Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

"Another one? You just got back."

"When's dinner? It smells great."

"Pot roast, honey, nothing special. But we won't be eating until seven-thirty or eight-your dad had a late tee time."

"Perfect," Roy said. "Bye, Mom."

"What are you up to?" she called after him. "Roy?"

He pedaled at full speed to the block where Dana Matherson lived, and chained his bicycle to a street sign. Approaching the house on foot, he slipped unnoticed through a hedge into the backyard.

Roy wasn't tall enough to see in the windows; he had to jump and hold himself up by his fingers. In the first room he saw a thin rumpled figure lying prone on a sofa: Dana's father, holding what appeared to be an ice pack to his forehead.

In the second room was either Dana's mother or Dana himself, wearing red spandex pants and a ratty wig. Roy decided it was probably Mrs. Matherson, since the person was pushing a vacuum cleaner. He lowered himself and resumed creeping along the outside wall until he reached the third window.

And there, sure enough, was Dana.

He lay sprawled on his bed, a lazy blob in dirty cargo pants and unlaced high-top sneakers. He wore a stereo headset, and his head was jerking back and forth to the music.

Standing on tiptoe, Roy tapped his knuckles against the glass. Dana didn't hear him. Roy kept tapping until a dog on the porch next door began to bark.

The next time Roy levered himself up to peek into the room, Dana was glowering at him through the window. He had pulled off the headset and was mouthing some words that even an amateur lipreader could have figured out.

Smiling, Roy dropped to the lawn and took two steps back from the Matherson house. He proceeded to do something that was drastically out of character for a boy who was basically shy.

What he did was salute crisply, spin around, drop his pants, and bend over.

Viewed upside down (which was how Roy saw it), Dana's wide-eyed reaction suggested that he'd never been mooned in such a personal way. He seemed highly insulted.

Calmly Roy pulled up his trousers, then strolled around to the front of the house and waited for Dana to come hurtling out the door in a fury. It didn't take long.

Roy broke into a brisk jog with Dana no more than twenty yards behind him, cursing and spluttering vile names. Roy knew he was a faster runner, so he measured his pace; he didn't want Dana to get discouraged and give up.

Yet after only three blocks it became evident that Dana was in even worse shape than Roy had anticipated. Steadily he ran out of steam, the angry curses dissolving into moans of fatigue, the name calling into sickly wheezes.

When Roy checked behind him, he saw that Dana was gimping along in a lopsided half-trot. It was pathetic. They were still a half-mile from where Roy wanted to be, but he knew Dana wouldn't make it without pausing for a rest. The sorry load was about to keel over.

Roy had no choice but to pretend he was tiring, too. Slower and slower he ran, falling back in the chase until Dana was practically stumbling at his heels. Familiar sweaty hands clamped down on his neck, but Roy realized that Dana was too worn out to throttle him. The kid was simply trying to keep himself from falling down.

It didn't work. They landed in a heap, Roy pinned on the bottom. Dana was panting like a wet plow horse.

"Don't hurt me! I give up!" Roy peeped convincingly.

"Unnnggghhh." Dana's face was as red as a pepper and his eyeballs were fluttering in their sockets.

"You win!" Roy cried.

"Aaaarrrgghhh."

Dana's breath was foul, but his body odor was ferocious. Roy turned his head away to gulp some fresh air.

Beneath them the ground was soft and the soil was as black as coal. Roy guessed that they'd fallen in somebody's garden. They lay there for what seemed like forever while Dana recovered from the pursuit. Roy felt smushed and uncomfortable, but it was no use trying to squirm loose; Dana was dead weight.

Eventually he stirred, tightened his hold on Roy, and said: "Now I'm gonna kick your butt, Eberhardt."

"Please don't do that."

"You mooned me!"

"It was a joke. I'm really sorry."

"Hey, you moon somebody and that's it. You get your butt kicked."

"I don't blame you for being p.o.'ed," Roy said.

Dana slugged him in the ribs, but there wasn't much muscle in the punch.

"Think it's funny now, cowgirl?"

Roy shook his head no, faking like he was hurt.

Dana grinned malevolently. His teeth were nubby and yellow, like an old barn dog's. Kneeling on Roy's chest, he hauled back to hit him again.

"Wait!" Roy squeaked.

"For what? Beatrice the Bear ain't here to save ya this time."

"Ciggies," Roy said in a confidential whisper.

"Uh?" Dana lowered his fist. "What'd you say?"

"I know where there's a whole case of cigarettes. If you promise not to beat me up, I'll show you."

"What kinda cigarettes?"

Roy hadn't thought of that detail when he was cooking up the phony story. It hadn't occurred to him that Dana would be picky about his brand of smokes.

"Gladiators," said Roy, remembering the name from a magazine advertisement.

"Gold or Light?"

"Gold."

"No way!" Dana exclaimed.

"Way," Roy said.

Dana's expression wasn't hard to read-he was already scheming to keep some of the cigarettes for himself and sell the rest for a tidy profit to his buddies.

"Where are they?" He climbed off of Roy and yanked him upright to a sitting position. "Tell me!"

"First you gotta promise not to beat me up."

"Sure, man, I promise."

"Ever again," Roy said. "For all time."

"Yeah, whatever."

"I want to hear you say it."

Dana laughed in a patronizing way. "All right, little cowgirl. I'll never, ever, ever pound on your sorry butt again. Okay? Swear on my father's grave. That good enough for ya?"

"Your father's still alive," Roy pointed out.

"Then I swear on Natalie's grave. Now tell me where those Gladiator Golds are stashed. I ain't kiddin'."

"Who's Natalie?" Roy asked.

"My mother's parakeet. That's the only dead person I know."

"I guess that'll do." Based on what Roy had seen of the Matherson household, he had an uneasy feeling that poor Natalie hadn't expired of natural causes.

"So, we cool?" Dana asked.

"Yeah," said Roy.

It was time to turn the big dummy loose. The sun had dropped into the Gulf, and the streetlights were coming on.

Roy said, "There's an empty lot at the corner of Woodbury and East Oriole."

"Yeah?"

"In one corner of the lot there's a construction trailer. That's where the cigarettes are stashed."

"Sweet. A whole case," Dana said greedily. "But how come you know 'bout it?"

"'Cause me and my friends hid 'em there. We swiped 'em off a truck on the Seminole reservation."

"You?"

"Yeah, me."

It was a fairly believable yarn, Roy thought. The Indian tribe sold tax-free tobacco products, and smokers came from miles away to stock up.

"Where'bouts inside the trailer?" Dana demanded.

"You can't miss 'em," Roy said. "You want me to, I'll show you."

Dana snorted. "No thanks. I'll find 'em."

He placed two fingers in the center of Roy's chest and gave a stiff shove. Roy flopped back into the flower bed, his head coming to rest in the same soft indentation. He waited a minute or so before getting up and brushing himself off.

By then Dana Matherson was long gone. Roy would have been disappointed if he wasn't.

Curly made it through Friday night, though not without personal inconvenience. First thing Saturday morning, he drove to the hardware store and bought a sturdy new seat for the toilet in the trailer, plus a dozen jumbo rattraps. Then he stopped at the Blockbuster and got a movie in case the TV cable went out again.