Carl Hiaasen (7 page)

Fry hitched his eyebrows.

“Honest to God, I won’t peek in the closet.”

“Damn straight.”

“Or under your mattress.”

“How do you know what’s under the mattress?” Fry demanded.

“Because that’s where all teenage boys hide their porn, isn’t it?” Honey said. “It’s only for three or four days, I promise. And I won’t touch the computer, either.”

“Why can’t they get a motel?”

“Because they’re on a budget, young man. Not everybody’s rolling in dough like the president’s millionaire pals in the oil racket. Or Mr. Perry Skinner, the dope smuggler.”

“Knock it off, Mom. And watch where you’re going, ’kay?”

“I’m doing fine!” she snapped.

“In England you’d be doing fine. In this country we use the other side of the road.”

His mother’s driving skills eroded dramatically whenever she got frazzled.

“I don’t mind going to Dad’s,” Fry told her in a calming tone. “I’ll ask him as soon as he gets back from Miami.”

“Thank you.” Honey exhaled with relief. “I owe you a big one.”

She seemed to relax, and almost immediately the car found its way back to the proper lane. Later she began humming a tune that resembled in no way the song on the radio.

Another ominous sign, her son knew.

He said, “So when will they be here? Your friends.”

“Day after tomorrow,” his mother replied.

“You never even told me their names.”

Honey Santana drummed her fingernails on the steering wheel. “Oh, we’ll all get together for dinner one night. I promise.”

He counted three young men and three young women. Their beer cans glinted in the firelight. Thanks to a thundering boom box (with which one of them was now doing a tango), they hadn’t heard Sammy Tigertail’s somewhat unstealthy approach. He crouched in a line of palmettos and watched the kids frisking around a wind-whipped fire that they’d built on a dry spit of beach. Nearby were three gum ball–colored canoes that had been dragged ashore and emptied. Numerous articles of clothing, including bras and bathing suits, had been laid out to dry on the upturned hulls.

Sammy Tigertail guessed that the intruders were about his age, probably college students on holiday break. Most likely they were harmless, yet he wanted them to go away. He wished not to be seen by any other humans. The battery in his cell phone had died, so for all he knew, a police manhunt was under way for the missing Wilson and the Indian airboat driver with whom he’d last been seen.

It was Sonny Tigertail’s third night of spying on the strangers, and finally he’d settled on a plan. Frightening them off would be easy; a couple of rifle shots over their pale heads would do the job. But first he needed to steal a canoe, a small crime requiring grit and patience.

He stretched out behind a dune to nap, waiting for the campers to pass out. He envisioned himself as his great-great-great-grandfather, stalking General Jesup or that swine Zachary Taylor. The grandiose fantasy was jarringly interrupted by Wilson, the dead tourist. An underwater scavenger had nibbled off one of his earlobes, and a colony of purple barnacles had taken up residence on a bare patch of his scalp.

“Man, I need a favor,”
Wilson’s spirit said.

“Like what?”

“I want you to move me.”

“That’s not funny,” said Sammy Tigertail.

“Get my body out of that river, please? Come on, bro, it’s so goddamn cold at night. Move me someplace dry.”

“No, sir. I can’t.”

“Someplace where there’s no sharks.”
Dripping algae, Wilson turned to reveal a jagged excavation in one of his thighs; a pallid wound the size of a salad bowl. He said,
“Jesus, I hate those sharks.”

Sammy Tigertail assured him that he wouldn’t like the turkey buzzards any better. “And that’s what’ll get you on dry land. Buzzards and fire ants.”

“But at least I won’t be freezing. At least I can rot to dust in the warm sunshine.”
The spirit of Wilson playfully clanked his anchors.
“Come on, whatta ya say?”

The Indian felt a sting of remorse, which was ludicrous. The white man was deceased and experiencing no discomfort; his spirit just happened to be a royal pain in the ass.

Sammy Tigertail said, “I don’t have time for you. I’ve gotta deal with these kids.”

“Move me out of the damn river. It’s the least you can do,”
the dream spirit implored.
“Aren’t doomed men s’posed to get one last wish?”

