Flush

by Carl Hiaasen

  Bull’s visit finally made sense. He’d come to apologize because he was terrified not to.

  “You’ll tell him, won’t you, Underwood? Tell him I stopped over and said I was sorry. When you see him again, I mean.”

  “Sure, Bull. When I see him again.”

  Though I wondered if I ever would.

  After lunch my sister and I headed for Shelly’s place to deliver the food dye and review our plan. Even though she came to the door wearing the nappy pink robe and carrying a plastic razor, we could tell that she was in better shape than the day before.

  She waved us inside and cheerfully resumed shaving her legs at the kitchen sink, a procedure I’d never witnessed so up close and personal. The way Shelly did it wasn’t quite as glamorous as in the TV commercials. Whenever she nicked herself, she’d cuss like a biker and wipe away the blood with her pinkie. Abbey watched in fascination but I felt kind of weird, so I turned away and pretended to be enchanted by the scummy aquarium. I could hear the razor blade scraping across Shelly’s skin as she said, “So—we’re good to go?”

  “What about Billy Babcock?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry, I got that all figured out.”

  But I was worried.

  If Billy was at the Coast Guard station when the sewage spill was reported, he’d tip off Dusty Muleman right away. It wouldn’t take long for Dusty’s crew to unhitch the Coral Queen and take her offshore, where they could flush the holding tank until there was no trace of our dye—and no way to connect Dusty to the crime.

  “Ever since he heard Lice was gone, Billy’s been spendin’ lots of time at my bar,” Shelly said, “leaving ten-dollar tips on ten-dollar tabs.”

  “Did he ask you out?” Abbey said.

  “Only about two or three times a night.” Shelly tossed the plastic razor into a trash basket, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the dinette.

  “I’ll handle Billy Babcock,” she said with a confident smile. “Now lemme see what you got.”

  Abbey gave her the grocery bag containing the bottles of coloring gel. Shelly peeked inside and said, “Those are puny little suckers. Sure that’ll do the job?”

  “Well, it’s concentrated—” I started to explain.

  “I know it’s concentrated, Noah. I’ve baked a few treats in my time.”

  Abbey told her that we’d bought out the store. “Thirty-four bottles. Is that okay?”

  “No problem,” Shelly said. “I’ve got a purse big enough to carry a Honda Civic.” She held up one of the bottles. “Ever use this stuff before?”

  Abbey and I shook our heads.

  “Well, it doesn’t pour out like water. It’s more gooey, like sunblock, so you’ve really gotta squeeze,” Shelly said, demonstrating on a capped container. “Thirty-four bottles, that’s gonna take some time.”

  I hadn’t thought about that when we’d picked out the gel. Neither had Abbey.

  “See, it’s just me working solo behind the bar,” said Shelly, “and Dusty doesn’t like his customers to go thirsty. I only get two fifteen-minute potty breaks every night, which ain’t nearly enough time to flush all this stuff.”

  “Does that mean you can’t help us?” I asked.

  “Now don’t get your shorts in a knot,” she said. “I’ll tell Dusty I got sick off the shrimp salad—what’s he gonna do, make me go in a bucket?”

  “Isn’t there a head near the bar?” I asked.

  Abbey poked me. “A what?”

  “A toilet,” I explained. “On ships they’re called heads.”

  Shelly told us that the Coral Queen had three sets. “One fore, one aft, and one up in the wheelhouse, which is out of the question. It’s only for the casino manager and the crew.”

  “But aren’t you part of the crew?” Abbey said.

  “No, sweetie, I’m a bartender. They make me tinkle with the civilians.”

  The more I heard, the more worried I got. The longer that Shelly was away from the bar, the greater the risk that Dusty or one of his goons would go searching for her. Other things could go wrong, too. What if the toilet she was using malfunctioned, or got clogged?

  I decided on a slight change of plan.

  “You’ll need some backup on board,” I said. “I’ll take half the dye and flush it from a different head.”

  Shelly tossed her head. “Oh no you don’t, James Bond Jr. It’s too hairy.”

  “Just find me a place to hide. There’s got to be somewhere safe.”

  “Hello? What about me?” Abbey interjected.

  Together Shelly and I turned and said: “No way!”

