their hands dirty and having lousy manners.”
“Timmy, Emilio is not a detective.”
“You’re right. And now he’s not even an
intern. Because I just decided to fire him.”
“You can’t fire somebody you don’t actu-
ally employ.”
“Fine. Are we on an island?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m voting him off the island.”
“Good timing!” says Doorman Dave, pok-
ing his head onto the porch.
“What’s good timing?” I ask.
“Voting someone off the island,” he
answers. “Because today we’re all getting off
the island.”
“We’re going home!” I shout with joy.
“Nope,” he answers. “We’re going fishing!”
If you ever want to know what it’s like to go
fishing on a boat for $200 a person, just do the
following:
1) Grab the sides of a toilet and throw up;
and
2) Set fire to $200.
Because that is how I have been spending
my day fishing with Doorman Dave.
It is a waste of money so profound as to be
almost criminally negligent.
And if you’re wondering why I didn’t men-
tion Emilio Empanada, that is because he’s
not here.
And why?
Because as we were leaving our rented
home, Emilio dramatically announced that he
was getting “sniffly” and feared that if he went
out on the boat, his cold would get worse.
So he is at home reading.
And as if that’s not offensive enough, con-
sider this:
He is reading a romance novel.
And because Emilio Empanada couldn’t
go fishing, that meant my mother couldn’t go
fishing. Because someone had to take care of
Doorman Dave’s nephew.
And thus, an afternoon of maritime bond-
ing with Doorman Dave ensued.
Which, it must be said, was tragic from
the outset.
“Just grab the little worm with one hand
and grab the hook with the other.”
“Detectives do not touch worms, Dave.”
And with that, he thrust the worm in front
of my face. Where it could have easily inflicted
a fatal wound.
Which would have given the book you are
holding a very abrupt ending.
So I did what any detective with lightning-
quick reflexes would do when confronted by a
lethal foe.
I tumbled backward over the side of the
boat.
“Happy?” I ask Doorman Dave as he pulls
me back into the boat. “You’ve ruined my
custom-made scarf. I suppose you will be mak-
ing a call to Lazar’s of New York to order
another?”
“Your scarf will be fine.”
“My scarf will not be fine,” I correct him.
“And neither will I. For now hypothermia
has set in. Please, if your goal is to end my
once-promising life, say so now and cast me
adrift upon the Gulf Stream.”
Dave tries to dry me off with a beach towel.
But it is useless.
For I am dying.
“Are you cold?” asks a grizzled voice from
inside the bridge of the ship.
I turn and see the captain.
“Yes,” I reply. “I am dying.”
“Then come in here for a while and warm
up. I have a space heater. And maybe if you
recover, I’ll let you steer the ship.”
And with that, my nautical career begins.
“I steered the ship the entire way back to port,”
I tell Doorman Dave as we disembark.
“Well, you steered for about a minute and
then threw up on the captain.”
“Yes, well, the pressures of running a ship
are immense. I wouldn’t expect a recreational
fisherman to understand.”
“I see,” says Dave. “Well, the important
thing is that we got to spend time together.”
“I wouldn’t get used to that, Dave.”
“No?”
And as you’ve saddled me with a particularly
unqualified intern, the week ahead will be
especially trying.”
Dave puts his hand on my shoulder as we
begin the short walk home.
“Be nice to Emilio. He likes you.”
“He’s an employee, Dave. Or more like a
former employee. I’m thinking about firing
him.”
Dave smiles.
“What you do with your detective agency
is up to you, Timmy.”
“Yes, Dave. I know that.”
“But you have to know a couple things
about Emilio.”
“Let me guess. He irons his socks.”
“No,” answers Dave.
“Eats pizza with a fork?” I ask.
“No. Timmy, listen. It’s a little more seri-
ous than that.”
“More serious than eating pizza with a
fork? This I have to hear.”
“Well, first off,” says Dave, “he has no
siblings.”
“No siblings? I don’t have any siblings.
And look how well I’ve turned out.”
Dave rubs his chin.
“Yes, Timmy, but there’s a bit more to it
than that,” he says as we turn up the front
walkway to our house.
“Good, because so far, it sounds like a
charmed life.”
“Okay, let me start over,” says Doorman
Dave.
But there is no time for that.
