Carl Hiaasen - Skinny Dip

Do I deserve this? he wondered. Really?

He ran a forefinger along one of his shins, skimming off the muck like chocolate icing. Holding it to his nose, he detected no noxious or rancid odor. Even if this gunk is loaded with fertilizers, so what? Chaz thought. It's just mud, for God's sake. It's not like I was clubbing baby harp seals.

A sliver of moon spread a pale bluish light across the savanna. Something rustled heavily, out of sight. Chaz Perrone drew his knees to his chest and silently groped for a rock. Another alligator boomed from a nearby pond.

Who… do… you love?

Yeah, who… do… you love?

Maureen smiled fondly when she saw Tool hobble out of the barn. He opened the door of the truck and arranged himself behind the steering wheel.

"Well?" She held out one hand.

He dropped two misshapen kernels of lead into her palm. "The rusty one is what come outta you-know-where," he said. "The shiny one's from under my arm."

After examining the slugs, Maureen said, "I'm proud of you, Earl. That must've stung like the dickens."

He said the pain wasn't so bad. "Guy's a real pro."

"His specialty being… cattle?"

"Livestock in general." Tool had explained to Maureen that a medical doctor would be required by law to notify authorities if a patient turned up with a gunshot wound. A veterinarian had no such obligation.

"The important thing is, you're finally free of the burden," Maureen told him. "No more needless suffering."

"Yeah. Now it's your turn."

"I'm doing all right, Earl."

"Tell the truth," he said.

"The truth is, I'm absolutely elated to be outdoors in the fresh air."

"Wait'll we get clear of this pasture."

"No, it's all glorious," said Maureen, "even the cow poop. Thank you, Earl."

"For what?"

"My freedom. Being my Sir Galahad. Rescuing me from Elysian Manor!"

She tugged him closer and bussed his cheek.

"That's enough a that." Tool felt himself redden.

Nobody had uttered a word of objection when he carried Maureen out of the convalescent home. Nobody had dared to get in his way.

She'd already been awake for hours, sitting upright in bed, waiting with her handbag on her lap.

Pulled the intravenous tube from her arm and got herself to the bathroom. Ditched the hospital gown in favor of a light cotton shift, periwinkle blue. Fixed her hair, put on some lipstick, brushed a little color into her face. Dashed off a note to each of her daughters, telling them not to worry.

At breakfast time the nurse from hell had stalked in, eyeing Maureen as if she were a nutcase; humoring her, telling her how cute and pretty she looked, fluffing her pillows, all the time trying to con her into lying still so they could jab her with another needle.

But Maureen had resisted fiercely, forcing the nurse to call for backup. Eventually two lumpish, pimply orderlies had shown up; the lumpier of the two seizing Maureen's arms while the other attempted to pin her legs-the nurse hovering with a gangrenous smirk; uncapping a loaded syringe and lining up her shot.

That's when Tool had appeared, shiny with sweat, a mammoth miasmal presence blocking the doorway. His work boots were crusty and the overalls hung crookedly off his shoulders, exposing a crude mummy wrap of soiled tape. His arms and neck were damply matted, jet-black curls that at a distance could have been mistaken for an ornate body tattoo.

"Git away from her," he'd said without a flicker of emotion.

Instantly the orderlies had released Maureen and stepped away. "It's all right, Polly," she'd told the quaking nurse. "He's my nephew, from the Netherlands. The one I told you about."

Tool had stomped in and gathered Maureen from the bed, carrying her out of the room, down the hall, past the front desk, through the double doors and into the circular driveway, where he had parked the apple-red F-150 supercab pickup, purchased the day before with $33,641 cash.

Leaving, by Tool's arduous calculation, more than $465,000 in the Samsonite.

With plenty of room for the thirty-one fentanyl patches he had burglarized from a discount pharmacy in Boynton Beach-the medicine meant for Maureen, not for himself.

"It's a beauty!" she'd exclaimed upon seeing the new truck. "But I may need a stepladder."

"Naw," Tool had said, and lifted her royally into the passenger seat. The pickup had leather-trimmed captain's chairs, loads of leg-room, a crackerjack air conditioning system and a cargo bed deep enough to accommodate Tool's entire crop of highway crosses, which he had carefully uprooted one at a time from behind his trailer. The task had taken most of the night.

Appalled by the ratty condition of his bandages, Maureen had insisted that Tool seek out a doctor. For miles she'd begged, until he reluctantly had pulled off the turnpike near Kissimmee and made his way to the cattle ranch on the river. His veterinarian pal had agreed, at Maureen's urging, to extract both of the bullets.

"Soon you'll feel like a new man," Maureen proclaimed, dropping the slugs into her handbag. "Did he give you something for pain?"

"Whatever they use on bulls," Tool said. Truth was, he felt pretty darn fine. "So, where you wanna go?" "Earl, may I ask a personal question?"

"Sure." They were bouncing along a narrow dirt track, heading off the ranch. Tool turned down the radio, some sappy song about loneliness and heartbreak on the road.

"Now, it's none of my business," Maureen said, "but I'm curious how you can afford a chariot like this on a bodyguard's income."

Tool thought about his answer while he took a long draw of lukewarm Mountain Dew. "Well, you gotta unnerstand," he said, "some cases pay better'n others."

"This turned out to be a good one, then?"

"I'd have to say yeah, all things considered," he said. "So, now it's my turn for askin' a question, 'kay?"

"Fair enough."

"What's your all-time fantasy vacation?" "You mean, if we could go anywhere in the world?" "That's what I'm tryin' to tell you," Tool said. "We can go anywheres. You just name the place."

Maureen gazed out the window. Her hair seemed thinner and grayer in the direct sunlight, though her eyes were as blue and bright as the sea. Tool could easily picture her as a young woman, not from her features so much as from her open, untroubled expression.

She said, "It's still springtime, isn't it?"

"April, yes, ma'am. Goin' on May."

"I was thinking of those pelicans. They'll be heading north, I suppose."

"All the way to Canada is what it said on that TV show."

"Yes, to Canada. I remember," Maureen said. "Isn't that just remarkable?"

"Must be one helluva thing, thousands a huge white birds comin' down from the sky all together. Flyin' home," Tool said. "I'd sure like to see that operation."

"Me, too, Earl."

"It's a mighty long haul. Sure you're up for it?"

She leaned across and boxed him on the ear. "Don't worry about me, buster. You just drive."

"Yes, ma'am." Tool was beaming as he reached for the radio. "How 'bout some music?"

Karl Rolvaag had a dream that he was being strangled very slowly with a pale silken noose. He woke up clutching at his throat and discovered it snugly enwrapped by a sinewy albino tail. After a few interesting moments the detective managed to extricate himself and turn on the lamp. He trailed the departing length of python across the sheets, beneath the bed and into a ragged hole in the box spring. When Rolvaag cut the ticking away, he found not one but both of his absent companions, balled together in platonic contentment. Upon inspection neither of them manifested any doggy- or kitty-size lumps. To the contrary, the snakes appeared taut and hungry.

Rolvaag was relieved, though not entirely surprised, as the pets missing from Sawgrass Grove had earlier turned up unharmed. Pin-chot, the geriatic Pomeranian, had been located at the county pound, where it had been quarantined after nipping a slow-footed Jehovah's Witness. Pandora, the lost Siamese, had been ransomed back to the Mankiewicz family by neighborhood hooligans in exchange for a case of malt liquor.