Carl Hiaasen: Flush

“I'm sorry about what happened to your dad's boat,” I said, trying my hardest to sound sincere.

When Jasper Jr. shoved me, I wasn't totally surprised. He isn't a big kid but he's wiry and strong, and he likes to fight. It's one of the only things he does well.

“Lay off,” I said, and naturally he pushed me again.

“Your crazy father sunk our boat!” Jasper Jr. snarled.

“I said I was sorry.”

“You're gonna pay for this, Underwood.”

Normally I try to stick to the truth, but I wasn't in the mood to get punched in the face, which is what Jasper Jr. had in mind. So, to calm him down, I said, “I just came by to see if I could help.”

“I'm so sure.”

“Honest!”

Jasper Jr. sneered, which is another thing he's good at. I found myself studying the shape of his head, which reminded me of an extra-large walnut. He wore his hair in a buzz cut, and you could see shiny lumps and crinkles in the skin of his scalp. Maybe everybody's skull is knobby and weird underneath their hair, but on Jasper Jr. it made him look even meaner.

He said, “Underwood, I'm gonna kick your butt from here to Miami.”

“I don't think so.”

“Yeah? And why don't you think so, dorkface?”

“Because your dad's about to come over here and kick yours,” I said, which was true.

Dusty Muleman had been hollering for his son from the other side of the basin. Jasper Jr. hadn't heard him because he was too busy messing with me, and now his father was seriously ticked off. I pointed across the water to where Dusty Muleman stood glaring, his arms folded. Jasper Jr. spun around and saw for himself.

“Uh-oh,” he said, and took off running to join his father. “I'll get you later!” he hollered at me over one shoulder.

A few minutes later Abbey showed up, and we hung around until the Coral Queen was off the bottom. We were surprised to see how easily they got her up, but of course there weren't any holes in the hull or other damage that needed patching. My father had just pulled the plugs, basically.

“How does Dad know it's the casino boat doing the dumping?” Abbey asked.

“Because they never had to close Thunder Beach before the Coral Queen got here. They never had a problem with poop in the water until now,” I said.

A small crowd had gathered to see the operation, but Abbey and I stayed off by ourselves, on the far side of the basin. We didn't want to make Dusty Muleman any madder than he already was.

“What a phony,” my sister said. “Just look at him.”

At one time Dusty Muleman had been an ordinary fishing guide, the same as my father. Their skiffs were berthed next to each other at a place called Ted's Marina. In the summertime, when business slowed down, Dusty would head out to Colorado and work at a dude ranch, taking tourists into the mountains for brook trout. Then one September he came back to the Keys and put his skiff up for sale. He told Dad and the other guides that he'd inherited some money from a rich uncle who'd died in an elephant stampede in Africa. I remember Mom's eyes narrowing when Dad told us the story-it was the same look I get whenever I tell her I'm done with my homework and she knows better.

As for my father, he said anything was possible, even Dusty Muleman being related to a dead millionaire. Not long after he quit guiding, Dusty bought the Coral Queen, got her outfitted for gambling, and partnered up with the Miccosukees. That wasn't even two years ago, and now he was one of the richest men in Monroe County, or so he said. He drove up and down Highway One in a black Cadillac SUV, and he wore bright flowered shirts and smoked real Cuban cigars, just to let the world know what a big shot he was. But according to Dad, Dusty still showed up every night at the casino boat, to count the money personally.

Abbey said, “Muleman'll have that tub fixed up good as new in a week. What was Dad thinking? If he was serious, he would've burned the darn thing to the waterline.”

“Don't give him any ideas,” I said.

Lice Peeking lived in a trailer park on the old road that runs parallel to the main highway. I got there at lunchtime but he was still asleep. When I offered to come back later, his girlfriend said no, she'd be happy to wake him. She was a large lady with bright blond hair and a barbed-wire tattoo around one of her biceps. My dad had told me about her. He'd said to make sure I was extra polite.

The girlfriend disappeared down the hallway and came back half a minute later, leading Lice Peeking by his belt. He didn't look so good and he smelled even worse-a combination of beer and B.O. was my guess.

“Who're you?” he demanded, then sagged down on an old sofa.

The girlfriend said, “I'm off to the store.”

“Don't forget my cigarettes,” Lice Peeking told her.

“No way. You promised to quit.”

“Aw, gimme a break, Shelly.”

They argued for a while and seemed to forget they had company. I pretended to look at the aquarium, which had pea-green slime on the glass and exactly one live fish swimming in the water.

Finally, Lice Peeking's girlfriend said he was hopeless and snatched the wallet out of his jeans and stomped out the door. When he got himself together, he asked once more who I was.

“Noah Underwood,” I said.

“Paine's boy?”

“That's right. He asked me to come see you.”

“About what?”

“Mr. Muleman,” I said.

From Lice Peeking's throat came a sound that was either a chuckle or a cough. He fished under one of the sofa cushions until he found a half-smoked, mushed-up cigarette, which he balanced in a crusty corner of his mouth.

“I don't s'pose you got a match,” he said.

“No, sir.”

He dragged himself to the kitchenette and knocked around until he came up with a lighter. He fired up the moldy butt and sucked on it for a solid minute without even glancing in my direction. The smoke was making me sick to my stomach, but I couldn't leave until I got an answer. For two years, until last Christmas Eve, Lice Peeking had worked as a mate on Dusty Muleman's casino boat.

“Mr. Peeking?” I said. His real name was Charles, but Dad said everyone had called him Lice, for obvious reasons, since elementary school. It didn't look like his bathing habits had improved much since then.

“What do you want, boy?” he snapped.

“It's about the Coral Queen. My dad says Mr. Muleman is dumping the holding tank into the marina basin.”

Lice Peeking propped himself against the wall of the trailer. “Really? Well, let's just say that's true. What's it got to do with you or me or the price of potatoes?”

“My father's in jail,” I said, “for sinking that boat.”

“Aw, go on.”

“I'm serious. I thought everybody'd heard by now.”

Lice Peeking started laughing so hard, I thought he might have an asthma attack and fall on the floor. Obviously the news about my father had brightened his day.

“Please,” I said, “will you help us?”

He stopped laughing and snuffed the nub of his cigarette on the countertop. “Now why would I do a dumb fool thing like that? Help you do what ?”

I explained how the toilet scum from the gambling boat flowed down the shoreline to Thunder Beach. “Where the turtles lay their eggs,” I said, “and all the kids go swimming.”

Lice Peeking shrugged. “Say I was to help you-what's in it for me?”

Dad had warned me that Lice Peeking wasn't accustomed to doing something simply because it was decent and right. He'd predicted that Lice Peeking might demand something in return.

“We don't have much,” I said.

“Aw, that's too bad.” He made like he was playing a violin.

I knew money would be tight at our house as long as Dad was in jail-my mother only works part-time at the law firm, so the pay isn't so hot.