by Carl Hiaasen
Roy could only shrug in surrender. “Can I go now?”
“Until we speak again on this subject, you and I,” Miss Hennepin said. “I know when I smell a rat.”
Yeah, thought Roy, that’s because you’re growing one on your lip.
At lunchtime he borrowed Garrett’s bicycle and set out for the junkyard. Nobody saw him go, which was fortunate; it was strictly against the rules for kids to leave the school grounds without a note.
Beatrice’s stepbrother was napping when Roy burst into the Jo-Jo’s ice-cream truck. Shirtless and mosquito-bitten, the boy wriggled out of the sleeping bag and took the newspaper from Roy’s hands.
Roy had expected an emotional reaction to the news of the groundbreaking ceremony, but Mullet Fingers remained surprisingly calm, almost as if he’d been expecting it. He carefully tore out the Mother Paula’s advertisement and examined it as if it were a treasure map.
“Noon, huh?” he murmured quietly.
“That’s only twenty-four hours from now,” Roy said. “What are we going to do?”
“We who?”
“You, me, and Beatrice.”
“Forget about it, man. I’m not draggin’ you two into the middle of this mess.”
“Wait, listen to me,” Roy said urgently. “We already talked about this, me and Beatrice. We want to help you save the owls. Seriously, we’re locked and loaded.”
He unpacked the camera and handed it to the boy. “I’ll show you how this works,” Roy said. “It’s pretty easy.”
“What’s it for?”
“If you can get a picture of one of the birds, we can stop the pancake people from bulldozing that lot.”
“Aw, you’re full of it,” the boy said.
“Honest,” Roy said. “I looked it up on the Internet. Those owls are protected—it’s totally against the law to mess with the burrows unless you’ve got a special permit, and Mother Paula’s permit file is missing from City Hall. What does that tell you?”
Mullet Fingers fingered the camera skeptically. “Pretty fancy,” he said, “but it’s too late for fancy, Tex. Now it’s time for hardball.”
“No, wait. If we give them proof, then they’ve got to shut down the project,” Roy persisted. “All we need is one lousy picture of one little owl—”
“You better take off,” the boy said. “I got stuff to do.”
“But you can’t fight the pancake people all by yourself. No way. I’m not leaving until you change your mind.”
“I said, Get outta here!” Mullet Fingers seized Roy by one arm, spun him clockwise, and launched him out of the ice-cream truck.
Roy landed on all fours in the hot gravel. He was slightly stunned; he’d forgotten how strong the kid was.
“I already caused enough trouble for you and my sister. This is my war from now on.” Beatrice’s stepbrother stood defiantly in the doorway of the truck, his cheeks flushed and his eyes blazing. In his right hand was Mrs. Eberhardt’s digital camera.
Roy pointed and said, “You keep it for now.”
“Get real. I’ll never figure out how to use one a these stupid things.”
“Let me show you—”
“Nah,” said the boy, shaking his head. “You go on back to school. I got work to do.”
Roy stood up and brushed the gravel off his pants. He had a hot lump in his throat, but he was determined not to cry.
“You done enough already,” the running boy told him, “more than I had a right to expect.”
There were about a million things Roy wanted to say, but the only words he choked out were: “Good luck tomorrow.”
Mullet Fingers winked and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Bye, Roy,” he said.
The newspaper contained several items that would have been excellent for current events.
A missing Green Beret soldier had been rescued in the mountains of Pakistan. A doctor in Boston had invented a new drug to treat leukemia. And in Naples, Florida, a county commissioner had been arrested for taking a $5,000 bribe from the developer of a putt-putt golf course.
When Roy’s turn came to address Mr. Ryan’s class, he didn’t use any of those articles for his topic. Instead he held up the newspaper and pointed to the torn page where the Mother Paula’s advertisement had been.
“Most everybody here likes pancakes,” Roy began. “I know I sure do. And when I first heard that a new Mother Paula’s was going to open here in Coconut Cove, I thought that was pretty cool.”
