Carl Hiaasen - Chomp

“You mean, like foster parents?”

“Or family. Doesn’t she have any aunts or uncles?”

Wahoo said he hadn’t asked.

“Well, find out.”

“This wasn’t the first time it happened. Her dad, he drinks all the time.”

“That’s awful.”

“It’s hard to listen to her tell about it.” Wahoo heard his voice quaver and he thought, What’s the matter with me?

His mother said, “She needs somebody to talk with. You have to be strong.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“She’s little, Mom. I don’t understand how a person could do that to their own kid. He slugged her with his fist!”

On the other end, Wahoo’s mother sighed. He could picture her expression.

“You can’t make sense of it,” she said, “so don’t even try. There are some seriously messed-up people in this world.”

Raven Stark reappeared at Wahoo’s side and tapped her wristwatch. He held up a finger, seeking one more minute on the satellite phone.

Susan Cray was saying, “When this job is over, you and your dad should take your friend to the police station so she can report what happened.”

“But the black eye might be gone by then.”

“They’ll still believe her. They’d better believe her.”

“Miss you, Mom.”

“I miss you, too, big guy. What’s her name? Your new friend.”

“It’s not important.”

“Are you kidding? Tell me.”

Wahoo braced himself. “They call her Tuna.”

Susan Cray laughed warmly. “Wahoo and Tuna! Maybe it’s fate.”

“I knew you’d think that was funny.”

“Hey, you’ve got to admit. It’s quite a fishy coincidence.”

“I’d better go now,” said Wahoo. “This lady needs her phone back.”

“Not before you tell me how your father’s doing?”

“Much better, Mom. Really.”

“Does that mean he’s behaving himself?”

“Well,” Wahoo replied carefully, “we haven’t been fired yet.”

The weather got worse, not better. One band of thunder-showers was followed by another, and then another. Late in the afternoon, Derek Badger emerged from his private luxury tent and glared at the roiling sky.

“Still no chopper?” he said peevishly to Raven Stark.

“It doesn’t look good,” she allowed, which was an understatement. The radar app on the director’s iPhone showed a series of flame-orange waves sweeping in from the west.

“The helicopter can’t possibly take off or land in this mess.”

“Then how am I supposed to get back to the hotel?” Derek protested.

Sometimes Raven was surprised by her own patience. “It doesn’t look good,” she said again. “We might be spending the night out here with the crew.”

Predictably, Derek pitched a tantrum, cursing and hollering like a brat. He drop-kicked a plastic bottle of mosquito repellent into the woods. He dumped a tray of turkey sandwiches into the mud. He snapped off a dead oak branch and hurled it wildly, inconveniently slicing a hole in his own tent.

And of course he vowed to fire the helicopter pilot for insubordination.

The childish performance ended abruptly when a spear of lightning struck no more than a hundred yards from the camp. Derek turned gray and retreated into his leaky quarters, where he cowered until nightfall.

Dinner was served late, during a break in the storm-braised chicken, wild rice, buttermilk rolls and a garden salad. The wondrous aroma was too much for Derek, who crept out of his tent and joined the others beneath the caterer’s canopy. The wicks of the tiki torches were too soggy to hold a flame, and no one had thought to stockpile dry wood, so the crew members built a fire using folding chairs that they tore apart with hammers.

After his third helping of chicken and rice, Derek croaked out a burp and asked, “What’s for dessert?”

“Cheesecake,” the chef replied, “with bing cherries.”

Derek beamed. “Hallelujah! Bring it to baby.”

Firmly, Raven said, “One small slice for you.” She was scoping out his gut, a bulging orb that threatened to bust the buttons off his safari shirt.

“Oh, lighten up, Mother,” he said. “After the terrible day I’ve had, I deserve to eat as much as I please.”

His attack on the cheesecake was a gross spectacle. Raven could only stare in disgust. The director and the cameramen turned their backs on the scene; someone broke out a deck of cards, and a game of gin rummy was organized.

By the time Derek finished gorging, there wasn’t a crumb on the platter. His snakebitten chin was shining from the creamy combination of cake goo and antibiotic ointment. He dabbed a paper napkin to his mouth and nodded at Raven.

“The scene we shot this afternoon,” he said in a half whisper, “did you look at the footage?”

“Not yet.”

“Here’s a thought-what if we said it was a cottonmouth that fanged me?”

“Then we’d get boxes of angry letters from snake collectors and herpetologists who would notice that it wasn’t a cottonmouth.”

Derek smirked. “Come on, Raven, use your imagination. CGI?”

He was referring to computer-generated imaging, a technique often used in movies to create illusions and special effects. “Those little geeks in postproduction,” he said, “they can turn it into a cottonmouth or rattler, or any kind of snake we want. Then we can shoot a scene where I’m injecting myself with the antidote and saving my own life!”

Raven sat back and folded her arms. “You said we were done faking it. You said you wanted to put the ‘real’ back into reality.”

Derek was annoyed to be reminded of his recent conversion to integrity.

“Whatever,” he muttered lumpishly.

The sky strobed, a jagged stutter of ice-blue light. A ripple of thunder rattled a tray of silverware.

Derek frowned. “Get someone to patch that hole in my tent. Chop-chop.”

“Fine,” said Raven.

“While we’re on the subject, don’t they make one of those bloody things with air-conditioning? It must be ninety degrees in there-”

Just then, a piercing scream arose behind them. They spun around and saw one of the catering staff, a lanky middle-aged woman sporting a green hairnet, hopping frenetically. She was pointing at a long-tailed clump of fuzz that lay quivering on the cake platter.

Raven stood up and gasped. “What is that-a bird?”

Derek was standing, too. “Birds don’t have big ears,” he said.

“A rat!”

“No. Rats don’t have wings.” Approaching the platter, he leaned down to examine the furry, twitching intruder. When he turned back to Raven, he was grinning.

“Just as I suspected-a bat!”

She said, “Lord, that’s a big one.”

“Indeed.” Derek’s eyes twinkled in the golden flickering of the campfire.

“It must be sick or hurt,” Raven said. “I’ll go get Mr. Cray.”

“Wait, I’ve got a better idea.” Derek motioned to the director. “How long will it take you blokes to set up some lights?”

The director folded his cards. “Seriously?”

Raven looked down at the woozy bat, then back at Derek Badger.

“Oh no,” she said.

“Oh yes!” He licked his upper lip. “Let’s do this!”

Raven Stark had asked Wahoo to stay and eat with the crew, but he said no thanks. When he got back to camp, Tuna was sitting on a corner of the tarp, reading by flashlight.

“Nice outerwear,” she said. “Does this mean you’re officially part of the team?”

He took off the Expedition Survival! jacket and put on a dry T-shirt. From his father’s tent came the familiar croaks and snuffles of snoring. Mickey had gone to bed early.

“I scared you off, huh?” Tuna said.