s midsection. He expected both of them to go tumbling into the creek, which was all right as long as they didn’t scrape any oyster bars.
“Here they come! Get ready!”
“I’ve gotcha.” Roy managed to hang on as he felt the boy lunge. He heard a grunt, a splash, and then a triumphant “Whooo-hoooo!!!”
Grabbing the boy’s belt loops, Roy pulled him safely back onto the pilothouse. The boy flipped over and sat up beaming, his hands cupped in front of him.
“Take a peek,” he told Roy.
The boy was holding a bright blunt-headed fish that sparkled like liquid chrome. How he had snatched such a slippery little ghost from the water with only his bare hands, Roy didn’t know. Even the osprey would have been impressed.
“So that’s a mullet,” Roy said.
“Yep.” The boy smiled proudly. “That’s how come I got the nickname.”
“Exactly how’d you do that? What’s the trick?”
“Practice,” the boy replied. “Trust me, it beats homework.”
The fish glittered blue and green as it wriggled in his palms. Holding it over the creek, the boy let go. The mullet landed with a soft plop and vanished in a swirl.
“Bye, little guy,” said Beatrice’s stepbrother. “Swim fast.”
Later, after they paddled to shore, Roy’s curiosity got the best of him. He heard himself saying: “Okay, you can tell me now. What’s going to happen tonight at Mother Paula’s?”
Mullet Fingers, who was shaking a snail off one of his new sneakers, flashed a mischievous glance. “There’s only one way to find out,” he said. “Be there.”
FIFTEEN
Roy sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing up at the cowboy poster from the Livingston rodeo. He wished he was as brave as a champion bull rider, but he wasn’t.
The Mother Paula’s mission was simply too risky; somebody, or something, would be waiting. The attack dogs might be gone, but the company wasn’t about to leave the new pancake-house location unguarded for long.
In addition to a fear of getting caught, Roy had serious qualms about trying anything illegal—and there was no dodging the fact that vandalism was a crime, however noble the cause.
Yet he couldn’t stop thinking ahead to the day when the owl dens would be destroyed by bulldozers. He could picture the mother owls and father owls, helplessly flying in circles while their babies were being smothered under tons of dirt.
It made Roy sad and angry. So what if Mother Paula’s had all the proper permits? Just because something was legal didn’t automatically make it right.
Roy still hadn’t settled the argument between his brain and his heart. Surely there had to be a way for him to help the birds—and Beatrice’s stepbrother—without breaking the law. He needed to come up with a plan.
Glancing out the window, Roy was reminded that time was slipping away. The shadows had lengthened, which meant that the sun would be setting soon and that Mullet Fingers would be on the move.
Before leaving the house, Roy poked his head into the kitchen, where his mother stood over the stove.
“Where you going?” she asked.
“Bike ride.”
“Another one? You just got back.”
“When’s dinner? It smells great.”
“Pot roast, honey, nothing special. But we won’t be eating until seven-thirty or eight—your dad had a late tee time.”
“Perfect,” Roy said. “Bye, Mom.”
“What are you up to?” she called after him. “Roy?”
He pedaled at full speed to the block where Dana Matherson lived, and chained his bicycle to a street sign. Approaching the house on foot, he slipped unnoticed through a hedge into the backyard.
Roy wasn’t tall enough to see in the windows; he had to jump and hold himself up by his fingers. In the first room he saw a thin rumpled figure lying prone on a sofa: Dana’s father, holding what appeared to be an ice pack to his forehead.
In the second room was either Dana’s mother or Dana himself, wearing red spandex pants and a ratty wig. Roy decided it was probably Mrs. Matherson, since the person was pushing a vacuum cleaner. He lowered himself and resumed creeping along the outside wall until he reached the third window.
And there, sure enough, was Dana.
He lay sprawled on his bed, a lazy blob in dirty cargo pants and unlaced high-top sneakers. He wore a stereo headset, and his head was jerking back and forth to the music.
Standing on tiptoe, Roy tapped his knuckles against the glass. Dana didn’t hear him. Roy kept tapping until a dog on the porch next door began to bark.
The next time Roy levered himself up to peek into the room, Dana was glowering at him through the window. He had pulled off the headset and was mouthing some words that even an amateur lipreader could have figured out.
Smiling, Roy dropped to the lawn and took two steps back from the Matherson house. He proceeded to do something that was drastically out of character for a boy who was basically shy.
What he did was salute crisply, spin around, drop his pants, and bend over.
Viewed upside down (which was how Roy saw it), Dana’s wide-eyed reaction suggested that he’d never been mooned in such a personal way. He seemed highly insulted.
Calmly Roy pulled up his trousers, then strolled around to the front of the house and waited for Dana to come hurtling out the door in a fury. It didn’t take long.
Roy broke into a brisk jog with Dana no more than twenty yards behind him, cursing and spluttering vile names. Roy knew he was a faster runner, so he measured his pace; he didn’t want Dana to get discouraged and give up.
Yet after only three blocks it became evident that Dana was in even worse shape than Roy had anticipated. Steadily he ran out of steam, the angry curses dissolving into moans of fatigue, the name calling into sickly wheezes.
When Roy checked behind him, he saw that Dana was gimping along in a lopsided half-trot. It was pathetic. They were still a half-mile fro
m where Roy wanted to be, but he knew Dana wouldn’t make it without pausing for a rest. The sorry load was about to keel over.
Roy had no choice but to pretend he was tiring, too. Slower and slower he ran, falling back in the chase until Dana was practically stumbling at his heels. Familiar sweaty hands clamped down on his neck, but Roy realized that Dana was too worn out to throttle him. The kid was simply trying to keep himself from falling down.
It didn’t work. They landed in a heap, Roy pinned on the bottom. Dana was panting like a wet plow horse.
“Don’t hurt me! I give up!” Roy peeped convincingly.
“Unnnggghhh.” Dana’s face was as red as a pepper and his eyeballs were fluttering in their sockets.
“You win!” Roy cried.
“Aaaarrrgghhh.”
Dana’s breath was foul, but his body odor was ferocious. Roy turned his head away to gulp some fresh air.
Beneath them the ground was soft and the soil was as black as coal. Roy guessed that they’d fallen in somebody’s garden. They lay there for what seemed like forever while Dana recovered from the pursuit. Roy felt smushed and uncomfortable, but it was no use trying to squirm loose; Dana was dead weight.
Eventually he stirred, tightened his hold on Roy, and said: “Now I’m gonna kick your butt, Eberhardt.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“You mooned me!”
“It was a joke. I’m really sorry.”
“Hey, you moon somebody and that’s it. You get your butt kicked.”
“I don’t blame you for being p.o.’ed,” Roy said.
Dana slugged him in the ribs, but there wasn’t much muscle in the punch.
“Think it’s funny now, cowgirl?”
Roy shook his head no, faking like he was hurt.
Dana grinned malevolently. His teeth were nubby and yellow, like an old barn dog’s. Kneeling on Roy’s chest, he hauled back to hit him again.
“Wait!” Roy squeaked.
“For what? Beatrice the Bear ain’t here to save ya this time.”
“Ciggies,” Roy said in a confidential whisper.
