Carl Hiaasen - Flush

“Paine, they stole the Amanda Rose, ” my grandfather said sadly, “the same night they tried to kill me. Ever since then I've spent every bleepin' minute trying to track down those rat bastards-pardon the language-and get back my boat.”

Mom spoke up. “We kept getting different stories from the State Department. Somebody said your appendix ruptured. Somebody else said it was a bar fight.”

Grandpa Bobby slapped his gut. “Far as I know, my appendix is fine and dandy. As for bar fights, well, who's countin'?”

“Then why'd they tell us you were dead when you weren't?” I asked.

“Because there was a dead American, Noah. They found him near a little village outside Barranquilla. My wallet happened to be in the man's pocket, so the Colombian cops figured that he was me,” Grandpa Bobby explained. “That's the body your daddy's been writing letters to Washington about. The coffin never got dug up and shipped back to the States because I paid off a police captain to make sure it wouldn't.” He grinned slyly. “See, I didn't want to miss my own funeral.”

Abbey folded her arms. “Hold on. How did some dead guy end up with your wallet?”

“He stole it from me, which was a large mistake.” Grandpa Bobby took another sip of coffee. “It tore me up on the inside, knowin' y'all thought I was planted in some pauper's grave in the middle of nowhere. But I couldn't come back to Florida and bring the kind of trouble that was attached to me. You folks had a solid, decent life goin' here-young Noah gettin' started. Abbey on the way.”

“You could've called,” my sister said sharply. “They've got telephones in South America, don't they?”

“Or sent a letter, at least,” I cut in, “just to let Dad know you were okay.”

Grandpa Bobby sat back and smiled. “Kids, lemme tell you somethin' about your daddy. He's a good man, but sometimes his brain takes a nap and lets his heart take the tiller.”

My father shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, come on, Pop.”

But Grandpa Bobby was on a roll. He addressed Abbey and me directly. “When your father was a boy, you know what his nickname was at school? ‘Paine-in-the-Butt' Underwood.”

Abbey and I busted out laughing.

“See, he had a bad habit of doing the very first thing that popped into his mind, no matter how foolish,” my grandfather said. “Now, whaddya think he would've done if he'd found out I was still alive and scramblin' to stay that way, down in the jungles of Colombia? He would've hopped a plane or a boat or a donkey, whatever, and gone lookin' for me! Am I right, son? And likely gotten himself killed in the bargain.”

Dad stared down at his shoes.

My mother asked, “So what made you come back, Pop?”

“This is first-rate coffee. Can I pour myself another cup?”

While Grandpa Bobby was in the kitchen, Abbey nudged my father and whispered: “They really called you Paine-in-the-Butt? You are so busted.”

“Keep it up,” Dad said with a tight smile. “I'll deal with you and your brother later.”

Grandpa Bobby returned with a full mug and a jelly donut. He took two bites of the donut and said, “Here's what happened: I'm sittin' in a bar in this little harbor town, waitin' to meet up with some dock rat who claims he saw the Amanda Rose over in the Grenadines. Anyways, they love their satellite TV down there, and it so happens that this particular cantina picks up one of the Miami stations loud and clear.”

“Channel 10?” I asked.

“That's right, Noah. So there I am, drinkin' a beer, mindin' my own business, when all of a sudden I look up and who do I see on the tube? Mr. Paine Lee Underwood, my own son, your own daddy!”

Grandpa Bobby paused and shook his woolly head. “He's wearin' the latest in jailhouse fashions, a nifty puke-orange jumpsuit, if I recall. And he's runnin' off at the mouth about why he sunk some jerk's boat, all because the man was dumpin' toilet poo into the water. My jaw dropped so far it damn near broke my kneecaps. There was my boy in jail!”

Dad looked up. “Tell 'em what you did next, Pop.”

“You mean hitchin' a ride to Key West on that billionaire's yacht?”

“He didn't hitch,” my father said to me and Abbey. “He stowed away.” Grandpa Bobby had already given Dad the full story, while they were out on the towboat searching for our dinghy.

“Where'd you hide?” Abbey asked.

My grandfather beamed. “The wine locker, darlin'.”

“Perfect,” Mom said with a sigh.

“I didn't touch a drop, Donna, I swear,” Grandpa Bobby insisted. “Anyways, I knew the Customs boys would sweep the yacht clean, once we docked in Key West. So as soon as we cleared the harbor, I went overboard. Swam to the Mallory docks and thumbed a ride north with a red-headed insurance adjuster who tried her best to save my heathen soul. She dropped me at Tavernier, where I made camp under the Snake Creek bridge. Found a bunch of old newspapers there. Caught up on what was happening with Paine's court case.”

“Why'd you start tailing me and Abbey?” I asked.

“Just a hunch,” my grandfather said. “In one of those papers was a story where they quoted you, Noah, talkin' about your father. You 'member that?”

“Hey, it wasn't my idea.” I shot a sour look at Dad.

“Well, you came off like a bright, sensible young fella. Still, I couldn't help thinkin' that if you were just a little too much like your daddy or granddaddy, you wouldn't sit still and let this Muleman creep get away with trashin' our family name, not to mention the Atlantic Ocean.” Grandpa Bobby winked, then inhaled the rest of his donut. “So I decided to keep an eye on you and Miss Abbey, just in case you tried somethin' crazy.”

“Thank goodness you did,” Mom said.

My grandfather told us he'd been laying low during the day, fishing with a handline under the bridge. After sunset he'd hide out at the marina, waiting for us to make a move.

“Hiding where?” I asked.

“Last night it was the tuna tower of a big Bertram,” he said.

Abbey was delighted. “I hid there, too! I even got video!”

“It's a long ways up,” Grandpa Bobby said, “but a short trip down. That bald ape never knew what hit him.”

“His name's Luno,” I said.

“I don't care if his name is Mildred, I won't be sendin' him a get-well card.” Grandpa Bobby paused to finish his coffee.

Dad picked up the story. “Mom and I got home from the movies around twelve-thirty. When we saw your beds were empty, we knew right away where you'd gone. She wanted to call the sheriff, but I said no way, I've had enough of their hospitality. So we hopped in the pickup, peeled out of the driveway, and there he was, larger than life-”

“In the middle of the road,” Mom said. “No shirt, no shoes, dripping with sweat.”

“Flailing his arms and running straight at us,” Dad said, “my old man!”

“What'd you do?” I asked.

“I turned very calmly to your mother and said, ‘Either that's a ghost, or the government's given us some bad information.'”

Grandpa Bobby said he'd planned to keep his visit a secret-until he saw me and Abbey escape in the blue dinghy. “The engine on that thing sounded like a bucket of nails in a blender. I knew you kids wouldn't get very far,” he said, “so I ran and fetched your folks.”

“Wait a minute-you would've gone all the way back to South America without even saying hello?” Abbey was steaming. “Without even letting us know you were alive? That's horrible.”

My grandfather sat forward and took one of her hands. “Now listen here, tiger. All those years, there wasn't a day went by that I didn't want to pick up a phone and call your daddy. I missed him more than I can ever put into words.