Because Abraham Lincoln is calling.
I run up the front steps of our house and pick
up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Timmy, it’s me, Rollo! Summer school is
great! We have Mr. Jenkins! And he’s teaching
American history! I can’t believe you’re not
here. We’re even having a play, and guess who
I get to be.”
“How did you get this number?” I ask my
best friend, Rollo Tookus.
“You gave it to me,” he says.
“For emergencies,” I reply. “Not for telling
me about stupid school plays.”
“All right, well, just guess who I’m gonna
be.”
“No.”
“Abraham Lincoln!” he shouts. “I get to
recite the Emancipation Proclamation!”
“Good for you, Rollo. But I’m bored already.”
“Bored? Theater is exciting!”
“Maybe for you. But for me, steering a
ship is exciting. Saving the lives of hundreds
of people is exciting. All of which I just did.”
“You mean like pretend?”
“No, Rollo. For real. Thirty-foot waves.
Perilous reefs. I’d tell you more, but I think I
have scurvy.”
“Scurvy? That’s from not getting enough
vitamin C.”
“Correct.”
“Are there no stores where you are where
you can get some orange juice? I thought Key
West was a fancy vacation place.”
“No, Rollo. Key West is the edge of a
frontier. Things here are stark. Uncivilized.
&nb
sp; Lawless. You may never see me again.”
“So you’re not gonna come to summer
school when you get back?”
“Summer school?!” I shout to Abraham
Lincoln. “Summer school is for people without
lives. I’m a sea captain. I save lives.”
“Well, that’s odd, then.”
“What’s odd?” I ask.
And that’s when Abraham Lincoln deliv-
ers the worst news since the Battle of Bull Run.
“The teacher said your name in roll call.”
“You did what?” I yell at my mother as I walk
into the kitchen.
“I thought you’d want to go to summer
school. Your friends are all there. It could be
fun.”
I am so upset I am speechless.
So I draw her a diagram.
“Oh, here we go with the Mr. Dramatic
stuff again,” says my mother.
“Mr. Dramatic?” I fire back. “First off,
how am I even supposed to take a class? I’m
not even there.”
“Timmy, you’re only missing a week of
class. And I asked Rollo’s mom to e-mail me
this week’s assignments.”
“Homework? During summer vacation?
You can’t do this! I have an upset stomach!
Hypothermia! Scurvy!”
She reaches into the refrigerator and
pours me a glass of orange juice. “Drink this,”
she says. “You’ll be fine.”
So I choose the only sensible option
remaining for a child facing summer school.
And fake my own death.
“‘Look into my eyes, Doris,’ said the man with
the strong chin. ‘I will take you to places of the
heart that you’ve never been.’
‘Oh, Rufus,’ she replied. ‘Take me. I am
yours.’
‘No, Doris, you take me.’
‘No, Rufus, you take me.’
Unable to decide who should take whom,
Doris and Rufus ate a pizza.”
I am lying in bed.
And Emilio Empanada is reading me
romance novels.
For in an evil counterstroke, my mother
used my fake death as an excuse to stick me
in a room with the sniffly Emilio Empanada,
lover of romance novels.
And my sarcastic mother even made a
sign.
Emilio stops reading and sets the book
down on his lap.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” he asks. “The love
between Doris and Rufus?”
“It’s absurd,” I answer. “Rufus is a bag
of useless platitudes. And Doris is not much
better.”
“I think you’re missing the subtle under-
tones of this literature,” says Emilio. “But
that’s okay. I can read you Love Is a Speckled
Pony of Desire instead.”
“No, thanks, Emilio. That sounds even
worse. I’m only lying in bed because my
mother made me.”
“What about The Looming Milk Maiden of
Love?” asks Emilio. “It has a good ending.”
“I told you, Emilio. I don’t want to hear
any more of your literature.”
“How about if I just skip to the end?”
“No.”
But he flips to the end anyway.
And when he gets there, a piece of paper
flutters to the ground.
And it is not about Doris or Rufus.
“My life is in grave danger!” I shout to Emilio
Empanada. “We must act!”
So I jump out the window.
And slide down the balcony support.
And find my intern on the front porch.
And we run.
From palm tree to palm tree.
Avoiding assassins.
“But why would somebody threaten you?”
