Flush, Page 2

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I didn’t say it was right, Abbey, what Dad did. I’m only telling you why.”

  My father hadn’t even tried to get away. After swimming back to the dock, he’d sat down in a folding chair, opened a can of root beer, and watched the Coral Queen go down. He was still there at dawn, sleeping, when the police arrived.

  “So what now?” Abbey asked.

  A dark bluish slick surrounded the boat, and the men in the Coast Guard inflatable were laying out yellow floating bumpers, to keep the oil and grease from spreading. By sinking the Coral Queen, my father himself had managed to make quite a mess.

  I said, “Dad asked me to help him.”

  Abbey made a face. “Help him what—break out of jail?”

  “Get serious.”

  “Then what, Noah? Tell me.”

  I knew she wasn’t going to like it. “He wants me to help him nail Dusty Muleman,” I said.

  A long silence followed, so I figured Abbey was thinking up something snarky to say. But it turned out that she wasn’t.

  “I didn’t give Dad an answer yet,” I said.

  “I already know your answer,” said my sister.

  “His heart’s in the right place, Abbey. It really is.”

  “It’s not his heart I’m worried about, it’s his brain,” she said. “You’d better be careful, Noah.”

  “Are you going to tell Mom?”

  “I haven’t decided.” She gave me a sideways look that told me she probably wouldn’t.

  Like I said, my sister’s all right.

  TWO

  Lucky for us, it was summertime and school was out. That meant that Abbey and I didn’t have to face all the other kids at once. It’s a pretty small town and news gets around fast, so by now it was no secret that our father was in the slammer for sinking Dusty Muleman’s casino boat. Everybody would be talking about it.

  The kid I most didn’t want to see was Jasper Muleman Jr., who was Dusty’s son. He was a well-known jerk, which I partly blamed on the fact that his parents had named him Jasper. That would be enough to make anybody mean and mad at the world.

  Unfortunately, he was at the marina the next morning when I stopped by to see the salvage crew float the Coral Queen. Scuba divers were feeding fat black hoses into the sunken half of the boat, though I couldn’t tell if they were pumping water out or pumping air in. I spotted Jasper Jr. before he spotted me, but for some reason I didn’t sneak away. I just stood around watching the divers wrestle with the hoses until Jasper Jr. came over and called me a name that wasn’t very original.

  “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.

  “What about my dad’s truck?” I asked. “It’s a ’97 Dodge pickup.” Giving it up was my father’s idea.

  “No, I already got wheels,” Lice Peeking said. “Anyway, I’m not s’posed to drive on account of they yanked my license. What else?”

  I thought of offering him Dad’s fishing skiff, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was a cool little boat.

  “Let me talk to my father,” I said.

  “You do that.”

  “Will you at least promise to think about it?”

  “You listen here,” Lice Peeking said. “What do I care about baby sea turtles? I got my own daily survival to worry about.”

  He pointed to the door and followed me out. I was halfway down the steps of the trailer before I got up the nerve to ask one more question.

  “How come you don’t work for Mr. Muleman anymore?”

  “Because he fired me,” Lice Peeking said. “Didn’t your old man tell you?”

  “No, sir, he didn’t.”

  To keep from wobbling, Lice Peeking braced himself with both arms in the doorway. His face was pasty in the sunlight, and his eyes were glassy and dim. He looked like a sick old iguana, yet according to my dad, he was only twenty-nine. It was hard to believe.

  “Ain’t you gonna ask why I got canned?” he said. “It was for stealin’.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Yep, I sure did.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  Lice Peeking grinned. “It wasn’t money I stole from Dusty,” he said. “It was Shelly.”

  “Oh.”

  “What can I say? I needed a lady with a big heart and a valid driver’s license.”

  I said, “I’ll be back after I see my father.” “Whatever,” said Lice Peeking. “I’m gonna hunt down a beer.”

  My mother says that being married to my father is like having another child to watch after, one who’s too big and unpredictable to put in time-out. Sometimes, when Mom and Dad are arguing, she threatens to pack up our stuff and take me and Abbey out of the Keys to “go start a normal life.” I think my mother loves my dad but she just can’t understand him. Abbey says Mom understands him perfectly fine, but she just can’t figure out how to fix him.

  When I got back from the trailer park, my mother was in the kitchen chopping up onions. That’s how I knew she’d been crying. Nobody in our family likes onions, and the only time Mom ever fixes them is when she’s upset. That way she can tell Abbey and me that it’s only the onions making her eyes water.

