Carl Hiaasen (27 page)

Both of Arthur Battenkill’s secretaries knew something was wrong, because he’d stopped pestering them for sex. The women didn’t complain; they much preferred typing and filing. The judge’s deportment in bed was no different from that in the office—arrogant and abrupt.

Dana and Willow often discussed their respective intimacies with Arthur Battenkill, and this was done with no trace of possessiveness or jealousy. Rather, the conversations served as a source of mutual support—the man was a burden they shared.

Willow reported: “He didn’t ask me to stay after work.”

“Me, neither,” said Dana. “That’s two days in a row!”

“What do you think?” Willow said.

“He’s upset about Champ quitting.”

“Could be.”

“If that’s what really happened,” Dana added, lifting an eyebrow.

Both secretaries were puzzled by the sudden departure of the law clerk, Champ Powell. At first Arthur Battenkill had said he’d gone home for a family emergency. Then the judge had said no, that was merely a cover story. Actually, Champ had been called back to the Gadsden Country sheriff’s department for a special
undercover operation. The project was so secret and dangerous that even his family wasn’t told.

Which explained, the judge had said, why Champ’s mother kept calling the office, looking for him.

Dana and Willow remained unconvinced. “He didn’t seem like the undercover type,” Dana remarked. “B’sides, he really loved his job here.”

“Plus he idolized the judge,” Willow said.

“That he did.”

Champ Powell’s devotion was almost an unnatural thing, both women agreed. The clerk was so enamored of Arthur Battenkill that initially the secretaries suspected he was gay. In fact they’d privately discussed the possibility of Champ’s seducing the judge, which wouldn’t have bothered them one bit. Anything to distract the man.

But it hadn’t yet happened, at least to their knowledge.

Said Dana: “Whatever’s got into Art, let’s just leave it be.”

“Amen,” Willow said.

“Sit back and enjoy the peace.”

“Right.”

“Hey. Maybe he’s found God.”

Willow laughed so hard that Diet Pepsi jetted out of her nostrils. Naturally that’s when the judge walked in. As Willow grabbed for a box of Kleenex, Arthur Battenkill said, “How elegant.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s like having Princess Grace answering the phones.”

With that, the judge disappeared into his chambers, closing the door. Willow was somewhat battered by his first-thing-in-the-morning sarcasm, so Dana took him coffee.

She told the judge he didn’t look well.

“It’s Saturday,” he grumbled. The chief judge had been on
Arthur Battenkill’s ass about clearing the case backlog, so he’d been putting in hours on weekends.

“You haven’t slept.” Dana, affecting a motherly tone.

“Pollens. Mold spores.” Arthur Battenkill took a sip of coffee.

“I sleep fine.”

It was the scene at breakfast that had disturbed him—Katie gobbling down four huge buttermilk flapjacks and a bagel, a clear signal she was no longer grieving. Clearing the dishes, she’d exhibited a perkiness that could have at its root only one explanation: She’d come to believe her precious Tommy wasn’t dead.

Reluctantly the judge had already reached the same conclusion. The strongest evidence was the uncharacteristic lack of communication from Champ Powell, who by now should have called to seek Arthur Battenkill’s praise and gratitude for the arson. Nearly as ominous: Champ’s Harley-Davidson motorcycle had been found and towed from a Blockbuster parking lot three blocks from Tom Krome’s house. The judge was certain Champ never would have abandoned the bike were he still alive.

The unexpected upswing of Katie’s mood had clinched it for Arthur Battenkill. Picking indifferently at his pancakes, he’d recalled hearing the telephone ring while he was in the shower—probably Krome, calling to tell Katie not to worry. The mannerly motherfucker.

Now Dana, arms folded: “You’ve got that emergency hearing in ten minutes. Would you like me to press your robe?”

“No. Who is it?”

“Mrs. Bensinger.”

“God. Let me guess.”

Dana dropped her voice. “Another alimony problem.” Arthur Battenkill said, “I hate those horrible people. Thank heaven they never had children.”

“Not so loud. She’s out in the hall.”

“Yeah?” The judge cupped his hands to his mouth: “Greedy freeloading twat!”

Dana looked at him blankly.

The judge said, “Her husband’s a thieving shit, too.”

“Yes, he is.”

“By the way, I’ve decided to take some time off. I suppose you and Willow will survive without me. I get that impression.”

Dana fixed her gaze safely on the coffeepot. “How long will you be gone?”

