Flush - Carl Hiaasen [41]
“Mom’s trying to get hold of Mr. Shine,” I said.
“Tell her not to bother. They’re only keeping me for forty-eight hours,” Dad said, “to, quote, teach me a lesson. Talk about a waste of tax dollars!”
“What should we do with Abbey’s video?” I asked.
Dad shook his head. “God bless her, she really tried. But you saw the tape, Noah. If we took it to the Coast Guard, they’d laugh.”
He was probably right. “So what now?” I asked, and mentally tried to brace for whatever new scheme my father had dreamed up.
He cut a dark glance toward the broad jowly deputy, who was leaning against the door. The man was thumbing through a motorcycle magazine, but I assumed he was listening to every word we said.
“It’s over, Noah,” my father said with a sigh. “I’m done with Dusty and the Coral Queen. I just want to come home and live a quiet, seminormal life.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I searched his face for some familiar hint of mischief, but it wasn’t there.
“I know when I’m beat. I know when the ball game’s over,” Dad said.
If he was putting on an act for our babysitter-deputy, it was a good one. He looked totally tired and fed up, and his voice rang flat with defeat.
“Abbey’s little adventure was the last straw,” he said. “She risked her neck just to prove I was right about the casino boat. But you know what, Noah? Being right isn’t worth squat if you’re endangering the people you love. If anything bad had happened to your sister last night, I’d never forgive myself. Never.”
I shuddered to think what that creepy Luno might have done if he’d caught Abbey sneaking around with the video camera.
Dad leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Look, I wasn’t trying to be some kind of hero when I pulled the plugs on Dusty’s boat. I was only trying to stop him from using the ocean as a cesspool. And it backfired, okay? So now—”
“Time’s up.” The deputy slapped shut his magazine.
My father squeezed my arm. “Things’ll be different when I get home. That’s a promise, Noah.”
I left the jail with mixed-up feelings. I wanted things to be different at home, for Mom’s sake, but I sure didn’t want Dad to make himself into a whole different person.
Yet maybe there was no other way.
Later Abbey and I packed a lunch and rode our bikes to Thunder Beach. It was one of those bright hazy days with no horizon, when the sea and the sky melt together in a pale blue infinity. The heat rippling off the dead-calm water made the lighthouse seem to flutter and shimmy in the distance.
We sat down on the warm sand and ate our sandwiches and shared a bottle of water. I tried to gently tell Abbey the truth about her videotape, but she was one step ahead of me—as usual.
“It stunk, I know,” she said. “I already erased it.”
“You had a cool plan. It’s not your fault it didn’t work out.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
When I told her what Dad had said at the jail, she got quiet for a while. Finally, she said, “So that’s a good thing, right? Him promising to behave.”
“I guess. Sure.”
A cherry-red speedboat went tearing past the beach, then made a tight circle and roared back in our direction. The driver was a muscle-bound guy with so much gold hanging from his neck, it was a miracle he could sit up straight. He slowed to an idle and shouted something to a large blond woman who was sunning herself alone, about fifty yards from Abbey and me. The speedboat’s engine was so loud that we couldn’t hear what the man said, but the woman got up and sweetly motioned him to come closer to shore. When he did, she beaned him with a beer can.
“Whoa, baby!” Abbey exclaimed. “She could play quarterback for the Dolphins!”
“I think I know who that is,” I said.
The speedboat took off at full throttle, the driver heaving the beer can over the side. When he rooster-tailed past us, he was scowling and rubbing his forehead.
“You know that lady? Oh, don’t tell me.” Abbey peered curiously at the blond sunbather. We