  I knew she’d been to the jail, so I asked, “How’s Dad?”

  My mother didn’t look up. “Oh, he’s just dandy,” she said.

  “Is there any news?”

  “What do you mean, Noah?”

  “About when he’s getting out.”

  “Well, that’s entirely up to him,” Mom said. “I’ve offered to put up his bail, but apparently he’d rather sit alone in a cramped, roach-infested cell than be home with his family. Maybe the lawyer can talk some sense into him.”

  Of course I couldn’t tell her what my father had asked me to do. She would’ve raced back to the jail, reached through the bars, and throttled him.

  “Think they’ll let me visit him again?” I asked.

  “I don’t see why not. It isn’t as if his social schedule is all booked up.”

  From the tone of her voice I knew she was highly irritated with my father.

  “I spoke to your Aunt Sandy and your Uncle Del,” she said. “They offered to call him in jail and try to talk some sense into him, but I told them not to bother.”

  Aunt Sandy and Uncle Del are Dad’s older sister and brother. They live in Miami Beach—Sandy in a high-rise condominium with a gym on the top floor, and Del in a nice house with a tennis court in the backyard. This is a sensitive subject at our home.

  Several years after my grandfather disappeared in South America, a large amount of money was discovered in a safe-deposit box that he’d kept at a bank up in Hallandale. Nobody ever told Abbey or me exactly how much was there, but it must have been a lot. I remember Dad talking about it with my mother, who always wondered how a charter-boat captain could afford to put away so much cash. She had a point, too—nobody we knew ever got rich in the fishing business.

  Anyway, Grandpa Bobby had left instructions that the money was to be split evenly among Sandy, Del, and my father, but Dad wouldn’t take a nickel. My mother didn’t argue about it, either, which made me think there must have been a good reason for steering clear of that cash. Aunt Sandy and Uncle Del were more than happy to take Dad’s share, and they’ve been living the high life ever since.

  “They wanted to send some hotshot Miami lawyer down to handle his case,” Mom said, “but I told them it wasn’t necessary.”

  “You’re right. It’s not such a big deal.”

  “That’s not what I said, Noah. It is a big deal.” She scraped the chopped onion bits into a bowl, which she covered with plastic wrap and placed in the refrigerator. Later, when she was alone in the kitchen, she would empty the whole thing into the garbage.

  “I’m at the end of my rope with your father,” she said.

  “Mom, everything’s going to work out.”

  “You children need to have food on the table! The mortgage needs to be paid!” she went on angrily. “Meanwhile he’s sitting in jail, talking about fighting for his principles. He wants to be a martyr, N
oah, that’s fine—but not at the expense of this family. I won’t stand for it!”

  “Mom, I know it’s a rough time—” I said, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand.

  “Go clean up your room,” she said. “Please.”

  Abbey was waiting at the top of the stairs. She put a finger to her lips and led me down the hall to my parents’ bedroom. She cracked open the door and pointed.

  There, lying open on the bed, was my mother’s suitcase. Not her vacation suitcase, either, but the big plaid one.

  “Uh-oh,” I said in a whisper.

  Abbey nodded gravely. “She’s serious this time, Noah. We’ve got to do something.”

  THREE

  By the time they let me visit my father again, the Coral Queen had been pumped dry, mopped clean, and refitted with new gambling equipment. I was hoping Dad wouldn’t ask about it, but he did.

  “No way!” he exclaimed when I told him that Dusty Muleman was back in action.

  “They must’ve had twenty guys working on that boat,” I said.

  My father was crushed. “I should’ve taken it out and sunk it in Hawk’s Channel,” he muttered, “or the Gulf Stream.”

  Luckily we were alone in the interview room. I assumed that my father had convinced the big jowly deputy—and probably everyone else at the jail—that he was harmless and fairly normal. He was good at that.

  “Mom heard you might get transferred to the stockade in Key West,” I said.

  “Not anymore,” Dad reported in a confidential tone. “The lieutenant here likes me. I’m teaching him how to play chess.”

  “You play chess?”

  “Shhhh,” my father said. “He thinks I do. Hey, how’s Abbey?”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Tell her to hang in there, Noah.”

  “She says you need professional help.”

  Dad sat back and chortled. “That’s our girl. Did you go see Lice Peeking?”

  I described my visit to the trailer park. My father wasn’t surprised that Lice turned down the old truck and wanted money in exchange for providing evidence against Dusty Muleman.