“Only in the movies,” said the Seminole.

Wilson snorted.
“We’ll talk later, you and me.”

The dead tourist disappeared. Sammy Tigertail opened his eyes and got up. He peeked over the crest of the dune, toward the raucous campsite of the college kids.

One chamber-of-commerce myth about the Everglades is that the insects disappear all winter. Mild nights can be hellish, and Sammy Tigertail found himself enshrouded by famished mosquitoes and sand flies. Having foolishly forgotten to baste himself with repellent, all he could do was remain at his post and accept the punishing stings.

To maintain a clear view of the beach, he slashed one arm back and forth, like a windshield wiper, through the buzzing horde. With grim envy he observed that the radiating heat from the campfire seemed to shield the college students from the marauding swarms; either that, or they were too bombed to notice the bites. Sammy Tigertail wondered how long until his eyelids and nostrils swelled shut. He also wondered what Micanopy or Jumper or Sam Jones would have done in the same wretched predicament. One time he’d asked his uncle if there was a secret Seminole potion to ward off bugs, and his uncle had advised him to drive to the CVS in Naples and buy the biggest can of Cutter spray he could find.

As the campfire began to ebb, so did the carousing. The boom box racket faded away, and one by one the college kids teetered in exhaustion. Moments after the last of them had fallen, Sammy Tigertail liberated himself from the palmettos. Rifle in hand, he headed for the beach where the canoes were lined up. He selected the tangerine-colored one and quietly flipped it over, scattering boxer shorts and bikini bottoms.

“Take me with you,” said a voice from the shadows.

Sammy Tigertail whirled and raised his rifle.

“Don’t shoot,” the voice said.

“Come closer,” the Indian whispered hoarsely.

It was one of the student campers. She had tangled chestnut hair and wide-set green eyes and sand stuck to her chin and nose, from dozing facedown on the beach. She wore a fanny pack on her waist, and a rumpled sleeping bag was bunched like a blanket around her shoulders. She reminded Sammy Tigertail of Cindy, his ex-girlfriend, except that Cindy had a better complexion. The college girl’s cheeks were mapped with angry crimson welts.

“Take me along,” she said.

Sammy Tigertail lowered the gun. “Go away before you get hurt.”

“The guy I’m with, he’s such a loser.” She motioned with her head toward the campfire. “He brought along these rubbers with SpongeBob and Mr. Krabs on the tip. Cartoon condoms, and he can’t figure out why I won’t fuck him. What’s your name? I’m Gillian.”

“Sit and be quiet,” Sammy Tigertail said. He remembered that he was being tested by mystical forces.

“You an Indian?” she asked.

He was pleased that she’d noticed, but he tried not to let on. He glanced back at the camp to make sure that none of the other kids were stirring.

“Why can’t I come with you?”

“I said be quiet.” Sammy Tigertail grabbed the bow of the canoe and began sliding it toward the water.

“These aren’t zits,” Gillian said, pointing to her cheeks. “They’re mosquito bites. I’m allergic.”

“Please shut up.”

“Look, I’m a Seminole, too!” With a playful smile she shed the sleeping bag to show off a baggy gray sweatshirt. FSU was emblazoned in tall burgundy letters on the front.

It was too much for Sammy Tigertail. He let go of the canoe and walked up to the girl and touched a hand on her neck to make sure she wasn’t a spirit. Her skin felt warm and she smelled like stale beer and marijuana.

“School’s a drag,” she said.

“Not my problem.”

“I’m majoring in elementary ed. What was
I
thinking?”

Sammy Tigertail said, “Do you ever stop talking?”

He nudged the canoe into the water and waded in behind it, aiming the bow into the light chop. Carefully he set his rifle between the seats and prepared to climb in.

Gillian asked, “And where do you think you’re goin’?”

“To find a new island.”

“Yeah? Then you might need this.” She held up the paddle.

Sammy Tigertail grimaced.