Several kids nodded and smiled. One girl pretended to rub her tummy hungrily.
“Even when I found out where they’re going to build it—that big empty lot at the corner of Woodbury and East Oriole—I didn’t see anything wrong with the idea,” Roy said. “Then one day a friend of mine took me out there and showed me something that changed my mind totally.”
Now the other students stopped talking among themselves and paid attention. They’d never heard the new kid say so much.
“It was an owl,” Roy went on, “about this tall.”
He held up two fingers, one eight or nine inches above the other, to show them. “When my family lived out West we saw plenty of owls, but never one this small. And he wasn’t a baby, either, he was full grown! He was so straight and serious, he looked like a little toy professor.”
The class laughed.
“They’re called ‘burrowing’ owls because they actually live underground,” Roy continued, “in old holes made by tortoises and armadillos. Turns out that a couple of owl families hang out on that land at Woodbury and East Oriole. They made their nests in the dens and that’s where they raise their babies.”
Some of the kids shifted uneasily. A few began whispering in worried tones and some looked at Mr. Ryan, who sat thoughtfully at his desk, chin propped in his hands.
“Roy,” he said gently, “this is an excellent subject for biology or social studies, but perhaps not for current events.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a current event,” Roy countered. “It’s happening tomorrow at noon, Mr. Ryan.”
“What is?”
“They’re going to start bulldozing to make way for the pancake house. It’s like a big party or something,” Roy said. “The lady who plays Mother Paula on TV is going to be there. The mayor, too. That’s what the paper said.”
A red-haired girl in the front row raised her hand. “Didn’t the paper say anything about the owls?”
“No. Not a word,” Roy said.
“So what’s gonna happen to ’em?” called a freckle-faced boy from the back of the classroom.
“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen.” Roy looked at Mr. Ryan. “The machines are going to bury all those burrows, and everything inside.”
“No way!” the red-haired girl cried, and the class erupted in agitated conversation until Mr. Ryan asked everyone to please be quiet and let Roy finish.
“The grown-up owls might try to fly away,” Roy said, “or they might just stay in the dens to protect their babies.”
“But they’ll die!” the freckle-faced kid shouted.
“How can the pancake people get away with this?” demanded another.
“I don’t know,” Roy said, “but it’s not legal, and it’s not right.”
Here Mr. Ryan interrupted firmly. “Hold on, Roy, what do you mean it’s ‘not legal’? You need to be careful when you’re making those kinds of serious allegations.”
Excitedly Roy explained that the burrowing owls were protected by state and federal laws, and that it was illegal to harm the birds or disturb active burrows without getting special government permits.
“All right. Fine,” said Mr. Ryan, “but what does the pancake company have to say about this? I’m sure they got the proper permission—”
“The file is missing,” Roy cut in, “and the foreman tried to tell me there weren’t any owls on the property, not a single one. Which is a lie.”
The class started buzzing again.
“So tomorrow at lunch,”
Roy continued, “I’m going out there to ... well, just because I want the Mother Paula’s people to know that somebody in Coconut Cove cares about those birds.”
Mr. Ryan cleared his throat. “This is a sticky situation, Roy. I know how upset and frustrated you must feel, but I’ve got to remind you that students aren’t supposed to leave school property.”
“Then I’ll get a note from my parents,” Roy said.
The teacher smiled. “That would be the way to do it.” The class was expecting him to say more, but he didn’t.
“Look,” said Roy, “every day we’ve been reading about regular people, ordinary Americans who made history ’cause they got up and fought for something they believed in. Okay, I know we’re just talking about a few puny little owls, and I know everybody is crazy about Mother Paula’s pancakes, but what’s happening out there is just plain wrong. So wrong.”
Roy’s throat was as dry as prairie dust, and his neck felt hot.
“Anyway,” he muttered, “it’s tomorrow at noon.”
Then he sat down.
The classroom fell quiet, a long heavy silence that roared in Roy’s ears like a train.
NINETEEN
“I’m worried about the owls,” Officer Delinko told Curly.
“What owls?”