  “You don’t bring me along, I’ll rat you out to Dad and Mom,” my sister declared. “I swear to God, Noah.”

  She wasn’t joking, either. The veins in her scrawny neck were popping out, she was so ticked off.

  “You couldn’t do this without me,” she said. “If it wasn’t for my fifty-one bucks, you wouldn’t have enough dye to color a birdbath!”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “This is gettin’ way too complicated,” Shelly said, slurping at her coffee.

  “Look, we’re only going to get one chance at Dusty,” I said, “so we’d better do it right.”

  Shelly shot me a doubtful look. “If you two brats get caught—”

  “We won’t,” Abbey cut in.

  “But if you do—”

  “We’ll never mention your name,” I said. “That’s a promise.”

  “Double promise,” said Abbey.

  Shelly sighed. “I must be outta my mind.”

  * * *

  It was almost five-thirty when Mr. Shine dropped off my parents at the house.

  They’d spent the afternoon at the courthouse, working out the final settlement of the Coral Queen case. Dusty Muleman had agreed not to prosecute my father for scuttling the casino boat, and in exchange Dad had promised to pay back Dusty’s insurance company for the cost of refloating the thing, cleaning it up, and fixing the diesels. The bill must have been super expensive because the judge gave my father five whole years to pay it off. He also made Dad swear not to say anything bad about Dusty on TV, in the newspapers, or anywhere in public.

  “So much for the First Amendment,” my father griped as we sat down to dinner. “Might as well walk around with a cork in my mouth.”

  “The important thing is, it’s over,” Mom said. “Now maybe our lives can get back to normal.”

  I didn’t dare look at Abbey for fear of clueing my mother that we were up to something. Dad was too bummed out to notice.

  “Everybody in the county thinks I’m crazy anyway,” he said sourly.

  “Who cares what everybody thinks?” I said.

  “And who cares if you’re crazy,” Abbey piped up, “as long as it’s a good crazy.”

  She meant that as a compliment, and my father seemed to take it that way. “It’s unholy what Dusty is doing, a crime against nature,” Dad went on. “Know what he deserves? He deserves to be—”

  “Paine, that’s enough,” my mother said sternly. “Someday he’ll get exactly what he deserves. What goes around comes around.”

  Dad snorted. “If only.”

  “Mom’s right,” Abbey said. “Dusty can’t get away with this stuff forever.”

  My sister played it perfectly straight. She’s a slick little actress.

  “Someday they’re going to bust him cold. Don’t worry,” she said.

  Dad looked at her fondly and said, “Let’s hope you’re right.” But we could tell he didn’t believe that Dusty Muleman would ever be caught.

  My mother said, “Noah, we need you to stay home with Abbey tomorrow night.”

  “What for?” I tried to sound annoyed but I was really excited. This was the golden chance that my sister and I needed.

  “Your dad and I are going out for dinner and a movie,” Mom said.

  “Woo-hoo, a hot date!” teased Abbey.

  “We’re celebrating your father’s new job.”
<
br />   “Oh yeah,” Dad said dryly. “My exciting new career, towing numskull tourists off the bonefish flats.”

  “Well, doesn’t it beat driving a cab?” I asked.

  “True enough,” he admitted.

  “I want you both in bed by eleven. Not a minute later,” Mom told us. “You hear me?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Double absolutely,” said Abbey. “Eleven sharp.”

  Neither of us could look Mom in the eye. It felt lousy lying to her, but honestly we had no choice. Not if we hoped to catch Dusty Muleman red-handed.

  Or fuchsia-handed, to be exact.

  FIFTEEN

  Mom and Dad left on their “hot date” at exactly a quarter to seven. The Coral Queen opened for business at eight, so Abbey and I didn’t have a moment to spare.

  We rode our bikes to Rado’s house and jumped the wooden fence, which turned out to be a real bad idea. Rado and his parents were still vacationing in Colorado (which I knew), but they’d left Godzilla at home in the backyard (which I didn’t know).

  Godzilla isn’t the world’s smartest dog, but he’s the biggest I’ve ever seen. Rado says he’s “part rottweiler, part Newfoundland, and part grizzly bear.” He easily outweighed my sister and me put together, and he wasn’t all that happy to see us.