“I had a sorority sister, the one who talked me into my major,” Gillian said, “her senior year she did spring break at Panama City. And one night she gets supertrashed, right? So when this crew from
Girls Gone Wild
shows up at the tiki bar, she jumps up on a chair and flashes her titties. And she was so hot they put it in the video—
Girls Gone Wild
number six. You ever see that one?”

Dazedly, Sammy Tigertail shook his head.

“After graduation she ends up teaching sixth grade down in Delray, right? First week on the job, some smartass kid brings in the video and switches it out for one on the Battle of Gettysburg. And this little shit’s only eleven years old! What’s with
that
?” Gillian was indignant. “Anyway, there was my sorority sister up on the screen, shakin’ her hooters for her whole class to see. Can you believe she got fired? And the kid who switched out the tape, all he gets is detention!”

“Give me the paddle,” said Sammy Tigertail.

“I want to be your hostage.”

“I don’t need a hostage. I need peace.” He sloshed toward the beach, hauling the canoe behind him.

Gillian backed up. “What if I start screamin’ and wake everyone else? You got enough bullets for all of us, Tonto?”

Sammy Tigertail thought: This one is not like Cindy. This one is worse.

“Get in the canoe,” he said.

Seven

Disappointment was the fuel that cranked the aging pistons of Della Shreave Renfroe Landry—disappointment in the father who’d cashed out his Shell Oil pension early and invested every dollar in the DeLorean Motor Company; disappointment in the mother who’d refused to hock her heirloom earrings and send Della to a prep school favored by the tall rangy sons of petroleum tycoons; disappointment in the three successive husbands who’d died without leaving Della wealthy and carefree; disappointment in the one daughter who’d run off to follow a rock band called Phish, then married a public defender who was a known Democrat and quite possibly a Jew; disappointment in the other daughter, who’d taken a nursing degree and, instead of bagging the first available neurosurgeon, hooked up with the World Health Organization and moved to Calcutta.

And disappointment—corrosive and bottomless disappointment—in her only son, who after thirty-five years had failed to distinguish himself either professionally or socially, displaying to Della’s hardened eye not a speck of ambition.

“Don’t tell me you got fired again,” she said as he sat down across the table.

“As a matter of fact, I’m getting promoted,” Boyd Shreave said, and then to the waiter: “I’ll have the jerked chicken sandwich with extra mayo.”

Della glared. “Are you trying to make me vomit? Extra mayo?”

“Why would you think I got fired?”

“’Cause that’s the only time you ever have lunch with me, when you’ve got stinking rotten news and you don’t want me to make a fuss. You know damn well I won’t raise my voice in a restaurant.”

Boyd Shreave shrugged. “Last time you called me a lazy sack of muleshit.”

“Yes, but quietly.” Della stirred her jumbo Diet Coke with a straw. “So what are you getting promoted to—deputy chief telephone harasser?”

“Floor supervisor,” Boyd Shreave lied pleasantly. Not even his mother’s taunting could spoil his sunny mood. He was flying away with Eugenie Fonda!

“That come with a raise, or is it all glory?” Della grumped.

“Two hundred extra a week, plus commission bumps.” Boyd Shreave was pleased to see that his mother was disarmed by his fictional success.

“Guess what else,” he said. “I had the most sales leads of all callers last month, so Relentless is sending me on a free vacation to Florida.”

Della studied him doubtfully. “Where in Florida?”

“It’s called the Ten Thousand Islands.”

“Never heard of ’em. How many did you say?”

“Thousands. It’s just like the Bahamas,” Boyd Shreave said. That’s what the lady telemarketer had told him, and that’s what he believed.

Wistfully Della said, “Your father and I honeymooned in Nassau. I liked it so much I made both your stepdads take me there, too.”

With horror Boyd Shreave realized that his mother was angling to accompany him. “I wish I could bring you along,” he said tightly, “but they only gave me one ticket.”

“And you couldn’t spring for another? Now that you got this big fat raise?”

Shreave felt the sweat collecting under his collar. “Mom, it’s a company junket. I can’t even take Lily.”

Della Shreave Renfroe Landry grunted and reached for the soup crackers. “Boyd, are you screwing somebody from work?”

He gripped the edge of the tabletop.
“What?”

