Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

Once Dana stopped howling, Roy said, "Every time you try to hurt me, something bad happens to you. Haven't you noticed?"

Dana was doubled over, shaking his injured hand. He glared up at Roy.

"Like yesterday," Roy went on, "when you tried to kill me in the janitor's closet. Remember? You ended up getting whupped by a girl, stripped naked, and strung to a flagpole."

"I wasn't naked," Dana snapped. "I had my underpants on."

"When you go back to school Monday, everybody's going to be laughing at you. Everybody, Dana, and it's your own stupid fault. All you had to do was leave me alone. How hard is that?"

"Yeah, well, they'll be laughin' even louder when I kick your skinny ass to kingdom come, cowgirl. They'll be laughin' like hyenas, only you won't be around to hear 'em."

"In other words," Roy said irritably, "you haven't learned a thing."

"That's right. And you can't make me!"

Roy sighed. "The only reason I came over here was to talk things out. Put a stop to all this dumb fighting."

That had been his mission. If only he could make peace with Dana Matherson, even temporarily, then he'd be free to focus his energy on solving the Mullet Fingers dilemma.

But Dana hooted in his face. "You must be crazy. After all the crap that's happened to me, you're so dead, Eberhardt. You're so dead it ain't even funny."

Roy realized it was no use. "Hopeless. That's what you are," he said. "By the way, that's a cool shade of purple." He pointed at Dana's swollen knuckles.

"Get outta here, cowgirl! Now!"

Roy left him there on the porch, pounding the front door and bellowing for his father to let him in. Evidently the lock had clicked behind him when he'd come outside to take a punch at Roy.

It was a funny scene, Dana hopping up and down in his baggy boxer shorts, but Roy wasn't in the mood to enjoy it.

He hid his bicycle and snuck through the hole in the fence. In broad daylight, the junkyard didn't look so spooky; just cluttered. Still, Roy had no difficulty spotting the rusty old panel truck with JO-JO's ICE CREAM AND SNO-CONES painted on the flimsy awning.

Beatrice's stepbrother was in the back of the truck, zipped into a moldy sleeping bag. When he heard Roy's footsteps, he stirred and cracked one eye. Roy knelt beside him.

"Brought you some water."

"Thanks, man." Mullet Fingers reached for the plastic bottle. "And thanks for last night. You get in trouble?"

"No big deal," said Roy. "How do you feel?"

"Like cow poop."

"You're looking better than you did," Roy told him, which was the truth. The shine had returned to the boy's cheeks, and his dog-bitten arm no longer appeared puffy and stiff. A blue button-sized bruise was visible on the other arm, where the boy had yanked out the intravenous tube before fleeing the hospital.

"Fever's gone, but I hurt all over," he said, squirming out of the sleeping bag. Roy looked the other way while he put on some clothes.

"I came to tell you something. It's about the new pancake house," Roy said. "I talked to my dad and he said they can build whatever they want on that land, long as they've got the legal papers. There's nothing we can do."

Mullet Fingers grinned. "'We'?"

"All I mean is-"

"You're sayin' it's a lost cause, right? Come on, Tex, you gotta start thinkin' like an outlaw."

"But I'm not an outlaw."

"Yeah, you are. Last night at the hospital-that was definitely an outlaw move."

"You were sick. You needed help," Roy said.

Mullet Fingers finished off the water and tossed the empty bottle. He stood up, stretching like a cat.

"You crossed the line, and why? 'Cause you cared about what happened to me," he said to Roy, "just like I care about what happens to them weird little owls."

"They're burrowing owls. I've been reading up on them," Roy said, "which reminds me-they probably aren't too crazy about hamburger meat. They eat mostly bugs and worms, according to the bird books."

"So I'll catch 'em some bugs." The boy spoke with a touch of impatience. "Point is, it ain't right, what's happening out there. That land belonged to the owls long before it belonged to the pancake house. Where you from, Tex?"

"Montana," Roy replied automatically. Then he added, "Well, actually, I was born in Detroit. But we lived in Montana right before we moved down here."

"Never been out West," Mullet Fingers said, "but I know they got mountains."

"Yeah. Awesome mountains."

"That's what we need here," said the boy. "Florida's so flat, there's nothing to stop 'em from bulldozin' one coast to the other."

Roy didn't have the heart to tell him that even mountains aren't safe from machines like that.

"Ever since I was little," Mullet Fingers said, "I've been watchin' this place disappear-the piney woods, the scrub, the creeks, the glades. Even the beaches, man-they put up all these giant hotels and only goober tourists are allowed. It really sucks."

Roy said, "Same thing happens everywhere."

"Doesn't mean you don't fight back. Here, check it out." From a pocket of his torn jeans the boy produced a crumpled piece of paper. "I tried, Tex, see? Had Beatrice write a letter, telling 'em about the owls and all. Here's what they sent back."

Roy smoothed out the paper, which bore the Mother Paula's company emblem at the top. It said:

Dear Ms. Leep, Thank you very much for your letter. We here at Mother Paula's All-American Pancake Houses, Inc., take pride in our strong commitment to the environment. Every possible effort will be made to address your concerns. You have my personal assurance that Mother Paula's is working closely with local authorities, in full compliance with all laws, codes, and regulations. Sincerely, Chuck E. Muckle Vice-President for Corporate Relations

"Lame," Roy said, handing the paper back to Beatrice's stepbrother.

"Yeah, it's just a whatcha-call-it… a form letter. Didn't even mention the owls."

They stepped out of the ice-cream truck into the sunlight. Ripples of heat rose from the junked cars, which were lined up in rows as far as Roy could see.

"How long are you going to hide here?" he asked the boy.

"Till they chase me out. Hey, what're you doin' tonight?"

"Homework."

In truth Roy had only one short chapter to read for Mr. Ryan's history class, but he wanted an excuse to stay home. He sensed that Mullet Fingers was planning another illegal visit to the Mother Paula's site.

"Well, you change your mind, meet me you-know-where at sunset," the boy said, "and bring a socket wrench."

Roy felt a strange mixture of apprehension and excitement. Part of him was worried about the tactics used by Beatrice's stepbrother, and part of him was rooting for the kid.

"You've been sick," Roy said. "You need to rest up."

"Ha! No time for that."

"But the stuff you're doing, it won't work," Roy persisted. "It might slow things down but it won't stop 'em. Mother Paula's is a big company. They're not just going to give up and go away."

"Neither am I, Tex."

"Sooner or later they'll catch you, and then you'll end up in juvenile hall and-"

"Then I'll run away again. Same as always."

"But don't you miss, like, a normal life?"

"Can't miss what you never had," said Beatrice's stepbrother. Roy detected no bitterness in his voice.

"Maybe someday I'll go back to school," the boy went on, "but for now I'm 'bout as smart as I need to be. Maybe I can't do algebra or say 'Nice poodle' in French or tell you who discovered Brazil, but I can make a fire with two dry sticks and a rock. I can climb a coconut palm and get me enough fresh milk to last a month-"

They heard a motor start and ducked back into the ice-cream truck.

"Old guy who owns the place," Mullet Fingers whispered. "He's got an ATV-it's super cool. Goes flyin' around here like he's Jeff Gordon."