by Carl Hiaasen
“Shoplifting, breakin’ into Coke machines—stuff like that,” Garrett said. “One time he even knocked down a lady and swiped her purse. Mom made me promise not to tell. It’s supposed to be a secret, since Dana’s still a minor.”
“Right,” said Roy sarcastically. “You wouldn’t want to ruin his fine reputation.”
“Whatever. Hey, you oughta be doin’ somersaults.”
“Yeah, what for?”
“ ’Cause my mom says they’re gonna lock him up this time.”
“Juvie hall?”
“No doubt,” said Dana, “on account of his rap sheet.”
“Wow,” Roy said quietly.
He wasn’t in the mood to turn somersaults, though he couldn’t deny experiencing a sense of liberation. He was tired of being Dana Matherson’s punching bag.
And while he felt guilty about making up the bogus cigarette story, Roy also couldn’t help but think that putting Dana behind bars was a public service. He was a nasty kid. Maybe a hitch at juvenile hall would straighten him out.
“Hey, wanna do the skate park?” Garrett asked.
“Sure.”
Roy got on his borrowed skateboard and pushed off hard with his right foot. The whole way to the park, he never once checked over his shoulder to see if he was being stalked.
It felt good, the way Sundays ought to feel.
Curly awoke in his own bed, and why not?
The Mother Paula’s vandal was finally in custody, so there was no reason to spend the night on guard at the trailer.
After Officer Delinko gave him a lift home, Curly had entertained his wife and mother-in-law with a blow-by-blow account of the exciting events. For dramaticpurposes, Curly had jazzed up a few of the details.
In his version of the story, for instance, the surly young intruder disabled him with an expertly aimed karate chop (which sounded more serious than having dirt thrown in your face). Curly also decided it was unnecessary to mention that he’d tripped in an owl burrow and fallen. Instead he described the chase as a breathless neck-and-neck sprint. Officer Delinko’s role in the capture of the fleeing criminal was conveniently minimized.
Curly’s performance went over so fabulously at home that he was confident Chuck Muckle would go for it, too. First thing Monday morning, Curly would call Mother Paula’s corporate headquarters to give the vice-president the details of the arrest, and of his own heroics. He couldn’t wait to hear Mr. Muckle choke out a congratulation.
After lunch, Curly sat down to watch a ball game. No sooner had he settled in front of the TV than a Mother Paula’s commercial came on, promoting the weekend special: $6.95 for all the pancakes you could eat, plus free sausage and coffee.
The sight of Kimberly Lou Dixon playing Mother Paula made Curly think of the cheesy movie he’d rented, The Last House on Witch Boulevard III. He couldn’t recall whether it was due back at Blockbuster that afternoon or the following day. Curly hated paying late fees on video rentals, so he decided to go to the trailer and get the tape.
On the drive there, Curly was distressed to remember that he’d left something else at the construction site: his gun!
During the night’s commotion, he had somehow lost track of the .38 revolver. He didn’t recall having it when he was riding in Officer Delinko’s patrol car, so it must have slipped from his belt while he was scuffling with the kid outside the trailer. Another possibility was that he’d dropped it when he stepped in that darn owl hole.
Misplacing a loaded gun was a serious matter, and Curly was highly annoyed with himself. When he arrived at the fenced lot, he hurried to the area where he and the teenager had wrestled. There was no .38 lying around.
Anxiously Curly retraced his steps to the owl den and pointed a flashlight down the hole. No gun.
Now he was genuinely worried. He checked inside the trailer and saw that nothing had been disturbed from the night before. The door was too damaged to be reattached, so Curly covered the opening with two sheets of plywood.
Then he began a methodical search, back and forth across the property, eyes glued to the ground. In one hand he carried a heavy rock, just in case he encountered one of the poisonous moccasins.
Gradually a harrowing thought seeped into Curly’s brain, chilling him like ice water: What if the teenaged burglar had swiped the revolver from his waistband while they were fighting? The kid could have stashed it in a Dumpster or tossed it in some bushes as he ran away.
