Flush - Carl Hiaasen [15]
As soon as Mom and Abbey left, I got on my bike and headed up the highway toward the jail. I wasn’t sure they’d let me in without Mom calling to arrange it, so I brought along a letter that had arrived for my father at the house. It was from the U.S. State Department, and the seal on the envelope made it look very important.
I already knew what the letter said because my mother had opened it. The government was telling us (for about the fifteenth time) that the body of Robert Lee Underwood, my Grandpa Bobby, was still down in Colombia. They couldn’t bring him home because there was a problem with the paperwork, and the police in the village “were not responding to inquiries from the United States Embassy.” The news wasn’t going to cheer up Dad, but at least it gave me an excuse to see him again.
When I showed the envelope to the deputy at the desk, he didn’t seem very impressed. He peeked inside to make sure that it was only a letter, and he said he’d give it to my father later.
“Can’t I give it to him myself?” I asked.
“No, he’s busy this morning,” the deputy said.
Busy? I thought. Doing what—pretending to play chess?
“Is he all right?” I said.
The deputy chuckled. “Yeah, he’s fine. There’s a TV crew that drove down from Miami to see him.”
“TV?”
“Yeah, Channel 10. They said they’ll need at least an hour.”
“Then I’ll come back later,” I said.
The deputy shook his head. “Sorry, sport. Inmates are allowed only one short visit per day, and we’re already bending the rules for this TV thing. Maybe tomorrow you can see your old man. But call first, okay?”
Sure enough, there was a shiny new van from Channel 10 parked outside the sheriff’s station. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it before. I rode away wondering how to tell my mother that Dad was now doing television interviews from jail. She’d find out sooner or later, when it was on the news, because all the Miami TV stations broadcast to the Keys.
So I’d have to tell her, even though she wouldn’t be happy about it. Maybe Dad thought of himself as a political prisoner, but Mom thought he was being a selfish jerk.
* * *
Lice Peeking was actually awake and semi-alert when I stopped at the trailer. Shelly wasn’t there, which was sort of a relief and a disappointment at the same time. She made me real nervous—but she also kept Lice Peeking from acting up.
“Well, lookie who’s here,” he said with a wormy smile.
He was lounging on the front stoop, sucking on a cigarette. His hair was wet and tangly, and his shirt was damp. I couldn’t tell whether he’d taken a shower or sprayed himself down with a garden hose.
“So, how’s the jailbird?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s real funny.” I didn’t appreciate him talking that way about Dad. It was different when Abbey did it because she was family. Lice Peeking was just a lazy lump who didn’t know anything about my father.
“Well, what’d he say?” Lice Peeking asked. “Can he come up with some money or not?”
I said, “We don’t have any money, but he’ll give you his flats skiff. It’s worth twelve thousand dollars.”
Lice Peeking squinted one bloodshot eye. “Says who?”
“Come see for yourself. It’s on a trailer behind our house.” I told him what kind of boat it was, and that the engine had fewer than a hundred hours on it.
“Seriously?” he said.
“My father doesn’t lie.”
“And it’s free and clear, this boat? The bank don’t own a piece?”
“Dad paid off the loan last year,” I said.
Lice Peeking scratched his chin, which was raw and peeling. “Where’s your house at?” he asked.
I gave him directions. It nearly broke my heart to think of a loser like that taking our skiff and selling it for cash. But what else could we do?
Lice Peeking flicked his cigarette butt under the trailer and pulled himself upright. “Let’s go have a look,” he said, which caught me by surprise.
“It’s a long way to walk,” I said.
“Who’s walkin’, boy?” He laughed and pointed at my bicycle. “Hop up on the handlebars.”
And that’s what