Flush - Carl Hiaasen [63]
Dad asked, “What happened to the Amanda Rose?”
That was Grandpa Bobby’s fishing boat, which he’d named after his wife, my grandmother. I never got to meet her because she passed away when my father was just a kid, about Abbey’s age. Some sort of rare cancer, Mom told us. It was one of the only things my dad wouldn’t talk about. Not ever.
“Paine, they stole the Amanda Rose,” my grandfather said sadly, “the same night they tried to kill me. Ever since then I’ve spent every bleepin’ minute trying to track down those rat bastards—pardon the language—and get back my boat.”
Mom spoke up. “We kept getting different stories from the State Department. Somebody said your appendix ruptured. Somebody else said it was a bar fight.”
Grandpa Bobby slapped his gut. “Far as I know, my appendix is fine and dandy. As for bar fights, well, who’s countin’?”
“Then why’d they tell us you were dead when you weren’t?” I asked.
“Because there was a dead American, Noah. They found him near a little village outside Barranquilla. My wallet happened to be in the man’s pocket, so the Colombian cops figured that he was me,” Grandpa Bobby explained. “That’s the body your daddy’s been writing letters to Washington about. The coffin never got dug up and shipped back to the States because I paid off a police captain to make sure it wouldn’t.” He grinned slyly. “See, I didn’t want to miss my own funeral.”
Abbey folded her arms. “Hold on. How did some dead guy end up with your wallet?”
“He stole it from me, which was a large mistake.” Grandpa Bobby took another sip of coffee. “It tore me up on the inside, knowin’ y’all thought I was planted in some pauper’s grave in the middle of nowhere. But I couldn’t come back to Florida and bring the kind of trouble that was attached to me. You folks had a solid, decent life goin’ here—young Noah gettin’ started. Abbey on the way.”
“You could’ve called,” my sister said sharply. “They’ve got telephones in South America, don’t they?”
“Or sent a letter, at least,” I cut in, “just to let Dad know you were okay.”
Grandpa Bobby sat back and smiled. “Kids, lemme tell you somethin’ about your daddy. He’s a good man, but sometimes his brain takes a nap and lets his heart take the tiller.”
My father shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, come on, Pop.”
But Grandpa Bobby was on a roll. He addressed Abbey and me directly. “When your father was a boy, you know what his nickname was at school? ‘Paine-in-the-Butt’ Underwood.”
Abbey and I busted out laughing.
“See, he had a bad habit of doing the very first thing that popped into his mind, no matter how foolish,” my grandfather said. “Now, whaddya think he would’ve done if he’d found out I was still alive and scramblin’ to stay that way, down in the jungles of Colombia? He would’ve hopped a plane or a boat or a donkey, whatever, and gone lookin’ for me! Am I right, son? And likely gotten himself killed in the bargain.”
Dad stared down at his shoes.
My mother asked, “So what made you come back, Pop?”
“This is first-rate coffee. Can I pour myself another cup?”
While Grandpa Bobby was in the kitchen, Abbey nudged my father and whispered: “They really called you Paine-in-the-Butt? You are so busted.”
“Keep it up,” Dad said with a tight smile. “I’ll deal with you and your brother later.”
Grandpa Bobby returned with a full mug and a jelly donut. He took two bites of the donut and said, “Here’s what happened: I’m sittin’ in a bar in this little harbor town, waitin’ to meet up with some dock rat who claims he saw the Amanda Rose over in the Grenadines. Anyways, they love their satellite TV down there, and it so happens that this particular cantina picks up one of the Miami stations loud and clear.”
“Channel 10?” I asked.
“That’s right, Noah. So there I am, drinkin’ a beer, mindin’ my own business, when all of a sudden I look up and who do I see on the tube? Mr. Paine Lee Underwood,