Flush - Carl Hiaasen [70]
I couldn’t stop smiling. Being afraid of those two bone-heads seemed so ridiculous, I’d rather have taken another punch in the eye than run away.
“Come on, dude,” Bull said to Jasper Jr. “Let’s go.”
“Oh no you don’t. Not yet,” I said. “He still owes me an apology. In fact, he owes me two, after what he just called me.”
“You’re so dead!” Jasper Jr. snapped. “So dead!”
The way he was moving his ratlike mouth, I knew he was working up another loogie to spit on me. I reached under my shirt and pulled out the chain that was hanging from my neck.
The ancient gold coin dangled back and forth, glinting in the sunlight. From the bug-eyed way that Jasper Jr. and Bull were staring, I knew they recognized the coin as the one that Grandpa Bobby was wearing that day in the woods.
Bull took a shaky half step backward. Jasper Jr. stood there gnawing on his lower lip, which I took as a sign of possible brain activity. Neither of them wanted to tangle with that crazy old pirate again.
“I’m still waiting for my apologies,” I said.
Bull poked Jasper Jr. “Get it over with, dude.” Then Bull picked up the beach cruiser, hopped on, and pedaled away.
Jasper Jr. shifted uneasily as he watched his friend ride off. Now it was just me and him. I’d like to think he would’ve been nervous even if I hadn’t shown him the coin, but probably not.
He turned his knobby walnut head and hawked on the pavement. “I’m sorry, Underwood,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for me to hear.
“One down,” I said, “and one more to go.”
It was obviously painful, but Jasper Jr. forced himself to say it again. “I’m sorry, okay? SO-r-y.”
“Close enough.” I stepped back and waved him down the road.
Jasper Jr. gave me one of his trademark sneers and took off running.
“Have a nice day,” I called, though I knew it probably wouldn’t turn out that way for the Muleman family.
NINETEEN
Naturally the story was huge in the Island Examiner. The headline blared:
CASINO BOAT BUSTED IN POLLUTION PROBE
Miles Umlatt wrote the article, which explained that the flushed waste was traced easily to the Coral Queen because the crud contained “a highly visible, inky-colored substance.” The front page of the newspaper featured an aerial photograph of our incriminating fuchsia stain. Not to brag, but it was impressive.
As my father had predicted, the Coast Guard shut down the gambling boat right away. Dusty Muleman was not available for comment.
Miles Umlatt and a couple of other reporters called our house and left messages. They all wanted to interview Dad, now that his accusations against Dusty had been proven true.
The old Paine Underwood would have eagerly picked up the phone and ranted, but the new Paine Underwood took Donna Underwood’s advice and let it ring off the hook.
My father didn’t need to say anything to the newspaper because everyone in town knew the truth by now. They knew he was right about Dusty after all.
The following morning Grandpa Bobby borrowed Dad’s pickup and drove to Miami Beach to surprise Uncle Del and Aunt Sandy. He said they were really happy to see him alive, but after a while they started acting kind of nervous and weird. They were probably freaking out, trying to think of a way to explain how they’d spent all that money my grandfather had left in the bank box.
A day later he returned to the Keys and stayed with us for a week—one of the neatest times of my life. Even Abbey got jazzed. Every night we’d stay up late, listening to his Caribbean adventures. In the daytime we went snorkeling or crabbing or wakeboarding behind the skiff. One afternoon we took a metal detector to the sandbar where all the drunk tourists from Miami hang out, and we found thirteen dollars in change, four rings, two bracelets, a brand-new Swiss army knife, and somebody’s gold molar.
Suddenly, over breakfast one morning, Grandpa Bobby announced he was leaving.
“Where?” I asked.
Dad answered for him. “Back to South America.”
Grandpa Bobby nodded. “You’re not gonna come huntin’ for me, are you, Paine? I want a promise.”
“You’ve got it,” my