Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

Not wishing to be mauled by the dogs (or gored by the umbrella), Curly had remained outside the gate, watching in puzzlement. A Coconut Cove police cruiser had pulled up to investigate-Officer Delinko, the same cop who'd dozed off while "guarding" the construction site. It was because of him that the spray-painting fiasco had made the newspaper and gotten Curly into hot water with the Mother Paula's company.

"I was on my way to the station when I saw the commotion," Officer Delinko had said, raising his voice over the barking of the Rottweilers. "What's wrong with those dogs?"

"Nuthin'," Curly had told him. "It's just a training exercise."

The cop had bought it and driven away, much to Curly's relief. Once the Rottweilers were secured on leashes, Kalo had hustled them into the camper truck and locked the tailgate. Furiously he'd turned toward Curly and jabbed the umbrella in midair. "You! You try und kill my dogs!"

The foreman had raised his palms. "What're you talkin' about?"

Kalo had thrown open the gate and stomped up to Curly, who was wondering if he should pick up a rock for self-defense. Kalo was drenched with sweat, the veins in his neck bulging.

"Snakes!" He had spit out the word.

"What snakes?"

"Yah! You know vhat snakes! Za place iss crawling wis zem. Poison vuns!" Here Kalo had wiggled one of his pinky fingers. "Poison snakes wis shiny tails."

"No offense, but you're nutty as a fruitcake." Curly never once had seen a snake on the Mother Paula's site, and he would have remembered if he had. Snakes gave him the willies.

"Nuts, you say?" Kalo had seized him under one arm and led him to the portable trailer that served as Curly's office. There, coiled comfortably on the second step, was a thick mottled specimen that Curly recognized as a cottonmouth water moccasin, common in southern Florida.

Kalo was right: It was seriously poisonous. And its tail was sparkly.

Curly had found himself backing up. "I think you're gettin' carried away," he'd said to Kalo.

"Yah? You zink?"

The dog trainer then had hauled him toward the fence to point out another moccasin, then another, and still another-nine in all. Curly had been flabbergasted.

"Vhat you zink now? Zink Kalo iss nutsy fruitbar?"

"I can't explain it," Curly had admitted shakily. "Maybe all this rain brought 'em outta the swamp."

"Yah, shore."

"Listen, I-"

"No, you lissen. Each of dogs iss vorth three thousand U.S. dollars. Zat iss twelve thousand bucks barking here in za truck. Vhat happens, dog gets bit by snake? Dog dies, yah?"

"I didn't know about no snakes, I swear-"

"Iss miracle za dogs zey all okay. Pookie Face, za snake came after him zis close!" Kalo had indicated a distance of about a yard. "I take umbrella und push him away."

It was just about then that Kalo had accidentally stepped in an owl burrow and twisted his ankle. Rejecting Curly's offer of assistance, the dog trainer had hopped on one leg back to the camper truck.

"I go now. Don't effer call me again," he had fumed.

"Look, I said I was sorry. How much do I owe you?"

"Two bills I send. Vun for za dogs, vun for my leg."

"Aw, come on."

"Okay, maybe not. Maybe I talk to lawyer instead." Kalo's pale eyes had been gleaming. "Maybe I cannot any longer train dogs, my leg hurt so much. Maybe I go on, vhat you say, disability!"

"For Pete's sake."

"Mother Paula iss very big company. Has lots of money, yah?"

After Kalo had roared away, Curly carefully made his way to the trailer. The cottonmouth was no longer sunning on the steps, but Curly didn't take any chances. He set up a stepladder and hoisted himself through a window.

Fortunately, he'd saved the phone number of the reptile wrangler who had successfully removed the alligators from the toilets. The guy was tied up on an iguana call, but his secretary promised he'd come to the construction site as soon as possible.

Curly had holed up in the trailer for almost three hours, until the reptile wrangler pulled up to the gate. Armed only with a pillowcase and a modified five-iron, the guy had methodically scoured the pancake-house property in search of sparkle-tailed water moccasins.

Incredibly, he'd found none.

"That ain't possible!" Curly had exclaimed. "They were all over the place this mornin'."

The reptile wrangler had shrugged. "Snakes can be unpredictable. Who knows where they went."

"That's not what I want to hear."

"You sure they were moccasins? I never saw one with a shiny tail."

"Thanks for all your help," Curly had said snidely, and slammed the trailer door.

Now it was he who was on the receiving end of peevish sarcasm. "Maybe you can train the snakes to guard the property," Chuck Muckle was saying, "since the dogs didn't work out."

"It ain't so funny."

"You got that right, Mr. Branitt. It's not funny at all."

"Them cottonmouths can kill a person," Curly said.

"Really. Can they kill a bulldozer, too?"

"Well… probably not."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

Curly sighed. "Yes, sir. First thing Monday morning."

"Music to my ears," Chuck Muckle said.

The janitorial closet smelled pungently of bleach and cleaning solvents. Inside, it was almost as black as night.

Dana Matherson had reached out and snagged Roy as he ran toward the gym, pulling him into the closet and slamming the door. Nimbly, Roy had squirted out of Dana's moist grasp, and now he huddled on the cluttered floor while Dana stumbled around, punching blindly.

Scooting on the seat of his pants, Roy made his way toward a paper-thin stripe of light that he assumed was shining through a crack beneath the door. From somewhere above came a bang and then a pained yelp-apparently Dana had delivered a ferocious upper cut to an aluminum bucket.

Somehow Roy located the doorknob in the darkness. He flung open the door and lunged for freedom. Only his head made it into the hallway before Dana caught him. Roy's fingertips squeaked across the linoleum as he was pulled backward, and again the door closed on his shouts for help.

As Dana yanked him off the floor, Roy desperately groped for something with which to defend himself. His right hand found what felt like a wooden broom handle.

"I gotcha now, cowgirl," Dana whispered hoarsely.

He locked Roy in a fierce bear hug that emptied the air from Roy's lungs like an accordion. His arms were pinned to his sides and his legs dangled as limply as a rag doll's.

"Now, aren't you thorry you methed with me?" Dana gloated.

As Roy grew dizzy, the broom handle dropped from his fingers, and his ears filled with the sound of crashing waves. Dana's clench was smothering, but Roy found he could still move his lower legs. With all his unsapped strength he started thrashing both feet.

For a moment, nothing happened-then Roy felt himself falling. He landed faceup, so that his backpack absorbed the impact. It was still too dark to see, but Roy surmised from Dana's whimpering gasps that he'd been kicked in a very sensitive part of his body.

Roy knew he had to move swiftly. He tried to roll over, but he was weak and breathless from Dana's brutish hug. He lay there helplessly, like a turtle that had been flipped on its back.

When he heard Dana bellow, Roy closed his eyes and girded himself for the worst. Dana fell heavily upon him, clamping his meaty paws around Roy's throat.

This is it, Roy thought. The dumb goon is really going to kill me. Roy felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks.

Sorry, Mom. Maybe you and Dad can try again-

Suddenly the door of the utility closet flew open, and the weight on Roy's chest seemed to vaporize. He opened his eyes just as Dana Matherson was being lifted away, arms flailing, a stunned expression on his pug face.