Carl Hiaasen - Flush

Abbey led me to the aisle where the food coloring was displayed.

“Blue won't work, right?”

“No, that wouldn't show up,” I agreed, scanning the shelves. “What do they use this stuff for anyway?”

“Frosting. Desserts. All kinds of goodies.”

“Do they make an orange?”

“No, but here's fuchsia,” Abbey said.

“What?”

“That's how it's pronounced, Noah. Few-sha. ”

I had no idea what fuchsia was, but it sounded like something you wouldn't want to step in.

“It's a hot reddish purple,” Abbey explained. “Perfect for Operation Royal Flush.”

That was the code name for our secret mission to nail Dusty Muleman. We'd decided to use food-coloring gel instead of laundry dye because the gel wasn't made with chemicals that would harm the sea life. Even better, it was highly concentrated, which meant that a small amount would dye a lot of poopy water.

The plastic bottles were little, though, holding only an ounce. There was only one container of fuchsia on the shelf, so we asked a stock boy to go find more.

“How many you want?” he asked.

“Bring us all you've got,” I said.

When we got to the cash register, the checkout lady gave us the skunk eye as she tallied up the total.

“What in the world,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “would you kids be doing with thirty-four bottles of food coloring?”

Abbey smiled sweetly. “We're baking a birthday cake,” she said.

“Oh, is that right?”

“A very big birthday cake,” my sister added.

“And a very purple one, I see,” the checkout lady said, handing us the bag of bottles.

On the way home I kept looking behind us to see if we were being followed by the old pirate geezer. I couldn't stop wondering who he was, and how he knew us.

Abbey said he was probably a gnarly old mate from one of the sportfishing boats, or maybe a bridge person who'd seen us around the island and overheard us calling each other by name.

Whoever he was, I kept my eyes peeled.

As we turned the corner of our street, someone called out to us. It was Bull, of all people, standing in front of the house. He waved as we rode up, though Abbey and I were too suspicious to wave back.

I hopped off my bike and asked, “What's up?”

Bull seemed edgy and uncomfortable. I could see Abbey's teeth marks on his left ear, which was still puffy and crinkled. He cleared his throat about five times before he finally spoke.

“Uh, I just came over to say I was sorry,” he said. “Real sorry.”

I set the grocery bag full of dye bottles on the sidewalk. My sister stood behind me and said, “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“No way.” Bull shook his head forcefully. “I'm righteously sorry-for everything, dude.”

He was looking straight at me. “All the times me and Jasper hassled you, it was wrong, okay? Bogus and wrong.”

“What's going on, Bull?”

“Nothin'! Why you ask me that?”

“Because all of a sudden you're Mister Huggy Bear. It's very weird.”

“Come on, Underwood, can't a dude say he's sorry and be real? What's the problem?”

Bull was getting frustrated, and I didn't want to push him too far. “Okay, we're cool,” I said. “You say you're sorry, I believe you.”

“Excellent.”

“Well, I don't believe you,” Abbey cut in. “Either you're faking it, or you've had a total personality transplant.”

Bull's long, dull face pinched in confusion. “Whaddya mean by that? What kind a ‘transplant' you say?”

“Never mind,” I said. “What about Jasper Jr.?”

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. He's sorry, too.”

“Really? Then where is he?”

Bull hitched his shoulders. Dark half-moons of sweat had appeared in the armpits of his faded Harley-Davidson T-shirt.

“He couldn't come, but he wanted me to tell you it won't never happen again,” Bull said. “We won't beat on you no more.”

“That's nice. Next you'll be sending me flowers.” Naturally, Bull didn't catch on that I was being sarcastic.

“I'd really like to hear Jasper Jr.'s apology in person,” I said.

“Fat chance,” mumbled my sister. She picked up the grocery bag and lugged it inside the house.

Bull just stood there, sweating through his shirt and staring down at his enormous bare feet. It sounds strange, but I felt sort of sorry for the guy. He'd quit school and left the Keys to be a big baseball star, but here he was back on the rock, bagging groceries and hanging out with losers like Jasper Jr.

“Come on, man. Tell the truth,” I said, though it wasn't in Bull's nature.

He looked up slowly. “Underwood, who's the freaky old man? The guy in the woods?”

“Just a friend,” I said, thinking: a friend and total stranger.

“Where'd he get that wicked-bad scar on his face?”

“He doesn't talk about it,” I said, hoping that Bull would think I was tight with the pirate guy.

“Thing is,” Bull said, “he told me and Jasper to… well-”

“What?”

“He told us to tell you we was sorry for what we done to you and your little sister. He was real clear on that,” Bull said. “But when it come time, Jasper just flat wouldn't do it. He said he didn't care what some crazy old bush rat told him.”

“What else did the old man in the woods say?” I asked.

Bull turned and checked over his shoulder, his eyes moving up and down the street. “He said not to screw up again. He said he'll be hangin' close, and don't never forget it.”

Bull's visit finally made sense. He'd come to apologize because he was terrified not to.

“You'll tell him, won't you, Underwood? Tell him I stopped over and said I was sorry. When you see him again, I mean.”

“Sure, Bull. When I see him again.”

Though I wondered if I ever would.

After lunch my sister and I headed for Shelly's place to deliver the food dye and review our plan. Even though she came to the door wearing the nappy pink robe and carrying a plastic razor, we could tell that she was in better shape than the day before.

She waved us inside and cheerfully resumed shaving her legs at the kitchen sink, a procedure I'd never witnessed so up close and personal. The way Shelly did it wasn't quite as glamorous as in the TV commercials. Whenever she nicked herself, she'd cuss like a biker and wipe away the blood with her pinkie. Abbey watched in fascination but I felt kind of weird, so I turned away and pretended to be enchanted by the scummy aquarium. I could hear the razor blade scraping across Shelly's skin as she said, “So-we're good to go?”

“What about Billy Babcock?” I asked.

“Don't worry, I got that all figured out.”

But I was worried.

If Billy was at the Coast Guard station when the sewage spill was reported, he'd tip off Dusty Muleman right away. It wouldn't take long for Dusty's crew to unhitch the Coral Queen and take her offshore, where they could flush the holding tank until there was no trace of our dye-and no way to connect Dusty to the crime.

“Ever since he heard Lice was gone, Billy's been spendin' lots of time at my bar,” Shelly said, “leaving ten-dollar tips on ten-dollar tabs.”

“Did he ask you out?” Abbey said.

“Only about two or three times a night.” Shelly tossed the plastic razor into a trash basket, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the dinette.

“I'll handle Billy Babcock,” she said with a confident smile. “Now lemme see what you got.”

Abbey gave her the grocery bag containing the bottles of coloring gel. Shelly peeked inside and said, “Those are puny little suckers. Sure that'll do the job?”

“Well, it's concentrated-” I started to explain.