Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [84]
“I don’t suppose anybody brought bug spray?” Meadows asked feebly.
“Let’s get out now,” Manny said. He climbed down from the van and stretched his arms. Then he jogged in place for a few moments. “Much better,” he announced.
“Manny, I can’t take these goddamn mosquitoes,” Moe cried.
“They like white meat, huh?”
“Don’t we have anything to keep ’em away?”
“Just gasoline,” Manny answered. “Works nicely, chico, if you don’t mind rubbing off a couple layers of skin.”
Meadows paced the road, waving his arms about his head. Better to be a moving target, he thought miserably. The buzz of hungry bugs filled his ears, and he could feel the little bastards snare in his hair. His shirt, a short-sleeved cotton tennis number, was soaked with sweat; the humidity must have been eighty-five percent.
“What now?” he asked Manny.
“Be patient.” Manny squinted at his wristwatch, then up at the sky. The trace of a gray cloud line lay low over the western horizon, but overhead it was clear, the sky sprayed with brilliant stars. Meadows marveled at the unbroken flatness of the swamp, a burr of sawgrass for miles and miles. Far to the north was a small clump of trees, probably a cypress hammock. All around the men was a cacophony of frogs, insects and God only knew what else; to Meadows, the noise was getting louder and more menacing every minute.
“I think I heard something,” Moe said. He hurried to the van and retrieved a small flashlight. Cautiously Meadows followed him about fifteen yards down the dirt road. Neither braved a step into the spongy sawgrass. Moe aimed the light, and the beam fixed on an opossum, lumbering awkwardly through the tangled grass. Its eyes shone a wine-bottle green in the light. It carried its prehensile tail in a curl off the ground. The fur was sparse, a mixture of snow and gray. It reminded Meadows of his grandfather’s hair, the way it looked in the hospital when the old man was dying.
“You ever eat possum?” Moe asked.
Meadows shook his head.
“Niggers do all the time. When I was a kid, we used to shoot ’em with a twenty-two and sell ’em in blacktown for a dollar apiece. They use possums in stew.”
“Never tried it.”
“Me neither,” Moe said.
The opossum seemed stuck in the bushes. It turned its head, mouth slack, and glared at the intruders. Meadows started back toward the van. “Hey, Carson!” Meadows turned to see Moe aiming a pistol at the animal.
“Are you nuts?”
“I bet I can knock its tail off.”
Meadows didn’t move. “Come on, Moe.”
“I don’t aim to kill it.”
Meadows glanced down the road, searching for Manny.
“That tail looks like an eighteen-inch finger, don’t it? I know some ladies who’d favor that, don’t you?”
Meadows could only assume Moe was drunk or stoned, or both. Maybe even crazy. He spotted Manny’s fireplug shadow near the van and whistled. Manny didn’t hear him over the tree frogs.
“Hey, Manny!” Meadows called. “Look what Moe found!”
The gun went off. Meadows wheeled and backed away simultaneously. He saw the big orange spark when Moe fired again and smelled the rich wave of powder. Manny’s urgent footsteps were not far behind.
“What are you doing?” he screeched breathlessly at his partner.
Moe shrugged. “I think I killed it by accident.” He lowered the pistol with his right hand and raised the flashlight with his left. The opossum lay in a heap, tongue out, mouth foamy in death.
“You asshole,” Manny hissed.
“Jeez, Manny, nobody can hear a thing way out here.”
“If I see that gun again, one of us is leaving here alone tonight.”
Moe was about to reply when he cocked his head and motioned with his gun hand. Manny heard the plane at the same moment. They sprinted toward the van. Meadows followed, still shaky, a few yards behind.
Manny vaulted into the driver’s seat and flicked on the headlights. The sound of the aircraft drew nearer, but Meadows could see nothing overhead. The plane seemed to be circling.
“Two thousand feet,” Moe whispered. He still gripped the pistol