Curly shuddered and pressed on with the hunt. After about half an hour, he’d worked his way down to the section of the property where the earthmoving equipment was parked in preparation for the site clearing.
By this time he’d almost given up hope of finding the gun. He was quite a distance from where he last remembered having it—and in the opposite direction from where the vandal had fled. Curly figured there was no possible way that the .38 could turn up so far from the trailer, unless an exceptionally large owl had picked it up and carried it there.
His eyes fixed on a shallow depression in a soft patch of sand: the imprint of a bare foot, definitely human. Curly counted the toes, just to make sure.
The foot appeared to be considerably smaller than Curly’s own; smaller, too, than those of the husky teenaged burglar.
Farther ahead, Curly came across another footprint—and then another, and still another after that. The tracks led directly toward the row of earthmoving machines, and Curly advanced with a growing sense of unease.
He stopped in front of a bulldozer and shielded his brow from the sunlight. At first he didn’t notice anything wrong, but then it hit him like a kick from a mule.
The driver’s seat was gone!
Dropping the rock that he’d been carrying for protection, Curly dashed to the next machine in line, a backhoe. Its seat had disappeared, too.
In a snit, Curly stomped toward the third and last piece of equipment, a grader. Again, no driver’s seat.
Curly spat out a cuss word. Without seats, the earthmoving machines were basically useless. The operators had to sit down in order to work the foot pedals and steer at the same time.
The foreman’s mind was racing feverishly. Either the kid they’d caught last night had a hidden accomplice, or someone else had sneaked onto the property after Curly had departed.
But who? Curly wondered in exasperation. Who sabotaged my equipment, and when?
Fruitlessly he searched for the missing seats, his mood darkening by the moment. No longer was he lookingforward to calling Mr. Muckle at Mother Paula’s headquarters; in fact, he was dreading it. Curly suspected that the grumpy vice-president would take great delight in firing him over the phone.
In despair, Curly headed for the portable latrines. Having guzzled almost a whole pitcher of iced tea during lunch, he now felt like his belly was about to burst. The stress of the situation wasn’t helping, either.
Curly armed himself with the flashlight and entered one of the Travelin’ Johnnys, leaving the door slightly ajar in case a hasty exit was required. He wanted to be sure nobody had booby-trapped the toilet with foul-tempered reptiles again.
Cautiously Curly aimed his flashlight down the dark hole of the commode. He gulped as the beam illuminated something shiny and black in the water, but upon closer scrutiny he saw that it wasn’t an alligator.
“Perfect,” Curly muttered wretchedly. “Just perfect.”
It was his gun.
Roy was aching to sneak over to the junkyard and visit Mullet Fingers. He wanted to find out what had happened last night at the Mother Paula’s property.
The problem was Roy’s mother. She invoked the Sunday rule as soon as he returned from the skateboard park, and a family outing was launched. Making good on his promise, Roy’s father took them out the Tamiami Trail to an Indian tourist shop that offered airboat trips through the Everglades.
Roy ended up having a great time, even though the noise was so loud that it hurt his eardrums. The tall Seminole who was driving the airboat wore a straw c
owboy hat. He said the engine was the same type used on small airplanes.
The rush of wind made Roy’s eyes water as the flat-bottomed boat whisked across the sawgrass flats and weaved through the narrow winding creeks. It was cooler than a roller coaster. Along the way they stopped to look at snakes, bullfrogs, chameleons, raccoons, opossums,turtles, ducks, herons, two bald eagles, an otter, and (by Roy’s count) nineteen alligators. His father got most of the action on video, while his mother took pictures with her new digital camera.
Although the airboat was very fast, the ride across the shallows was like gliding on silk. Again Roy was astounded by the immense flatness of the terrain, the lush horizons, and the exotic abundance of life. Once you got away from all the jillions of people, Florida was just as wild as Montana.
