Flush - Carl Hiaasen [58]
Again I tried the starter cord, and again nothing happened but a sad sputter.
“We’re drifting toward the dock,” my sister said gloomily.
“I can see that.”
“Should we jump?”
“No, not yet.”
Four, five, six times I pulled the rope with the same depressing result. Meanwhile a breeze was pushing the dinghy steadily toward the dock, where Luno was pacing like a hungry cat. For amusement he would occasionally zap us with the hot beam of his spotlight.
Abbey crouched low in the bow, but I had to keep standing. It was the only way to put enough force into pulling the starter cord.
As we floated closer to the lights, we could make out Luno’s gloating expression. His smile was thin and ugly.
Frantically I jerked on the starter cord, and this time the old engine gave an encouraging kick before sputtering out.
Luno crowed, “I get you punks now!”
My sister poked me in the back. “Noah, look! Quick!”
Another figure had joined the bald goon at the end of the dock. I recognized him immediately in that flowered Hawaiian shirt, but just the stink from his cigar would have given him away. It was Dusty Muleman himself.
“I’m outta here,” said Abbey, poised to jump.
“No, wait.” I feverishly resumed hauling on the starter cord, one hard pull after another. Nothing makes you forget how tired you are like pure cold fear. I was working like a robot in high gear.
Then my sister cried, “Noah, duck!”
And ducking would have been a smart move, no doubt about it. Because I turned to see Luno with his meaty right arm extended, aiming a stubby-looking gun at the dinghy. Dusty stood off to the side, blowing lazy rings of blue smoke.
The scene was so unreal, I just froze. It was like watching someone else’s nightmare. I felt blank and numb and far away.
“What’s the matter with you? Get down!” Abbey yelled.
By now we’d drifted to within fifty feet of the dock, which made us an easy target. Finally an alarm bell went off in my brain and I threw up both arms, shouting, “Don’t shoot! We give up!”
Dusty chuckled quietly. Luno was leering like a psycho. He did not lower the gun barrel even one millimeter.
“You kids make bad mistake,” he said. “Now must pay.”
If ever I was going to wet my pants in public, it would have been right then and there.
Yet all I could think about was protecting my sister, so I threw myself on top of her. The landing wasn’t so graceful— I banged my chin on the gunwale and nearly capsized us. Wrapping my arms around Abbey, I waited for the explosion of a gunshot.
It never came. A fierce and breathless struggle had broken out on the dock. Peeking over the side of the dinghy, Abbey and I witnessed an amazing sight.
As if dropped from the stars, a third man had materialized under the dock lights—and he was pounding Luno into a sweaty lump of Jell-O. The only sign of Dusty Muleman was the slapping of his designer flip-flops against the ground as he scurried off in terror toward the Coral Queen.
The cheerful tinkle of steel drums now mixed with Luno’s odd piggish grunts, the wiry stranger swinging a deck mop with painful accuracy.
In fact, he wasn’t a total stranger to me and my sister. We were near enough to see the M-shaped scar on his weathered tan face, and the bright gold coin swinging from the chain around his neck.
“The pirate guy!” Abbey whispered gleefully. “Outrageous!”
“Don’t you move,” I told her, and clambered to the stern. I seized the handle of the starter rope and, from a squatting position, yanked with every ounce of muscle I had left.
By some small miracle, the rickety old engine purred to life.
I whipped the dinghy around, aimed it toward the channel, and twisted the throttle wide open. I glanced back just as the mysterious pirate was hurling Luno’s stubby gun into the basin. For an old geezer, he had a pretty good arm.
After reaching the open water, I slowed to half speed. Running a boat at night is tricky because you can’t see very far or very clearly, and a cheapo flashlight doesn’t help much. All kinds of hazardous clutter