Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

"Hmm. That file's not here," the clerk said, carefully tidying the tall pile.

"What do you mean?" Roy asked.

"The folder with all the permits and inspection notices-it's been checked out, I guess."

"By who?"

"I'll have to talk to my supervisor," the clerk said, "and she's already left for the day. The office closes at four-thirty, and it's already, let's see, four-twenty-seven." For emphasis he tapped the face of his wristwatch.

"Okay, I'll be back tomorrow," Roy said.

"Maybe you should choose another topic for your project." The clerk's tone had an artificial politeness.

Roy smiled coolly. "No thanks, mister. I don't give up that easy."

From City Hall he rode his bike to a bait shop and, using a stash of leftover lunch money, bought a box of live crickets. Fifteen minutes later he was sneaking through the junkyard.

Mullet Fingers wasn't holed up in the ice-cream truck, though his rumpled sleeping bag was still there. Roy waited inside for a while, but without A/C it was unbearably hot and sticky. Before long, he was back on his bike, heading for the corner of East Oriole and Woodbury.

The gate was padlocked; there was no sign of the grumpy bald foreman. Roy walked along the outside of the fence, scouting for Beatrice's stepbrother or any clever surprises he might have left for the pancake-house people.

Roy wouldn't have noticed anything unusual had he not spooked one of the owls, which flared from its burrow and landed in the cab of the bulldozer. That's when Roy saw that the seat was missing. He immediately checked the other earthmoving machines and found the same thing.

So that's what the kid was up to the other night, Roy thought gleefully. That's why he told me to bring a wrench.

Roy walked back to the gate and opened the container of crickets and held it up to the fence. One at a time, the insects hopped out of the box, jumped through the chain-link holes, and landed on the ground. Roy was hopeful that the owls would find them once they came out of their dens for supper.

He probably should have left when he heard the first honk, but he didn't. He knelt there patiently and waited until every last little cricket had vacated the box.

By then the honking had swollen to a steady blare, and the blue pickup truck was screeching to a stop. Roy dropped the box and jumped on his bike, but it was too late. The truck had blocked his escape.

The beet-faced bald guy vaulted from the cab and hoisted the bicycle by its seat, Roy pedaling furiously in suspension. His feet were a blur, but he wasn't going anywhere.

"What's your name! What're you doing here!" the foreman hollered. "This is private property, don't you know that? You wanna go to jail, junior?"

Roy stopped pedaling and caught his breath.

"I know what you're up to!" the bald man snarled. "I know your sneaky game."

Roy said, "Please, mister, let me go. I was only feeding the owls."

The crimson drained from the foreman's cheeks.

"What owls?" he said, not so loudly. "There ain't no owls around here."

"Oh, yes, there are," Roy said. "I've seen them."

The bald guy looked extremely nervous and agitated. He put his face so close that Roy could smell cooked onions on his breath.

"Lissen to me, boy. You didn't see no damn owls, okay? What you saw was a… was a wild chicken!"

Roy stifled a laugh. "I'm so sure."

"That's right. See, we got these dwarf chickens-"

"Mister, what I saw was an owl and you know it," Roy said, "and I know why you're so scared."

The foreman let go of Roy's bicycle.

"I ain't scared," he said stonily, "and you didn't see no owls. Now get outta here and don't come back 'less you wanna go to jail, like the last kid I caught trespassin'."

Roy carefully guided his bicycle around the pickup truck, then took off at full speed.

"They was chickens!" the bald guy bellowed after him.

"Owls!" Roy proclaimed triumphantly.

Up, up, up the steep mountainside he went-that's what he was imagining, anyway. That's what gave him the strength to push so hard.

In reality Roy was rolling along East Oriole Avenue, which was as flat as a Mother Paula's pancake. He was very worried that the construction foreman would change his mind and chase after him. Any second, Roy expected to hear honking behind him, curses in the wind; the pickup truck trailing so closely that he would feel the heat off its big V-8 engine.

So Roy didn't look back and he didn't slow down. He pedaled as fast as he could, his arms taut and his legs burning.

He wouldn't stop until he reached the crest of his imaginary Montana mountain and coasted downhill into the coolness of the valley.

"Same scrawny brat I seen around here last week," Curly complained to Officer Delinko, "only this time I caught the little bugger!"

Officer Delinko offered to report the incident, but Curly assured him that it wasn't necessary.

"He won't come back, I guarantee you. Not after he got a faceful of me."

It was nearly midnight at the construction site. The two men stood next to the patrolman's car, chatting casually. Both of them privately believed that the real Mother Paula's vandal was still on the loose, but they would not share their suspicions with each other.

Officer Delinko didn't tell Curly that the Matherson boy was too scared of alligators to be the vandal, because Officer Delinko didn't want the foreman to get all agitated again.

And Curly didn't tell Officer Delinko about the bulldozer seats being stolen while the Matherson kid was in custody, because Curly didn't want Officer Delinko to put the information in a police report that some nosy newspaper reporter might find.

Despite their secrets, both men were pleased not to be spending the night alone on the property. It was good to have a backup nearby.

"Hey, I meant to ask," Officer Delinko said, "what happened to those attack dogs you had watching the place?"

"You mean the psycho-mutts? Probably hightailed it all the way back to Berlin," said Curly. "Listen, I'm fixin' to turn in. Holler if you need anything."

"You bet," Officer Delinko said.

"And no naps tonight, right?"

"Don't worry."

Officer Delinko was glad it was dark, so that the foreman couldn't see him blush. He'd never forget the sickening sight of his precious Crown Victoria, its windows painted as black as tar. Officer Delinko still dreamed of catching the offender and bringing him to justice.

After Curly retired to the air-conditioned comfort of the trailer, the patrolman began walking the property, following the line of his flashlight beam from one survey stake to the next. He intended to do this all night long, if necessary, to make sure the stakes weren't tampered with. He had packed five brimming thermos bottles of coffee in his car, so there would be absolutely no chance of running out.

Guarding a vacant lot wasn't the most glamorous police work, Officer Delinko knew, but this was an extremely important assignment. The chief, the captain, the sergeant-they all were relying on him to keep the pancake-house property free of mischief. Officer Delinko understood that if he did the job well, his career at the Coconut Cove Public Safety Department would once again be on the fast track. He could easily see a gold detective's badge in his future.

Trudging through the shadows, Officer Delinko pictured himself in a tailored suit instead of a starchy uniform. He would be driving a different Crown Victoria-the charcoal gray unmarked model reserved for detectives-and wearing a shoulder holster instead of a hip belt. He was daydreaming about getting an ankle holster, too, and a lightweight pistol to go with it, when he abruptly performed an involuntary somersault across the sandy scrub.

Oh, not again, the patrolman thought.