Flush - Carl Hiaasen [2]
Mom set two glasses of milk on the table. “Noah, why does he insist on staying in jail? It’s Father’s Day, for heaven’s sake.”
“I guess he’s trying to make a point.”
“All he’s making,” my sister said, “is a jackass of himself.”
“Hush, Abbey,” Mom told her.
“He said it’s okay to call the lawyer,” I added.
“He’s not pleading guilty?” Abbey asked. “How can he not plead guilty? He did it, didn’t he?”
“It’s still smart to have an attorney,” said my mother. She seemed much calmer now. When the police first called, she’d gotten real mad and said some pretty harsh things about Dad. Honestly, I couldn’t blame her. Even for him this was a major screwup.
“Noah, how are you doing?” she asked.
I knew she was worried that the jailhouse visit had shaken me up, so I told her I was fine.
She said, “I’m sure it wasn’t easy seeing your father behind bars.”
“They brought him to a private room,” I said. “He wasn’t even wearing handcuffs.”
My mother frowned slightly. “Still, it’s not a happy picture.”
Abbey said, “Maybe he ought to plead insanity.”
Mom ignored her. “Your father has many good qualities,” she said to me, “but he’s not the most stable role model for a young man like yourself. He’d be the first to admit it, Noah.”
Whenever I get this speech, I listen patiently and don’t say a word. She won’t come right out and say so, but Mom worries that I’m too much like my dad.
“Drink your milk,” she said, and went to the den to call our lawyer, a man named Mr. Shine.
As soon as we were alone, Abbey reached over and twisted the hair on my arm. “Tell me everything,” she said.
“Not now.” I jerked my head toward the doorway. “Not with Mom around.”
Abbey said, “It’s all right. She’s on the phone.”
I shook my head firmly and took a bite of my sandwich.
“Noah, are you holding out on me?” my sister asked.
“Finish your lunch,” I said, “then we’ll go for a ride.”
The Coral Queen had gone down stern-first in twelve feet of water. Her hull had settled on the marly bottom at a slight angle with the bow aiming upward.
She was a big one, too. Even at high tide the top two decks were above the waterline. It was like a big ugly apartment building had fallen out of the sky and landed in the basin.
Abbey hopped off my handlebars and walked to the water’s edge. She planted her hands on her hips and stared at the crime scene.
“Whoa,” she said. “He really did it this time.”
“It’s bad,” I agreed.
The Coral Queen was one of those gambling boats where passengers line up to play blackjack and electronic poker, and to stuff their faces at the all-you-can-eat buffet. It didn’t sound like a ton of fun to me, but the Coral Queen was packed to the rafters every night.
There was one major difference between Dusty Muleman’s operation and the gambling cruises up in Miami: The Coral Queen didn’t actually go anywhere. That’s one reason it was so popular.
By Florida law, gambling boats are supposed to travel at least three miles offshore—beyond the state boundaries—before anyone is allowed to start betting. Rough weather is real bad for business because lots of customers get seasick. As soon as they start throwing up, they quit spending money.
According to my father, Dusty Muleman’s dream was to open a gambling boat that never left the calm and safety of its harbor. That way the passengers would never get too queasy to party.
Only Indian tribes are allowed to run casino operations in Florida, so Dusty somehow persuaded a couple of rich Miccosukees from Miami to buy the marina and make it part of their reservation. Dad said the government raised a stink but later backed off because the Indians had better lawyers.
Anyway, Dusty got his gambling boat—and he got rich.
My dad had waited until three in the morning, when the last of the crew was gone, to sneak aboard. He’d untied the ropes and started one of the engines and idled out to the mouth of the basin, where he’d opened the seacocks and cut the hoses and disconnected the bilge pumps and then dived overboard.
The Coral Queen had gone down crosswise in the channel,