Flush - Carl Hiaasen [11]
Bull was in the bow. He climbed out first and looped a rope around one of the pilings. He’s a hefty guy, but that’s not how he got his nickname—people call him Bull because you can’t believe a word he says. For instance, he told everyone at school he was dropping out to play double-A ball for the Baltimore Orioles. This is at age sixteen, right? We all knew that Bull couldn’t catch a pop fly if it landed in his lap, so we weren’t exactly surprised to see him bagging groceries that spring at the Winn-Dixie.
After Bull tied off the johnboat, he called up to me: “Hey, buttface, better run for your life. Jasper’s got a speargun!”
“Yeah, right,” I said.
When Jasper Jr. hopped out of the boat, I saw that he didn’t have a speargun or any other weapon. Even so, running away would have been an excellent idea. I just didn’t feel like it.
Jasper Jr. walked up and asked, “What’re you lookin’ at?”
“Absolutely nothing,” I said with a straight face.
“I told you I was gonna find you, didn’t I?”
I knew that Jasper Jr. wasn’t looking for me at Snake Creek—he and Bull were heading out to poach lobsters or pull some other mischief.
But I played along. “Well, you found me. Now what?”
That’s when he socked me in the right eye. It hurt, too. Jasper Jr. seemed surprised that I didn’t fall down.
So was Bull. He said, “You got a hard head, for a buttface.”
The way my cheekbone was throbbing, I figured that Jasper Jr.’s knuckles weren’t feeling so good, either. He was trying to act like a tough guy, but I noticed that his eyes were watering from the pain. I probably could have knocked him flat, but I didn’t.
My father’s a large man, very strong, but he says fighting is for people who can’t win with their brains. He also says there are times when you’ve got no choice but to defend yourself from common morons. If Jasper Jr. had taken another swing at me, I definitely would have punched him back. Then Bull would have beaten me to a pulp and the whole thing would have been over.
But Jasper Jr. didn’t hit me again. Instead he spit in my face, which was worse in a way.
He forced a laugh and called me a couple of dirty names and headed back toward the johnboat. He was shaking the hand that he’d hit me with, as if there were a crab or a mousetrap attached to it. Bull was following behind, cackling like a hyena. They got into the boat, and Jasper Jr. jerk-started the outboard while Bull shoved off from the bow.
I pulled up the front of my shirt and wiped the spit off my face. Then I grabbed my fishing rod and took aim.
The bucktail jig I happened to be using weighed one-quarter of an ounce, which doesn’t sound like much until it thumps you between the shoulder blades, which is where I thumped Jasper Jr. It was an awesome cast, I’ve got to admit. The hook on the jig snagged firmly in the mesh of Jasper Jr.’s ratty old basketball jersey, and he let out a howl. I gave a stiff yank and he howled again.
In a panic he twisted the throttle and the johnboat picked up speed, but that didn’t help—Jasper Jr. was stuck on the end of my line like a moray eel. He hollered for Bull to cut him loose, which was all right with me. I’d made my point.
Bull found a knife and clambered to the back end of the boat, which turned out to be a humongous mistake. With so much weight in the stern—Bull, Jasper Jr., plus the engine—the bow tilted upward and the johnboat began taking on water.
No sooner had Bull reached behind Jasper Jr. to cut the fishing line than the motor gurgled to a dead stop. The blue-green water of Snake Creek was pouring in over the transom, but nobody in the johnboat moved. Jasper Jr. was yelling at Bull and Bull was yelling back, and they just kept getting wetter and wetter. By now the motor was completely submerged and the bow was pointed nearly straight up in the air, which meant that the boat was about to capsize.
Bull was the first to jump, with Jasper Jr. right behind him. They started swimming like maniacs toward the bumpers of the bridge, cursing