His mother gnawed at the cellophane wrapper on the crackers. “Oh, come on,” she said. “Who gives away a free vacation where you can’t bring your wife or even your mom? For all I know, you could be running off with some dumb tramp from the call center.”

Boyd Shreave was shocked to hear himself say: “She’s not a tramp. She’s one of the Fondas.”

Della spit half a saltine into her lap.

“A cousin of Jane’s,” Shreave added.

His impulsive burst of candor made it official: Like a lizard, he’d shed his old skin. He felt like dancing on the table.

“This is
not
funny,” his mother wheezed. She couldn’t picture her chronically unmotivated son as a philanderer.

“If you tell Lily,” Shreave said, “I’ll never forgive you.”

The waiter brought their sandwiches. Della tidied herself and said, “Well, does this girl at least
look
like Jane?”

“More like Bridget. Only taller.”

“You got a picture?”

He shook his head. “I meant what I said—if you rat me out, you’ll be sorry. Everybody’s got ugly little secrets.”

Della didn’t need her son to spell it out. She had cheated on her last husband, Frank Landry, with one of the hospice workers who’d been caring for him in the final days. If the incident were made known, it would surely incite Landry’s grown and highly litigious offspring. There were still a few bucks kicking around probate that Della had no wish to forfeit.

She said, “Of course I won’t say a word. But seriously, Boyd, where are you headed with this thing?”

“To happiness, Mom. Where else?”

He bit into the jerked chicken and smiled, pearls of mayonnaise glistening on his chin.

While Fry scrubbed the kayaks, Honey Santana sat down to write a letter to the
Marco Island Sun Times
about what had happened to Louis Piejack. One of Honey’s past therapists had told her to do this whenever she got worked up. The therapist had said writing was a healthy and socially acceptable way of expressing one’s anger.

So far, Honey had gotten forty-three letters published in thirteen different newspapers, including the
Naples Daily News,
the
Sarasota Herald-Tribune
and the
St. Petersburg Times.
Once she’d almost had a letter about the Alaska oil drilling printed in
USA Today,
but the editors had objected to a sentence suggesting that the president had been dropped on his head as a child.

Honey kept scrapbooks of all her newspaper letters, including the 107 that had been rejected. Sometimes she felt better after writing one; sometimes she felt the same.

To the Editor:

Regarding today’s front-page article about the violent assault on Mr. Louis Piejack, I certainly agree that the perpetrators of this act ought to be pursued and brought to justice.

However, as a former employee of Mr. Piejack, I feel obliged to point out that his own conduct has occasionally bordered on the criminal, particularly the way he treats women. I myself was the victim of both verbal and physical abuse from this man, though I derive no pleasure from his current troubles.

Perhaps during his long and excruciating recuperation, Mr. Piejack will take a hard inward look at himself and resolve to change. As for the unfortunate mix-up during the reattachment surgery on his fingers, Mr. Piejack should be grateful to have all five, in any order, considering the places he has put them.

Most sincerely,

Honey Santana

Everglades City

She slipped the letter into an envelope and affixed three first-class stamps, even though it was traveling only thirty miles up the road.

Fry came indoors and flopped down in front of the television.

“Did you ask your ex-father if you can stay there?” Honey asked.

A sour glance was the boy’s only response.

She said, “Sorry. I meant your ‘dad.’”

“Not yet, but I will,” Fry said.

“Be sure to tell him it’s just for a few days.”

“Mom, chill, okay? It won’t be a problem.”

When the local news came on, Honey sat down beside her son to watch. The lead story was about a red tide that had killed thousands of fish, the majority of which had inconsiderately washed up to rot on the public beach in Fort Myers. The tourists were apoplectic, while the Chamber of Commerce had been scrambled to Defcon Three crisis mode. A video clip showed acres of bloated fish carcasses on the sand, pallid beachcombers fleeing with towels pressed to their noses.

“Look, it’s the seafood festival from hell!” Fry said.

His mother frowned. “That’s not funny, young man. We’re poisoning the whole blessed planet, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Fry didn’t want to get her fired up, so he said nothing.