  “Good dog,” I said in the calmest voice I could fake.

  “Nice try,” whispered Abbey, “but we’re still gonna die.”

  Godzilla had cornered us against the fence, and we didn’t dare make a move. I was hoping the beast remembered me although it probably wouldn’t matter, if the neighbors had forgotten to feed him. Abbey would be the appetizer and I’d be the main course.

  “Here, boy,” I said, holding out my right hand.

  “Are you crazy?” Abbey hissed.

  “Dogs never forget the smell of a person they’ve met.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the Animal Planet, that’s who. They did a whole show on dogs’ noses,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, obviously you missed the episode on dogs’ teeth.”

  But Godzilla didn’t chomp off my hand. He sniffed it suspiciously and nudged it with his moist snout. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shaking.

  “Noah, his tail’s not wagging,” Abbey said under her breath.

  “Thanks for the bulletin.”

  “If he bites you, I’m biting him.”

  “Easy, girl,” I said.

  They say you can look into a dog’s eyes and know whether he’s friendly or not. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see Godzilla’s eyes because they were hidden beneath thick tangles of black Newfoundland hair. A pearly string of drool hung from his mouth, which meant he was either hot or hungry, or possibly both.

  With my left hand I fished into my pants and took out a green apple that I’d brought along for a snack.

  Abbey grunted. “Noah, you’ve got to be kidding. Dogs don’t eat fruit!”

  “It’s the best I can do, unless you’ve got a sirloin steak in your backpack.” I held out the apple and said, “Here, boy. Yum!”

  Godzilla cocked his anchor-sized head and let out a snort.

  “It’s a Granny Smith,” I said, as if he actually understood. “Go on and try it. It tastes good.”

  “Yeah, if you’re a squirrel,” my sister muttered.

  But to our total amazement the huge dog opened his huge jaws and clamped down his huge fangs on the apple, which he firmly tugged from my trembling hand.

  As Godzilla trotted away with his prize, I said to Abbey, “Check out his tail.”

  It was wagging cheerfully.

  Abbey and I hurried toward the canal, where Rado kept a blue dinghy tied to the seawall. His father had salvaged the little boat off a scuttled motor yacht and patched up the fiberglass as good as new. It wasn’t more than ten feet long, but it was dry and sturdy, with high sides and a deep hull. Rado, Thom, and I often took it out on calm days to snorkel around the bridges.

  When we climbed into the dinghy, I tossed Abbey one of the life vests. She insisted she didn’t need it, but I told her we weren’t going anywhere until she put it on.

  Next I gave her a quick lesson on cranking the outboard motor. It was an ancient little Evinrude that could be stubborn before it warmed up. I showed Abbey how to use both hands to yank the starter cord, which was tricky. If you didn’t let go in time, the pull-back could wrench you off balance and spin you overboard.

  After a half dozen hard tugs, the motor spluttered to life in a burp of purple smoke. Rado’s dad always made sure the gas can was full, but I checked anyway, just in case. Getting stranded would be a total disaster.

  My sister moved to the front of the dinghy and untied the bow rope. I unhitched the ropes and shoved off.

  “Ready?” I asked her.

  “Absolutely,” she said, and flashed me a double thumbs-up.

  As we cruised slowly toward the mouth of the canal, I glanced back and saw Godzilla watching us from the seawall. He barked once, but the noise was muffled by the juicy green apple still clenched in his jaws.

  Growing up near the ocean, you learn about some strange superstitions. For instance, lots of fishing captains won’t let you bring a ripe banana on board because they believe it’s bad luck. Nobody knows how that one got started, but Dad told me it’s been around the docks since before Grandpa Bobby’s time.

  Another superstition is that dolphins bring good luck, so I was glad to spot a school of them herding baitfish as Abbey and I motored up the shoreline. By counting the dorsal fins, we figured out there were six grown-up dolphins and one baby—and they were having a blast, zipping in frothy circles, tossing mullets high in the air. I don’t know if they’re really a good omen, but seeing wild dolphins always makes me feel better. Any other time I would have stopped the boat to watch them play, but Abbey and I were in a hurry.