Emilio asks me as we flee.
“Because they know my reputation as a
detective. And they don’t want me here.”
“So what do we do?”
“Survey the entire island. Find out what
we’re up against.”
“And how do we do that?” he asks, panting
harder with each step.
“We rent a seaplane. I’ll fly it. You just
hang on.”
“That seems dangerous,” says Emilio.
“For normal people,” I tell him. “But I’m
not normal people.”
Emilio nods as he runs.
“But do you even know how to fly a sea-
plane?” he adds, almost breathless.
“No. But I’ve captained a ship. And they’re
identical tasks.”
We come to a bizarre native tree and hide
behind its strange tall roots.
“We can shelter here,” I announce. “Give
you a chance to catch your breath. You appear
to be in no shape for detective work.”
“I’m not,” he says.
“What is this thing, anyway?” I ask, star-
ing up at the unusual tree.
“A kapok tree,” says Emilio.
“How do you know that?”
“That’s a demerit,” I inform Emilio. “Never
attempt to show up your boss.”
He makes an X in his notebook.
“Especially when you are an unpaid
intern,” I add.
He makes two X’s in his notebook.
“Speaking of working for you,” Emilio
says, looking up from his notebook, “I think it
would be bad to be maimed in my first week.
So I vote we do something other than fly.”
I glance at him.
“Not that I’m afraid,” he adds.
“Fear is a cruel master,” I inform Emilio
Empanada. “Best to overcome it now, while
you’re still an unpaid intern.”
“I see,” says Emilio. “Well, maybe later.”
“Fine. I shall be merciful and select
another option. But next time we fly.”
And leaping up from the shelter of the
kapok tree, I lead him to the most strategic
spot on the island.
“How’d you know this was here?” asks Emilio.
“I spotted it from the bow of my sailing
vessel,” I answer. “When you were at home
sniffling.”
Emilio stares at the top of the lighthouse. “I
bet from the top of that we can see everything!”
“Yes,” I reply. “And if we hurry, we may
even spot the person who wrote that note.
They’re probably fleeing as we speak.”
So we rush toward the lighthouse door.
And are stopped by a potbellied man.
“Five bucks for each of you,” says the
man, his fingers steeped in a carton of greasy
conch fritters.
“Police business,” I announce. “We are in
hot pursuit.”
“Five bucks,” he says. “Each.”
“But we don’t have any money,” adds
Emilio.
“Then I guess you can’t go in the light-
house,” he says, popping another fritter in his
mouth.
“You’d prefer to have a felon escape our
grasp?” I ask.
“I’d prefer to not be fired for letting two
kids get in without paying.”
“That does it,” I announce. “I want your
badge number.”
“You want my what?”
&n
bsp; “Badge number,” I repeat. “The num-
ber on your badge there. I will be reporting
you to the authorities for hindering a police
investigation.”
“My badge just says ‘Larry,’” he answers.
“So I guess my badge number is Larry.”
I contemplate tackling him. Or stealing
his conch fritters.
When I am attacked by a bird of prey.
“It’s not a bird of prey,” says Lighthouse Larry.
“It’s a chicken.”
“Chickens kill millions of people every
year,” I inform him informatively.
“Nope,” he says. “Chickens are harmless.”
“Emilio, when we get back home, research
chicken homicides. I want statistics.”
I brush myself off and nobly stand.
“Sir, you leave me no choice but to sue
you in a court of law.”
“You think a lawyer will take your case?”
asks Lighthouse Larry.
“Of course,” I answer, then turn to my
unpaid intern. “Emilio, when we get home,
look up all the attorneys in Key West that
handle chicken attack cases. We are going to
sue the pants off of Lighthouse Larry here.”
“I don’t wear pants,” says Larry, citing a
legal technicality. “I wear shorts.”
Recognizing the strength of his argument,
I offer to compromise.
“In that case, sir, I offer to settle the mat-
ter out of court for a reasonable sum. I’ll open
the bidding at $63,000,000 dollars.”
“That’s a very specific amount,” says
Lighthouse Larry.
“It’s the total cost of opening detective
offices throughout Spain and India. I’m expand-
ing my business rapidly.”
“So you’re a detective?”
“Yes. I am Failure. Timmy Failure. As if