The last story on the TV news was about a missing Wisconsin salesman named Jeter Wilson. After a night of partying at the Hard Rock Casino, he’d announced that he was driving alone to the Seminole reservation in the Big Cypress Swamp. Wilson’s family back in Milwaukee hadn’t heard from him in days, and it was feared that he’d dozed off and run his rental car into the canal somewhere along Alligator Alley. A search was under way, and in the meantime the Hard Rock had provided a photograph of the missing man, taken at the hotel bar. In the picture, Jeter Wilson’s ample lap was occupied by a full-lipped woman wearing a blue-sequined halter, whom the TV reporter identified as a “local part-time masseuse.”

Fry said, “What kind of a touron would go straight from the casino to an Indian reservation?”

“He’s a salesman,” Honey Santana said. “He probably wanted to sell them something—like we haven’t done enough harm to those poor Seminoles.”

“Poor? They’re rakin’ it in big-time off the gambling.”

Honey thumped her son on the head and ordered him to go Google the name Osceola and write a four-hundred-word essay about what he learned. Then she changed into some cutoff jeans and went outside to wait for the mosquitoes.

She was conducting an experiment based on information supplied by the night cashier at the Circle K, an amiable older gentleman who’d grown up in Goodland. When Honey had told him of her upcoming ecotour, the man had advised her to pack plenty of bug repellent in case the wind died and the temperature got warm, which could happen even in the heart of winter. He’d also counseled her to stop shaving her legs, explaining that hair follicles served as a natural obstacle to the hungry insects.

Honey had never heard this theory. Being somewhat vain about her legs, which often drew whistles when she jogged along the causeway, she was reluctant to relax her grooming habits. Moreover, it was possible that the guy at the Circle K was conning her, and that he was just some crusty old degenerate who had a thing for hairy women.

Still, Honey couldn’t summarily discount his advice. She’d listened to enough lore about the ferocity of Everglades mosquitoes to desire every possible advantage when kayaking through the Ten Thousand Islands with Boyd Shreave.

So as a scientific test she’d decided to let the hair on her right leg grow, and to observe the buggy response. She sat barefoot on the steps of the double-wide and wiggled her toes enticingly. On a yellow legal pad she noted that it was dusk and dead calm, and that the air temperature was a mild seventy-one degrees. The middle bars of a Tom Petty song, “Breakdown,” kept cycling through her head, although she didn’t write that in the bug journal.

The first mosquito showed up at 6:06 p.m. and alighted on Honey’s left knee, where she swatted it dead. Soon a second one arrived, and then a full airborne battalion. By the time Fry emerged with his essay from the trailer, Honey’s tan legs were covered with black-and-red smudges.

His face pinched with worry, Fry peered at his mother in the light from the open doorway. Eagerly she told him about the experiment, declaring: “See, there’s no damn statistical difference! Eleven bites on the shaved one and eleven bites on the unshaved one—I’m keeping a chart.”

Her son nodded uncomfortably.

“But maybe I should wait,” Honey said, running two fingers along her right shin. “It’s just a stubble now. Maybe it’s gotta grow in thick and curly before it works.”

Fry handed her his paper about the warrior Osceola. Then he went back inside and came out with a towel that he’d soaked with warm water from the kitchen tap. While Honey read through the essay, he wiped the dead mosquitoes from her legs.

He said, “Mom, let’s go in. We need to talk.”

“This is pretty good,” Honey said, tapping a fingernail on the pages he’d written, “except you got Jesup’s name wrong. There’s only one
s.
”

“I’ll fix it later. How about some dinner?”

“You didn’t put in the part about them stealing Osceola’s head after he died. About that army doctor keeping it at home in a jar, and taking it out to frighten his kids.”

“Are you making this up? Because it’s incredibly twisted,” Fry said.

“I did
not
make it up!” Honey Santana slapped the essay pages into his hand. He could see she was telling the truth.

“Mom, you’re getting all torqued up again. Maybe you should go back to the doctor.”

She smiled and stretched like a cat. “Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” she said. “You up for pizza? I’ve got a coupon somewhere.”