“I can’t say. Mrs. Battenkill and I are going away together.” The judge thumbed his appointment book. “See if Judge Beckman will cover for me starting late next week. Can you do that?”

“Certainly.”

“And, Dana, this is supposed to be a surprise for my wife, so don’t blow it.”

Willow buzzed on the speakerphone to report that Mr. Bensinger had arrived and that the atmosphere in the hallway was growing tense.

“Fuck ’em,” Arthur Battenkill snorted. “I hope they slaughter each other with blunt objects. Save the taxpayers a few bucks. Dana, isn’t it Judge Tigert over in Probate who’s got the bungalow in Exuma?”

“The Abacos.”

“Whatever. See if it’s available.”

The notion of the judge taking his wife on a romantic trip to the Bahamas was stupefying. Obviously the man was suffering a breakdown. Dana could hardly wait to share the gossip with Willow.

As she was leaving his chambers, Arthur Battenkill called out: “Dana, darling, you’re doing a superb job of concealing your amusement.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend to know everything about me. Don’t pretend to have me figured out. I
do
have feelings for Mrs. Battenkill.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dana said. “By the way, Art, how’d she like the new necklace?”

The judge’s smug expression dissolved. “Send in the goddamn Bensingers,” he said.

JoLayne Lucks hadn’t been to the Keys since she was a small girl. She was amazed at how much had changed, the homey and congenial tackiness supplanted by franchise fast-food joints, strip malls and high-rise resorts. To take her mind off the riffraff, JoLayne recited for Tom Krome a roster of local birds, resident and migratory: ospreys, snowy egrets, white herons, blue herons, kingfishers, flycatchers, cardinals, grackles, robins, red-tailed hawks, white-crowned pigeons, flickers, roseate spoonbills …

“Once there were even flamingos,” she informed him. “Guess what happened to them.”

Krome didn’t respond. He was watching Bodean James Gazzer strip and clean a large semiautomatic rifle. Even from a distance of a hundred yards, the barrel glinted ominously in the noon sun.

“Tom, you don’t even care.”

“I like flamingos,” he said, “but what we have here is a rare green-breasted shithead. Broad daylight, he’s playing with guns.”

“Yes, I can see.”

Tom had rejected her latest plan, which involved ambushing Bodean Gazzer alone, jamming her twelve-gauge into his groin and demanding under threat of emasculation that he return the stolen lottery ticket.

Not here, Krome had told her. Not yet.

They were parked on a bleached strip of limestone fill, along a rim of lush mangroves. Not far away was a gravel boat ramp, blocked at the moment by Bodean Gazzer’s red pickup. The driver’s door was open and he stood in full view; neck-to-knees camouflage, cowboy boots, mirrored sunglasses. He had a chamois cloth spread on the hood, the assault rifle in pieces before him.

“Steel balls. I give him that,” Krome said.

“No, he’s just a fool. A damn fool.”

JoLayne feared a cop would drive by and see what Bodean Gazzer was doing. Once the idiot got himself arrested, the chase would be over. The thing would boil down to JoLayne’s word against the redneck’s, and he’d never produce the ticket.

A small black bird landed in the trees and began to sing. Krome said, “OK, what’s that one?”

“Redwing,” JoLayne answered stiffly.

“They endangered?”

“Not yet. Don’t you find it obscene—their presence in a place like this? They’re like …
litter.”
She was talking about the two robbers. “They don’t deserve this—to feel the sun on their necks and breathe this fine air. It’s completely wasted on men like that.”

Krome rolled down the car window and took in the cool salt breeze. In a sleepy voice he said, “I could get used to this. Maybe after Alaska.”

JoLayne, thinking: How can he act so relaxed? She could no longer distract herself with the island wildlife, so unnerving was the spectacle of Bodean Gazzer toiling ritually at his gun. She couldn’t shake the memory of that awful scene in her house—not just the man’s punches and kicking, but his voice:

Hey, genius, she can’t talk with a gun in her mouth
.

Talking to his filthy, ponytailed friend:

You wanna make a impression? Look—here
.

Snatching one of the baby turtles from the glass tank, putting it on the wooden floor, coaxing his ponytailed friend to shoot it. That’s what Bodean Gazzer had done.

Yet here he was, fit and free in the Florida sunshine. With a $14 million Lotto ticket hidden somewhere, possibly inside a rubber.