That night, lying in bed, Roy felt a stronger connection to Mullet Fingers, and a better understanding of the boy’s private crusade against the pancake house. It wasn’t just about the owls, it was about everything—all the birds and animals, all the wild places that were in danger of being wiped out. No wonder the kid was mad, Roy thought, and no wonder he was so determined.
When Roy’s parents came in to say good night, he told them he’d never forget their trip to the Everglades, which was the truth. His mom and his dad were still his best friends, and they could be fun to hang out with. Roy knew it wasn’t easy on them, either, packing up and moving all the time. The Eberhardts were a team, and they stuck together.
“While we were gone, Officer Delinko left a message on the answering machine,” Roy’s father said. “Last night he arrested a suspect in the vandalism at the construction site.”
Roy didn’t say a word.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Eberhardt added. “It wasn’t the young man you told me about, the one who ran away from the hospital.”
“It was the Matherson boy,” Mrs. Eberhardt cut in excitedly, “the one who attacked you on the bus. And he tried to convince the police he was you!”
Roy couldn’t pretend not to know. “Garrett told me all about it,” he admitted.
“Really? Garrett must have an inside source,” Roy’s father remarked.
“The best,” said Roy. “What else did the policeman’s message say?”
“That’s about it. I got the impression he wanted me to ask if you knew anything about what happened.”
“Me?” Roy said.
“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” his mother interjected. “How would Roy know what a hoodlum like Dana Matherson was up to?”
Roy’s mouth was as dry as chalk. As close as he felt to his parents, he wasn’t prepared to tell them that he’d mooned Dana, purposely lured him toward the Mother Paula’s property, and then made up a story about a stash of cigarettes inside the trailer.
“It’s certainly a strange coincidence,” Mr. Eberhardt was saying, “two different kids targeting the same location. Is it possible the Matherson boy hooked up with your friend, Beatrice’s stepbrother—”
“No way,” Roy interjected firmly. “Dana doesn’t care about the owls. He doesn’t care about anything but himself.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Roy’s mother said.
As his parents were shutting the bedroom door behind them, Roy said, “Hey, Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Remember how you said the pancake people could do whatever they wanted on that land if they had all the permits and stuff?”
“That’s right.”
“How do I check up on something like that?” Roy asked. “You know, just to make sure it’s all legal.”
“I suppose you’d call the building department at City Hall.”
“The building department. Okay, thanks.”
After the door closed, Roy heard his parents talking softly in the hallway. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, so he pulled the covers up to his neck and rolled over. Right away he began drifting off.
Before long, someone whispered his name. Roy assumed he was already dreaming.
Then he heard it again, and this time the voice seemed so real that he sat up. The only sound in the bedroom was his own breathing.
Great, he thought, now I’m imagining things.
He lay back on the pillow and blinked up at the ceiling.
“Roy?”
He went rigid under the covers.
“Roy, don’t freak out.”
But that’s exactly what he felt like doing. The voice was coming from under his bed.
“Roy, it’s me.”
“Me who?”
Roy’s breath came in rapid bursts and his heart pounded like a bass drum. He could feel the presence of the other person beneath him in the darkness, under the mattress.
“Me, Beatrice. Chill out, man.”
“What are you doing here!”
“Shh. Not so loud.”
Roy heard her slide out from underneath the bed. Quietly she stood up and moved to the window. There was just enough moon in the sky to light up her curly blond hair and cast a reflection in her glasses.
“How’d you get in our house?” Roy struggled to keep his voice low, but he was too rattled. “How long have you been hiding here?”
“All afternoon,” Beatrice replied, “while you guys were gone.”
“You broke in!”
“Relax, cowgirl. I didn’t bust any windows or anything. The sliding door on your porch popped right off the track—they all do,” Beatrice said, matter-of-factly.
Roy hopped out from under the sheets, locked the door, and switched on his desk lamp.