Darkness had fallen on the construction site and swallows were swooping back and forth, chasing mosquitoes. Tomorrow was the big day.
“Come on, I saw ’em with my own eyes,” the patrolman said. “Isn’t there a way to, like, move ’em someplace safe?”
Curly said, “Want my advice? Don’t think about it. Put it out of your mind, is what I do.”
“I can’t. That’s the trouble.”
Curly jerked a thumb toward the trailer. “You wanna take a break? I rented the new Jackie Chan.”
Officer Delinko couldn’t understand how the foreman could be so casual about burying the owl dens. He wondered if it was just a macho act. “Did you tell them the birds were out here?” he asked.
“Tell who?”
“The pancake company. Maybe they don’t know.”
Curly snorted. “You kiddin’ me? They know everything,” he said. “Look, it ain’t our problem. Even if we wanted to, there’s nuthin’ we could do.”
Curly went off to his trailer while Officer Delinko resumed patrolling the grounds. Whenever he passed a burrow, he shined his flashlight inside, but he saw no owls. He hoped the birds had already sensed that something awful was about to happen and had flown away, though it seemed improbable.
Shortly after midnight, Officer Delinko heard Curly come out and shout his name. The foreman claimed he’d been awakened by a noise like someone climbing the fence.
With his gun drawn, the policeman searched the area thoroughly; he checked the roof of the trailer and underneath it, too. All he found was a line of opossum tracks in the sand.
“Sounded way bigger’n a possum,” Curly said grumpily.
Later, as Officer Delinko was retrieving his third thermos of coffee from the squad car, he thought he saw a series of small white flashes at the other end of the property. It reminded him of the bright popping he’d seen at late-night car accidents while the police department’s photographer was snapping pictures.
But when Officer Delinko ran to where he’d seen the flashes, he found nothing out of the ordinary. It must have been a burst of heat lightning, he thought, reflecting off the low clouds.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully. The patrolman stayed wide awake.
At breakfast Roy asked his mother if he could leave school during lunch. He figured she’d be more likely than his father to say yes, but she surprised him.
“I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for you to go to the Mother Paula’s groundbreaking.”
“But, Mom—”
“Let’s see what your dad thinks.”
Oh well, thought Roy, that’ll be the end of that.
As soon as Mr. Eberhardt sat down at the table, Mrs. Eberhardt informed him of Roy’s request.
“Sure, why not?” Mr. Eberhardt said. “I’ll write him a note.”
Roy’s jaw hung open. He had expected the opposite reaction from his father.
“But you’ve got to promise to behave,” Mr. Eberhardt said, “no matter how ticked off you get.”
“I promise, Dad.”
Later his father put Roy’s bicycle in the trunk of his car and drove Roy to Trace Middle. As he dropped him off in front of the school, Mr. Eberhardt asked, “Think your friend will be at the ceremony today—Beatrice’s stepbrother?”
“Probably,” Roy said.
“Pretty risky.”
“I know, Dad. I tried to tell him.”
“You be careful,” Mr. Eberhardt said firmly, “and be smart.”
“Yes, sir.”
Beatrice Leep was waiting outside Roy’s homeroom. Her curly hair was damp, as if she’d just gotten out of the shower.
“Well?” she said.
“I got a note. How about you?”
Beatrice displayed a crumpled paper napkin that had been scrawled upon in red ink. “I woke up my old man to ask him. He was so far out of it, he would’ve signed anything,” she said. “I should’ve written myself a check for a thousand bucks.”
“So I guess we’re all set for noon,” Roy said. He lowered his voice. “I went to see your brother. He threw me out of the truck.”
Beatrice shrugged. “What can I say. Sometimes he’s impossible.”
She fished in her purse and came out with the camera belonging to Roy’s mother. “He dropped this off at the house late last night, after Lonna and Dad went to bed. He says he got the pictures you wanted. I tried to take a look but I couldn’t figure out how to work the darn thing.”
Wordlessly Roy grabbed the camera and stashed it in his locker.
