Flush - Carl Hiaasen [34]
I noticed that my father’s fists were clenched on the arms of his chair. Abbey saw it, too.
“They just hung the hose off the side of the boat,” Shelly went on, “like it was business as usual.”
“What time was this?” Dad asked.
“Between one and one-thirty. The marina was empty,” Shelly said.
Abbey spoke up again. “That man is major scum.”
“No doubt,” said Shelly. “And here’s what else. The big bald guy with the Z-shaped nose? The one who came to see Lice that night before he went missing? His name’s Luno, and he’s Dusty’s main muscle. I think he’s from Morocco or someplace like that.”
I purposely didn’t look at Abbey. Neither of us had told my father that she’d bitten Dusty’s goon that night at the marina when he snuck up and grabbed her. Dad would’ve gone bonkers if he found out.
And Mom, well, forget about it. We’d already be halfway to Saskatchewan by now.
“What if they get suspicious and start hassling you?” I asked Shelly.
“Why would they? Think about it from Dusty’s point of view. Why would I come back to work for him if I knew he and Luno were mixed up in Lice’s death? Heck, I’d have to be suicidal, right?” Shelly winked. “Naw, Dusty bought the whole sad story. He thinks I wanted my job back just because Lice left me broke. And I’ll be honest, the money’s not too shabby.”
Dad stood up and started pacing back and forth.
“Well, I’d better be off,” Shelly said.
“How are things going with Dusty?” I asked.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. He’s under control.”
“You be careful,” my father told her.
“Yeah, well, don’t go sinkin’ that boat again,” Shelly said, “especially if I’m on it.”
Then she said goodbye and breezed out the door, leaving us in silence with a light sweet scent of tangerines.
* * *
That night Abbey barely touched her dinner. She said she didn’t feel well and asked to go to bed early.
Mom tucked her in and returned to the table. “I think your sister’s got a touch of the flu. Are you feeling all right?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Paine?”
“Never better,” said my father.
“Did you call the taxi company?” Mom asked.
“Tomorrow. I promise,” Dad said. He was supposed to make sure that they were holding his job for him.
“Actually, I was thinking of trying to get my captain’s license back,” he said matter-of-factly, “so I could guide in the backcountry again.”
My mother put down her fork. “You can’t be serious.”
“Well, why not?”
“After what you did to the casino boat, you honestly believe the Coast Guard will let you take customers back out on the water?” she said. “Honey, you’ll be lucky to get your cab back.”
Dad stabbed at a green bean and let the subject drop.
“Somebody from the Herald phoned while you were in the shower,” Mom said. “I explained that you won’t be giving any more interviews. Right?”
“Yeah,” my father mumbled. One of the conditions for Dusty Muleman dropping the criminal charges was that Dad stop ranting to the press.
“You know, he’s started flushing his holding tanks again,” Dad said. “It’s true. Ask Noah.”
Mom looked at me, then back at my father. “How do you know this?”
“We’ve got our sources,” Dad said mysteriously.
“Someone who works on the Coral Queen,” I added.
“I see,” my mother said. “Then this ‘source’ of yours should go straight to the authorities and make a report. That’s the way it’s supposed to be done. Noah, please pass the rice.”
“But Dusty’s got connections with the Coast Guard and the cops,” Dad complained. “They won’t do diddly unless somebody catches him red-handed.”
“And maybe somebody will,” said Mom, “but whoever that ‘somebody’ is, they don’t live in this house. I’ve made my last visit to the jailhouse, is that understood?”
That night I couldn’t sleep, so I dug out a stack of old skateboarding magazines. It was real late, well past midnight, when Mom peeked into my room and saw that I was still awake. She sat down on the bed and told me she was sorry that dinner