  It stays light pretty late during the summer, so it was a clear ride to Dusty Muleman’s marina. By the time we reached the channel markers, the waves had gotten choppy. I nosed the dinghy into some mangroves, cut the engine, and hopped out, balancing in my skateboard shoes on the slick rubbery roots. My sister dug through her backpack and took out a bottle of Gatorade, some bug spray, a Lemony Snicket book, and a flashlight. Then she handed the backpack to me.

  “Sure you’re okay with this?” I asked. “I’ll be gone awhile.”

  “Oh, gimme a break,” Abbey said. “’Course I’m okay.”

  “Stay right here until you hear me yell ‘Geronimo!’ Then you know what to do.”

  “Why ‘Geronimo’?” she asked.

  “Because I saw somebody do that in a movie once.”

  “What the heck does it mean?”

  “It means ‘Hurry up and rescue me before I get my butt kicked by Dusty’s big ugly goon,’” I said. “No more questions, okay? Keep out of sight and I’ll see you later.”

  As I began working my way toward the docks, I heard Abbey call out, “Be careful, Noah!”

  I waved over my shoulder, but I didn’t look back.

  By the time I broke free of the mangroves, my shoes were soaking wet and my shins were scraped from the barnacle covered roots. Crouching low, I dashed across a clearing and ducked behind Dusty Muleman’s ticket shed. There on the ground, side by side, were the two large crates that Shelly had told me to look for.

  Peeking around a corner of the shack, I saw that the parking area was filling up with cars. Customers were already lined up to board the Coral Queen. There weren’t any kids in the crowd because kids weren’t allowed on the casino boat; that’s why I had to be so careful.

  Using the sharp edge of a rock, I pried the lid off the first wooden crate. It was full of liquor bottles—rum from Haiti, according to the labels. Silently I replaced the cover and moved to the other crate.

  As Shelly had promised, it was empty. I squeezed inside and dragged the heavy lid back into place. In order to fit I had to lie flat and pull my knees to my chest. Abbey’s backpack, stuff
ed with containers of food dye, served as a lumpy pillow under my head. I was so cramped it felt like I was hiding in one of those magician’s boxes, pretending to be disappeared.

  The crate was dark and musty inside. At first I was afraid I couldn’t breathe, but soon I felt whispers of air seeping under the lid. I took a few gulps, closed my eyes, and began to wait.

  Before long I heard the scuff of footsteps and then the low sounds of men talking. The first voice I didn’t recognize, but the thick accent of the second one was unmistakable: It was Dusty’s bald gorilla, Luno.

  The men grunted as they hoisted the first crate and hauled it off to the Coral Queen. By the time they returned, my heart was thumping like a jackhammer. Luno lifted one end of my crate while his companion grabbed the other. I went rigid and held my breath. I could hear them swearing and complaining about the weight.

  With every step, the crate tipped and lurched and bounced. I knew I’d be dead meat if the lid fell off, so I dug my fingernails into the wooden slats to keep it in place.

  Finally, the goons set me down with a jolting thud, and I knew I was on the boat. Once they were gone, I seriously thought about kicking my way out of that miserable wooden tomb. I could have done it, no problem, except that I’d promised Shelly to stay put until she got there.

  So I waited some more.

  And waited. And waited.

  The Coral Queen was getting noisy as the customers piled aboard. Nobody else came near the crate, though, so I figured I must be in a storage area behind a wall or a door. Wherever it was, there was definitely no air-conditioning.

  Before long I was sweating like a horse, and my throat was as dry as sawdust. I wondered how much longer I could stand it inside that moldy old box.

  It seemed like I was cooped up for hours, but it probably wasn’t even twenty minutes before Shelly tapped three times on the side. She helped me climb out and handed me a cold bottle of water—nothing in my whole life had ever tasted so good. I hugged her, tangerine perfume and all. That’s how grateful I was.

  She put a finger to her lips and motioned for me to follow. It was impossible not to notice that she was wearing those wild fishnet stockings and tippy high-heeled shoes that made her about five inches taller than normal. She led me along a dim corridor that opened onto one of the busy casino decks. The noise hit me like a roar—the slot machines clanging, people laughing and hooting, some lame calypso band mangling a Jimmy Buffett song.