“Keep your fingers crossed,” Beatrice said, before melting into the stream of students and disappearing down the hall.
Roy spent the rest of the morning lost in excited distraction, wondering if his plan might actually work.
At ten-forty-five A.M., a black stretch limousine pulled up to the empty lot at Woodbury and East Oriole. The driver got out and opened one of the doors. Nothing happened for several moments, and then a tall man with wavy silver hair emerged, squinting into the sun. He wore pressed white trousers and a dark blue blazer with an emblem on the breast pocket.
The man glanced around impatiently behind enormous tinted sunglasses. Crisply he snapped his fingersat Officer David Delinko, who was unlocking his squad car.
The patrolman failed to notice he was being summoned. He was knocking off work after fourteen straight hours at the construction site—Curly had gone home to shower and shave, so Officer Delinko had stayed to keep an eye on the earthmoving machines, which had been refitted with new seats. Now that the foreman had returned—dressed up in a coat and tie, of all things!—the policeman was leaving the premises. He had no desire to hang around for the groundbreaking nonsense.
“Officer!” The silver-haired man beckoned insistently. “Yo, Officer! Over here.”
Officer Delinko approached the limousine and asked what was wrong. The man introduced himself as Chuck E. Muckle, a vice-president of something-or-other for Mother Paula’s All-American Pancake Houses, Inc. In a confidential tone, he added, “We need some discreet assistance here.”
“Well, I’m off duty,” Officer Delinko told him, “but I’d be glad to call for another unit.” He was so exhausted from lack of sleep that he barely had enough energy to carry on a conversation.
“Do you happen to know who’s sitting in this car?” Chuck Muckle asked, nodding toward the limo.
“No, sir.”
“Miss Kimberly Lou Dixon!”
“That’s nice,” said Officer Delinko blankly.
“The Kimberly Lou Dixon.”
“Well, what d’ya know.”
Chuck Muckle thrust his ruddy face closer. “You’ve got no idea who I’m talking abo
ut, do you, Officer?”
“Not a clue, sir. Never heard of the lady.”
The company vice-president rolled his eyes and proceeded to explain who Kimberly Lou Dixon was, and why she’d traveled all the way from Beverly Hills, California, to Coconut Cove, Florida.
“And right this minute,” Chuck Muckle said, “she rather urgently needs a powder room.”
“A powder room,” Officer Delinko repeated quizzically.
“A place to powder her nose! A place to freshen up!” Chuck Muckle erupted in exasperation. “Is this really such a difficult concept to grasp, Officer? Let me try to put this in language you can understand—she needs a potty, okay?”
“Gotcha.” Officer Delinko gestured toward Curly’s trailer. “Follow me.”
When Kimberly Lou Dixon got out of the limousine, Officer Delinko was startled by how young she looked compared with the wrinkled old granny she played on the TV commercials. Kimberly Lou had bright green eyes and rich auburn hair and smooth milky skin—a lovely and cultured woman, Officer Delinko thought.
Then she opened her mouth.
“I gotta tinkle,” she announced in a sandpaper voice. “Lead the way, hotshot.”
The actress carried a leather tote bag over one shoulder, and she wore high heels, a black skirt, and a pale silky blouse.
Curly was dumbstruck when he opened the door of the trailer. Without a word, Kimberly Lou Dixon stepped past him and made her way to the bathroom.
“Can I change in here?” she asked in a husky voice.
“Change what? You look pretty darned good the way you are.”
“Change into her Mother Paula’s costume,” Officer Delinko interjected. “She’s with some guy; he wants to know if she can use your trailer as a dressing room.”
“Anytime,” Curly said with a dreamy smile.
A man’s silhouette filled the doorway, followed by a gust of oily cologne. “Why, you must be the one and only Leroy Branitt,” growled a familiar sarcastic voice.
Curly cringed. Officer Delinko stepped out of the way and said, “This gentleman is from the pancake-house company.”
“I figured,” said Curly. He held out his right hand to Chuck Muckle, who stared at it as if it were a dead mudfish.
