Carl Hiaasen - Nature Girl

“I’ll give you ten grand, but that’s it.”

“Sounds fair.”

“To help with your out-of-pocket medical.”

“Much appreciated,” said the private investigator. He could hear Bolero rising in the background, along with Mrs. Shreave’s breathing.

She said, “FYI, I’m filing the divorce papers next week.”

“Should be a breeze.” Dealey figured that she’d finally closed the deal on her pizza joints.

“Just out of curiosity, where exactly is my husband?” she asked.

“I have no earthly idea.”

“Then I’ll assume he ran off with his six-foot bimbo.”

Dealey didn’t say a word.

Lily wasn’t finished. “By the way, the Coast Guard said they rescued two women from the same island.”

“Campers,” he said. “They were lost, too.”

“Serves ’em right. It sounds like a perfectly awful place.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Shreave.”

Dealey hung up smiling. When Eugenie Fonda asked him what was so funny, he told her about the ten grand.

She whistled and said, “What’d I tell ya? The woman’s seriously gettin’ off on those reptiles.”

“Nice job with the camera. Helluva job, actually.” Dealey’s shoulder, bolted together with three titanium pins, was throbbing. He hunted through the desk for some Advils.

“You got any normal clients?” Eugenie asked.

“A few. You’ll see.”

“So, what’s the dress code around here?”

“Surprise me,” Dealey said.

Eugenie had strolled into his office two days earlier offering a deal: She would return the two Halliburton cases containing the costly surveillance equipment if he promised to deliver the chameleon sex tape to Boyd Shreave’s wife. During that conversation it had occurred to Dealey that Eugenie, with her vast and intimate knowledge of human frailty, could be a valuable addition to his staff.

“Does this mean you’re taking the job?” he asked.

“Just don’t try to get in my pants. You’ve got no chance whatsoever.”

“Understood,” Dealey said.

“And if you set me up with any of your loser buddies, I’ll personally break your other arm. Think compound fracture.”

“Right.” He was almost certain that she could, and would, do it.

“One other thing-those tapes and pictures you took of me and Boyd. Did you make copies?”

Dealey frowned and shifted in the chair.

“Burn ’em,” Eugenie said.

He thought ruefully of his masterpiece, the delicatessen blow job. “They’re in a safe box at the bank. Nobody but me has a key.”

“I said burn ’em.” Eugenie leaned forward, tapping her fingernails on the desk. “Did I or did I not just make you ten thousand ridiculous dollars?”

The investigator slouched in resignation. “But I thought you wanted to see ’em-the videos and prints.”

Eugenie said no, she’d changed her mind. “It’s ancient history.”

“You looked pretty damn fine, for what it’s worth.”

“Don’t make me tell you what it’s worth, Mr. Dealey.”

He uncapped a pen to write down her Social. “When can you start?”

“Hang on. I’m not done,” she said. “Did you make those calls for our friend?”

She was talking about Gillian, the spacey college kid with whom Dealey had been forced to share a sleeping bag. It was not an entirely unpleasant memory.

He said, “Nobody at the Indian reservation would tell me a damn thing. They acted like they’d never heard of Mr. Tigertooth.”

“Tigertail.”

“Whatever. Guy could be anywheres by now.”

“Gillian’s determined to find him.”

“I don’t get the attraction.”

“If you’ve gotta ask,” Eugenie said, “then you definitely need my help around here.”

Dealey’s inquiries to Collier County had not been altogether fruitless. From a newspaper reporter he’d learned that Louis Piejack, the freak who had kidnapped him, was missing in the Ten Thousand Islands. Having no wish to be subpoenaed to that dreadful part of the planet, Dealey had elected not to enlighten the authorities about Piejack’s many crimes.

“What about Boyd?” Eugenie Fonda asked.

Dealey flexed his hands and shrugged. “No John Does at the local morgue. He probably got off the island and hauled ass. Were you expecting him to call?”

“Oh, I’d be very surprised,” Eugenie said. She had changed her phone number the day after arriving back in Fort Worth. It was the first call she’d made after quitting her job at Relentless.

“Now let’s talk salary,” she said to Dealey.

“Fire away.”

With the exception of Sister Shirelle, the moaners had become disillusioned with the one who called himself Boyd. For a savior he seemed whiny and graceless.

One afternoon, Brother Manuel took him aside and said, “You blew it, dog.”

Boyd Shreave bridled. “Bite your heathen tongue!”

“They took a vote. Gimme the damn robe.”

“No way.” Shreave locked his arms across the sash.

“You had a sweet gig here,” said Brother Manuel. “Why couldn’t you just smile and look wise and keep your trap shut?”

“But I read somewhere that Jesus was like a rock idol.”

“Charismatic is the word, but that ain’t you, man. You’re just another loudmouthed schmuck.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll tone it down.”

“Too late,” the chief moaner said curtly.

The moment reminded Shreave of his many past failures in sales. Over the phone he could be a master of persuasion; in person he seemed doomed to rankle. This he blamed not on multiple character defects but rather on miscalculating his target demographic. From now on he would upwardly skew his efforts toward a more cosmopolitan market, with needs yet unrevealed.

Brother Manuel went on: “Fact is, you’re way too obnoxious to be the Son of God. I can’t cover for you anymore.”

“Was it unanimous?”

“Everybody except Shirelle, and she’d go down on Judas Iscariot if he was a hottie. Now hand over the robe.”

“I don’t think so,” Shreave said.

Brother Manuel calmly punched him in the gut and he doubled over. The glorious Four Seasons vestment was peeled off his shoulders like a snakeskin.

“We’re headin’ back to the mainland tomorrow,” said Brother Manuel. “The girls are gonna leave you two loaves of sourdough and a jug of Tang. If you’re ever passin’ through Zolfo Springs, stop by the AAMCO and I’ll cut you a break on a pan gasket.”

Shreave was wheezing. “This is a joke, right?”

“No, friend, this is adieu.”

“You can’t leave me out here! Even on Survivor the losers get to go home.”

Brother Manuel said, “We’ll call the Park Service on our way out of town.”

“But you don’t even know the name of this friggin’ island! How’re they supposed to find me?”

“Worse comes to worst, you’ve always got the canoe.”

“But I’ll die out here! I’ve got a heavy-duty disease and I need my medicine,” Shreave said. “Aphenphosmphobia!”

Brother Manuel snorted. “That’s not a disease, it’s a disorder. And if you were truly afflicted, brother, you wouldn’t have asked Sister Shirelle to rub your feet last night.”

Boyd Shreave wilted.

“My cousin’s an aphenphosmphobic,” Brother Manuel added in a frosty tone. “That’s how I know.”

There was nothing left for Shreave to do but beg. “Christ, please take me with you.”

“If He were here, perhaps He would. However, it’s my boat and it’s my call.” Brother Manuel slung the white robe over one arm and turned away.

“Gimme another chance!” Shreave called out, but the preacher kept walking.

That night Shreave built a feeble fire on the dune, using a book of matches that Sister Shirelle had tucked in his Speedos shortly before the moaners cast off. For tinder he sacrificed his ragged copy of Storm Ghoul, rendering to ashes the only keepsake of his fizzled affair with Eugenie Fonda.