Carl Hiaasen - Nature Girl

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.”

Dealey was tired of the Shreave case. He’d done his job, nailing the knucklehead in the act, and now he was ready for fresh meat.

“Trust me. Your husband won’t give you any trouble over the divorce,” he assured Lily Shreave. “After seeing what you’ve got on him, he’ll sign anything.”

She said, “I want more, Mr. Dealey.”

“But why? I got you dinner tabs and floral receipts and eight-by-tens and video.” Dealey could not suppress his exasperation. “You said the photos of the blow job weren’t enough. You wanted ‘documentation of intercourse,’ so I got that, too-on tape, for Christ’s sake! What else do you need, Mrs. Shreave?”

“Penetration,” she replied.

Dealey waited for her to chuckle and tell him she was only kidding. When it became apparent that she was serious, he shut the door to his office so as not to offend his assistant, who had recently found religion.

“That video you took was good,” Lily Shreave said, “but I want something a hundred percent irrefutable.”

“Excuse me? I got you a naked woman grinding your husband on the sofa of her living room, and you say that’s not proof of adultery?” Dealey had his share of wacko clients, but Lily Shreave was breaking new ground.

He said, “I’d kill to be in court when Bouncing Boyd tries to explain that little scene. ‘Honest, Your Honor, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s a pelvic chiropractor.’”

“Yes, but in the video all you really see of him is the back of his head,” Lily remarked.

“The lady nearly knocks him unconscious with her tits, Mrs. Shreave! In my business, it doesn’t get any better than that. Seventeen years, I’ve never seen a tape of that quality,” he asserted with no small measure of pride.

Lily Shreave had replayed the video over and over during her last visit to Dealey’s office. He remembered her sitting unusually close to the screen-not angry or tearful, but hunched forward and studious. At the time, Dealey had thought it was a little creepy.

He said, “This is a slam dunk, Mrs. Shreave. Ask any divorce lawyer in Texas.”

Lily was unswayed. “I’d prefer to see penetration,” she said flatly. “That would be the smoking gun.”

“No, that would be a fucking miracle,” said Dealey, “literally.”

“I suppose I could find another private investigator.”

“And I’d understand completely.” He passed his invoice across the desk. “That includes gas and expenses.”

As Boyd Shreave’s wife wrote out the check, she said, “You never told me if this slut was really a Fonda.”

“Not even close. No family connection,” Dealey said. “It’s in my report.”

“Right. One of these days I’ll have to read it.” Lily took a tube of mint lip balm from her purse and applied it conservatively.

Dealey glanced at his wristwatch. “Mrs. Shreave, I’ve got another appointment across town.”

She closed the purse and said, “Ten thousand dollars if you get me proof of penetration.”

“That’s just crazy.”

“Cash,” she said.

Dealey sat down slowly. The woman obviously was getting off, watching her old man do it with somebody else. One time Dealey had been hired by a husband who got his kicks the same way, except he didn’t have ten grand lying around.

“Well?” said Lily Shreave.

Dealey pondered the unappetizing dullness of his next case-a fireman who’d claimed he injured his shoulder while hosing a burning Airstream was now playing thirty-six holes of golf daily while on disability leave. The city’s claims adjuster had expressed an interest in either stills or videotape.

Lily said, “Think of it, Mr. Dealey. You pull this off, you’ll be a legend in your business.”

“But logistically, it would be…it would be…”

“A triumph?”