“Are you completely wacko?” he snapped at her. “Did somebody kick you in the head at soccer practice, or what?”
“I’m sorry about this, I really am,” Beatrice said. “It’s just, uh, things got kinda hairy at home. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Oh.” Roy was instantly sorry he’d lost his temper. “Was it Lonna?”
Beatrice nodded gloomily. “I guess she fell off her broom or somethin’.”
“That really sucks.”
“Yeah, her and my dad got in a huge fight. I mean huge. She threw a clock radio at his head, so he beaned her with a mango.”
Roy had always thought that Beatrice Leep wasn’t afraid of anything, but she didn’t look so fearless now. He felt bad for her—it was hard to imagine living in a house where the grownups behaved so idiotically.
“You can stay here tonight,” he offered.
“For real?”
“Long as my parents don’t find out.”
“Roy, you’re pretty cool,” Beatrice said.
He grinned. “Thanks for calling me Roy.”
“Thanks for letting me crash here.”
“You take the bed,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“No way, José.”
Roy didn’t argue. He gave Beatrice a pillow and a blanket, and she stretched out happily on the carpet.
He turned off the light and said good night. Then he remembered something he meant to ask her. “Hey, did you see Mullet Fingers today?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, he told me he had something planned for last night.”
“He’s always got somethin’ planned.”
“Yeah, but this stuff can’t go on forever,” Roy said. “Sooner or later, he’s gonna get caught.”
“I believe he’s smart enough to know that.”
“Then we’ve gotta do something.”
“Like what?” Beatrice asked faintly. She was fading toward sleep. “You can’t stop him, Roy. He’s too darn thickheaded.”
“Then I guess we’ve gotta join him.”
“ ’Scuse me?”
“G’night, Beatrice.”
SEVENTEEN
Curly stared hard at the phone, as if staring would make it quit ringing. Finally he braced himself and picked up the receiver.
On the other end was Chuck Muckle, of course.
“Do I hear the sound of bulldozers, Mr. Branitt?”
“No, sir.
”
“Why not? It’s Monday morning here in beautiful Memphis, Tennessee. Isn’t it Monday morning in Florida, too?”
“I got some good news,” Curly said, “and I got some bad news.”
“The good news being that you’ve found employment elsewhere?”
“Please, lemme finish.”
“Sure,” said Chuck Muckle, “while you’re cleaning out your desk.”
Curly hastily spilled his version of what had happened Saturday night. The part about the missing bulldozer seats definitely took some shine off the rest of the story. Not wishing to make things worse, Curly didn’t mention that his pistol had somehow ended up submerged in a portable toilet.
A fuzzy silence lingered at the Memphis end of the conversation. Curly wondered if Mother Paula’s vice-president for corporate relations had hung up on him.
“Hullo?” Curly said. “You there?”
“Oh, I’m here,” Chuck Muckle replied tartly. “Let me get this straight, Mr. Branitt. A young man was arrested for attempted burglary on our property—”
“Right. Assault and trespassing, too!”
“—but then on the very same evening, another person or persons unknown removed the seats from the bulldozers and backhoes and whatevers.”
“Yessir. That would be the not-so-good news,” Curly said.
“Did you report this theft to the police?”
“ ’Course not. I didn’t want it to get in the newspaper.”
“Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” said Chuck Muckle. He asked Curly if it was possible to operate the machines without driver’s seats.
“Only if you’re some kinda octopus.”
“So I’m correct in assuming there’ll be no bulldozing today.”
“Or tomorrow,” Curly reported grimly. “I got new seats on order from the wholesaler in Sarasota, but they won’t be here till Wednesday.”
“What a happy coincidence,” Chuck Muckle said. “That turns out to be the last day that Miss Kimberly Lou Dixon is available to us. Her mutant-insect movie begins shooting next weekend in New Mexico.”
Curly swallowed. “You wanna do the groundbreaking this Wednesday? What about the site clearing?”
