Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

Even when off-duty, Officer Delinko always kept the radio in his police cruiser turned on. That was one of the strict rules for those who were allowed to take their patrol vehicles home with them-you must keep your ears on, just in case a fellow officer needs help.

Tonight the dispatcher was reporting a couple of minor fender benders and a local boy who went missing on his bicycle during the electrical storm. Roy something-or-other. A burp of static on the radio made it hard to hear the boy's last name.

His parents must be pulling their hair out, Officer Delinko thought, but the kid's bound to turn up safe. He's probably just hanging out at one of the shopping malls, waiting for the thunder to stop.

Ten minutes later, Officer Delinko was still half-thinking about the missing boy when he spotted a slender, rain-soaked figure standing at the corner of West Oriole and the highway. It was a boy matching the description given out by the dispatcher: approximately five feet tall, ninety pounds, sandy brown hair.

Officer Delinko steered his car to the curb. He rolled down the window and called out across the intersection, "Hey, young man!"

The boy waved and moved closer to the edge of the road. Officer Delinko noticed that he was walking a bicycle, and that the rear tire appeared to be flat.

"Is your name Roy?" the policeman asked.

"That's me."

"How about if I give you a lift?"

The kid crossed the street with his bike, which fit easily inside the spacious trunk of the Crown Victoria. Officer Delinko radioed the dispatcher to report that he'd located the missing youth and that everything was fine.

"Roy, your parents are going to be mighty happy to see you," the patrolman said.

The boy smiled nervously. "I sure hope you're right."

Silently Officer Delinko congratulated himself. Not a bad way to end the shift for a guy stuck on desk duty! Maybe this would help get him out of the captain's doghouse.

Roy had never been in a police car before. He rode in the front seat next to the young officer, who did most of the talking. Roy tried to be polite and keep up his end of the conversation, but his mind was swirling with what Beatrice Leep had told him about the running boy.

"My stepbrother, actually," she'd said.

"What's his name?"

"He got rid of it."

"Why do they call him Mullet Fingers? Is he an Indian?" Back in Bozeman, Roy had gone to school with a boy named Charlie Three Crows.

Beatrice Leep had laughed. "No, he's not an Indian! I call him Mullet Fingers 'cause he can catch mullet with his bare hands. You know how hard that is?"

A mullet was a slippery, free-jumping baitfish that traveled in schools of hundreds. The bay near Coconut Cove was full of them in the spring. Throwing a cast net was the customary method of capture.

"Why doesn't he live at home?" Roy had asked Beatrice.

"Long story. Plus, none of your business."

"What about school?"

"My brother got shipped off to a 'special' school. He lasted two whole days before he ran away. Then he hitchhiked back, all the way from Mobile, Alabama."

"What about your parents?"

"They don't know he's here, and I'm not gonna tell 'em. Nobody is gonna tell. You understand?"

Roy had solemnly given his word.

After they'd sneaked out of the auto junkyard, Beatrice Leep had given Roy a peanut-butter cookie, which he gobbled hungrily. Considering the circumstances, it was the best-tasting cookie he'd ever eaten.

Beatrice had asked how he planned to explain his whereabouts to his mother and father, and Roy had admitted he hadn't figured that part out yet.

Then Beatrice had performed an astounding feat-she'd lifted his bicycle by the sprockets and chomped a hole in the rear tire, like she was biting into a pizza.

Roy could only gape in amazement. The girl had jaws like a wolverine. "There! Now you've got a flat," she'd said, "and a halfway decent excuse for missing dinner."

"Thanks. I guess."

"So what're you waiting for? Get outta here."

What a weird family, Roy thought. He was replaying the tire-biting scene in his mind when he heard the policeman say, "Can I ask you something, young man?"

"Sure."

"You go to Trace Middle, right? I was wondering if you've heard any talk at school about stuff that's been happening out where the new pancake house is supposed to go up."

"No," Roy said, "but I saw an article in the newspaper."

The officer shifted uneasily.

"About the alligators," Roy added, "and the police car getting spray-painted."

The officer paused for a brief coughing spell. Then he said, "You sure nobody's been talking about it? Sometimes the kids who pull these sorts of pranks like to brag on themselves."

Roy said he hadn't heard a word. "This is my street," he said, pointing. "We're the sixth house on the left."

The policeman wheeled into the Eberhardts' driveway and braked to a stop. "Roy, could I ask you a favor? Could you call me if you do hear something-anything, even a rumor-about the Mother Paula's situation? It's very important."

The officer handed Roy a printed card. "That's the office line, and that's my cellular."

Above the phone numbers, the card said:

"You can call me anytime," advised Officer Delinko. "Just keep your eyes and your ears open, okay?"

"Right," Roy said, not too eagerly. The policeman was asking him to be an informant: a snitch on his own classmates. It seemed like a steep price to pay for a ride home.

Not that Roy wasn't appreciative, but he didn't feel like he owed the officer anything besides a sincere thank-you. Wasn't it part of a policeman's job to help people?

Roy got out of the car and waved to his parents, who were standing on the front steps. Officer Delinko removed Roy's bicycle from the trunk and set it upright, on its kickstand. "There you go," he said.

"Thanks," said Roy.

"They'll patch that tire for you at the Exxon. Was it a nail that got you?"

"Something like that."

Roy's father came up and thanked the policeman for bringing his son home. Roy overheard the two men exchanging law-enforcement chitchat, so Roy figured his father had told the officer he worked for the Justice Department.

When Mr. Eberhardt went to put Roy's bicycle in the garage, Officer Delinko lowered his voice and said, "Hey, young man."

What now? Roy thought.

"Think your dad would mind writing a letter to the police chief? Or even to my sergeant? No biggie, just a nice note about what happened tonight. Something they could put in my permanent file," Officer Delinko said. "The little things help, they really do. They add up."

Roy nodded in a noncommittal way. "I'll ask him."

"Terrific. You're a solid young fellow."

Officer Delinko got back in his car. Mrs. Eberhardt, who had gone inside to get a towel, came up and pumped the patrolman's hand. "We were worried out of our minds. Thank you so much."

"Oh, it was nothing." Officer Delinko shot a wink at Roy.

"You've restored my faith in the police," Roy's mother went on. "Honestly, I didn't know what to think after reading that outrageous story in the paper. The one about that policeman who had his windows painted black!"

It was Roy's impression that Officer Delinko suddenly looked queasy. "You all have a good night," he told the Eberhardts, and turned the key in the ignition.

"Do you happen to know that fellow?" Roy's mother asked innocently. "The one who fell asleep inside his car. What's going to happen to him? Will he be fired?"

With a screech of rubber, Officer Delinko backed out of the driveway and drove off.

"Maybe there was an emergency," Mrs. Eberhardt said, watching the patrol car's taillights disappear into the night.