JoLayne said to Tom: “I can’t just sit here doing nothing.”

“You’re absolutely right. You should drive to the grocery.” Krome took out his wallet. “Then you should stop at one of those motels and rent a boat. I’ll give you some money.”

JoLayne said she had a better idea. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the archpatriot.
You
go get the boat.”

“Too risky.”

“I can handle myself,” she insisted.

“JoLayne, there’s no doubt in my mind. I was talking about
me
. Dead persons should always keep a low profile—my face has been in
The Herald
, probably even on TV.”

She said, “It was a shitty picture, Tom. Nobody’ll recognize you.”

“I can’t take that chance.”

“You looked like Pat Sajak on NyQuil.”

“The answer is no.”

Tom didn’t trust her, of course. Didn’t trust her not to mess with the redneck. “This is ridiculous,” she complained. “I’ve never driven a boat.”

“And I’ve never fired a shotgun,” Krome said, “so we have something new to learn from each other. Just what every romance needs.”

“Please.”

“Speaking of which.” He got out, popped the trunk and removed the Remington. “Just in case.”

JoLayne said, “Bad news, Rambo. The shells are in my purse.”

“Just as well,” he said. “I figure we’ve got another forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. Ice is priority one. Get as much ice and fresh water as you can carry.”

“Forty-five minutes until what?”

“Until our sailor with the ponytail gets here,” Krome said.

“Is that so? When were you planning to clue me in?”

“When I was sure.”

JoLayne Lucks was determined to appear skeptical. “You think they’re going by sea.”

“Yup.”

“Where?”

“No idea. That’s why we need a boat of our own. And a chart would be good, too.”

Listen to him, thought JoLayne. Mr. Take-Charge.

She considered holding her ground, telling him off. Then she changed her mind. It did look like a grand day to be out on the bay, especially if the alternative was six more hours in a cramped Honda.

“How big a boat?” JoLayne asked.

Chub was almost at ease on the water. One of the few bearable memories of his childhood was the family ski boat, which the Gillespies had used on weekend outings to Lake Rabun. The young Onus’s pudginess had prevented him from developing into a first-rate water-skier, but he’d loved steering the boat.

The thrill returned to him now, at the helm of the
Reel Luv
, which he had hot-wired in the name of the White Clarion Aryans. With its twin Merc 90s, the stolen twenty-footer was much peppier than the boat Chub had captained as a boy. That was fine; he could handle the extra speed. What he couldn’t cope with was the irregular layout of Florida Bay, with its shifting hues, snaking channels and treacherous flats. It was nothing like
Lake Rabun, which was deep and well-defined and relatively free of immovable obstacles such as mangrove islands. Chub’s somewhat rusty navigational skills were further tested by the impaired vision of his wounded left eye (covered by a new rubber patch, purchased for two dollars at an Amoco station) and by his relatively high blood alcohol.

It was only a matter of minutes before he beached the boat. The broad tidal bank was highly visible because of its brown color, which contrasted boldly with the azure and indigo of the deep channels. Also in evidence was a phalanx of wading birds, whose long-legged presence should have signaled the dramatic change of water depth. Chub didn’t notice.

The grounding was drawn-out and panoramic, the big outboards roaring and throwing great geysers of cocoa-colored silt. Chub was hurled hard against the console, knocking the wind out of him. The egrets and herons took flight in unison, wheeling once over the noisy scene before stringing out westbound in the porcelain morning sky. When the spewing engines finally died, the
Reel Luv
was at rest in approximately seven inches of water. The hull drew exactly eight.

As soon as Chub regained his breath, he got up and saw there was but one way off the shallows: Get out and push. Swearing bitterly, he pulled off his shoes and slipped overboard. Immediately he sank to his nuts in the clammy marl. With great thrashing he managed to position himself at the stern and lean his weight against the transom.

The boat actually moved. Not much, but Chub felt somewhat encouraged.

Every sloppy inch of progress was muscle-sapping, like trying to march in wet cement. The mud sucked at Chub’s legs, and his bare skin stung from the sea lice. Fastening to his arms and belly were tiny purple leeches, no larger than rice kernels, which he swatted away savagely. Additional concern was generated by an
unfamiliar tingle in his crotch and it occurred to Chub that some exotic parasite might have entered his body by swimming into the hole of his pecker. No other millionaire in the entire world, he thought rancorously, had these kinds of problems. He was thankful Amber wasn’t there to witness the degrading scene.