Carl Hiaasen - Nature Girl

“And sign a purchase option,” she said, “which you can cancel within thirty days, or so they promise.”

Shreave thought the pitch sounded stale. “It’s been done to death,” he told her.

“No, they also give ’em an ecotour,” the woman said. “That’s the newest angle.”

“A what?”

“A breathtaking ecotour through the Ten Thousand Islands,” she recited, “in kayaks.”

“Well, it’s different.”

The woman said, “I’ve heard it’s real pretty down there. You and Mrs. Shreave ought to go. Heck, you don’t have to buy a darn thing-like I need to tell you.”

“You get a commission on the sign-up?”

“Right, but it’s not much.”

“Never is,” Boyd Shreave said. She’d gotten him thinking.

“Travel included?” he asked.

“Yessir. Two round-trip plane tickets.”

“What about the accommodations?”

“A four-star eco-lodge,” the woman said. “If you can stand the sales push, it’s a pretty sweet deal.”

“Yeah, not bad,” Shreave agreed. He and Eugenie had never taken a trip together. They’d never even gone to a motel.

“Only thing is, the offer expires in two weeks,” the woman added. “That’s what it says here on the read sheet.”

Shreave heard the doorknob rattle, then Lily saying: “Let me in, Boyd. I promise not to touch you anywhere.”

Shreave covered the handset and told his wife he’d be out in a minute.

“Let me ask you something,” he said in a low tone to the telemarketer. “Are there really ten thousand islands, or did they just make that up to con the tourists?”

Honey Santana had ferreted out Boyd Shreave’s home number all by herself. Fry had refused to help, and then her brother had made up some fishy excuse, claiming he couldn’t track down Shreave’s lawsuit because the courthouse computers were down.

So, after talking Fry into letting her on-line, Honey had found a person-locator service that was offering a one-day trial-supposedly free, although she had to give a credit card number. Once the Web site was accessed, she typed in “Shreave” and got twenty-seven hits, including several repeats. There were three Boyds, four B.S.’s and two Lilys with the same telephone number and South Willow Street address in Fort Worth.

Honey timed her call for 6:45 p.m. in East Texas. She was hoping Boyd and his wife were in the midst of dinner.

I’m Mr. Shreave.

Honey knew it was him. That voice, dripping confidence and cordiality, was unforgettable.

She was caught off guard when he interrupted her pitch, but she rolled with it, letting him play the wise old pro. His description of her telephone style as “creamy” was amusing, since she’d deliberately softened her tone to sound different from their only previous conversation.

The moment he asked about travel expenses, Honey knew he was hooked. It was a total high; she was almost ashamed by how excited she felt. Now all she had to do was talk her ex-husband out of the plane tickets.

In the car Honey reached to turn down the radio, only to find that it was off. The music she heard was coming from inside her skull, one of the usual symptoms. Today it was two oldies-a wretched disco number, and the peppy “Marrakesh Express” by Crosby, Stills amp; Nash. The static, over which Honey had no control, was worse than on the Cuban stations from Miami.

Her mouth was dry by the time she pulled into Perry Skinner’s driveway. The house sat on the Barron River, up the bend from the Rod and Gun Club. It wasn’t a huge place but she liked its old, comfortable look. The floors and beams were made of real Dade County pine, which these days was practically impossible to find. Perry Skinner had purchased the house shortly after the divorce, Honey suspecting that the down payment was left over from his smuggling days. Three doors down lived a famous fishing guide who’d taught Fry how to cast for tarpon.

Skinner was alone on the front porch, having a drink.

“Where’s the boy?” he asked when Honey got out of the car.

“Track practice. He’ll be home around nine,” she said, letting Perry know she couldn’t stay and chitchat-she had a tight schedule.

He nodded toward a wicker rocking chair.

Honey sat down but made a point of not rocking. This was a business appointment, after all.

“Fry said you had some problems with the plane tickets.”

Skinner said, “Not problems, just questions.”

“All I need is two coach seats on American. I remembered you had tons of frequent-flier miles from visiting Paul out West.”

Paul was Perry’s older brother and former partner in the marijuana trade. Thanks to his arrogant Tampa attorney, Paul got heavier time, and for spite the feds stuck him in a prison camp way out in Oregon.

Skinner said, “I can buy you the damn tickets, Honey. That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“Are you taking Fry somewhere? I’ve got a right to know-it says so in the settlement.”

Honey puffed her cheeks and blew out the air. “Honest to God, the kid’s like a mini-you. He asked me the same ridiculous thing.”

“So the answer is no.”

“A big fat capital N-O! What-did you think I was moving away?” she asked. “I wouldn’t do that to Fry. He loves it here.”

Skinner said, “I heard you quit the fish market.”

She shrugged. “There’s other things I want to do with my life. And don’t give me that sideways look of yours.”

Lord, he’s still a handsome guy, she thought. Nobody could ever say I didn’t have a good eye.

“Did Louis Piejack really grab one of your boobs?” Skinner asked matter-of-factly.

Honey Santana felt herself blush. “Word sure gets around. Yeah, but don’t worry-I fixed his sorry wagon.”

Skinner leaned close and whispered, “Hold still.”

Honey almost broke into a tremble, thinking he was going to kiss her, yet all he did was very gently brush a mosquito from her neck. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

Skinner said, “So who are the plane tickets for?”

“A couple of friends of mine from Texas,” she said. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get another job. I already put in for cashier at the Super Wal-Mart in Naples.”

He smiled. “You don’t have to pay me back. And, no offense, Honey, but Wal-Mart ain’t ready for the likes of you.”

“Hey, I’ve been doing real good,” she said defensively. “Didn’t Fry tell you how great I was doing?”

“Still on the medicine?”

“Twice a day.”

“Because otherwise I’d offer you a drink,” he said.

“No mixing booze with the happy pills. Doctor’s orders.” It was the easiest part of the charade; Honey had never cared much for alcohol. “So, we’re cool with the tickets?”

“I’ll need the names of your two friends.”

“Here, I wrote everything down.” She took a paper from her purse and handed it to him. “I appreciate it,” she said. “This is important.”

Skinner turned toward the river, where a snook was blasting minnows under the dock lights.

“It sucks that you’re not tellin’ me everything,” he said.

“When are you gonna stop worrying?”

“Maybe when you get a grip on the world.”

“Boy, that’s a shitty thing to say.” But Honey could barely hear her own words above the melodies clashing in her brainpan.

Three days later, Eugenie Fonda sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, listening to Sacco’s theory that Bill Gates was not only the Antichrist but the illegitimate spawn of Jesse Helms and Grace Slick.

Evidently it had been Sacco’s misfortune to sign on with a software company that vaingloriously decided to compete with some arcane pop-up blocking service provided by Microsoft. The technical details were beyond Eugenie’s grasp, or interest, but she had no difficulty understanding the reason for Sacco’s consumptive bitterness. At one point the young man had been worth approximately two million dollars on paper, a figure reduced to bus change by his firm’s brief skirmish with Sir William Gates.