Carl Hiaasen Read Free Page B

creep.”
    She winked at him. “I’m not calling the 800 number. I’m calling my brother to have him
trace
the 800 number.”
    “Oh wonderful,” said Fry.
    “And don’t roll your eyes at me, young man, because—oh, hello. Could you ring Richard Santana please?” Honey covered the mouthpiece. “I will most definitely find this person,” she whispered emphatically to her son, “one way or another.”
    Fry asked, “And then what, Mom?”
    She smiled. “And then I’ll sell him something he can’t afford. That’s what.”

Two
    After nightfall Sammy Tigertail ditched the rented Chrysler in a canal along the Tamiami Trail. Then he hitchhiked to Naples and met his half brother Lee in the parking lot of an outlet mall.
    “Come home. You’ll be safer on the reservation,” Lee said.
    “No, this way is better for everyone. You bring the gear and the rifle?”
    “Yep.”
    “What about the guitar?”
    Sammy Tigertail had only once set foot inside the tribe’s Hard Rock operation. The whole scene was gruesome, except for the rock-and-roll artifacts on display. Sammy Tigertail had zeroed in on a blond Gibson Super 400 that had once belonged to Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits, his late father’s favorite band.
    “It’s in the truck,” Lee said, “and you owe me big-time, brother. They didn’t want to give it up.”
    “Yeah, I bet.”
    “But I got the big boss to make a call.”
    “No shit?” Sammy Tigertail hadn’t known that Lee held any sway with the tribal chairman. “Let’s go,” he said.
    His brother drove him to the Turner River, where together they dragged a small canoe from the bed of the pickup; not a native cypress dugout but a shiny blue aluminum model, manufactured at some factory in northern Michigan.
    After they loaded in the gear, Lee said, “You see the Man coming, first thing to go overboard is the gun.”
    “All depends,” said Sammy Tigertail.
    They stood in a thickening darkness, silent but for the oscillating hum of insects.
    Lee asked, “You didn’t kill that white man on purpose, did you?”
    Sammy Tigertail took a heavy breath. “No, it wasn’t me.”
    He told the story of the banded water snake, and Lee agreed that it was clearly a spirit at work. “What do you want me to do with your checks?” he asked.
    Every month the tribe sent three thousand dollars to each Seminole, remittance from the gambling profits.
    “Give it to Cindy.”
    “Sammy, don’t be a fool—”
    “Hey, it’s
my
goddamn money.”
    “Okay,” Lee said. Cindy was Sammy Tigertail’s ex-girlfriend, and she had issues.
    Lee put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and said good-bye. Sammy Tigertail got into the canoe and pushed it away from the bank.
    “Hey, boy, since when do you play guitar?” Lee called out.
    “I don’t.” Sammy Tigertail dipped the paddle and turned the bow downriver. “But I got all the time in the world to learn.”
    “Sammy, wait. What do I tell Ma?”
    “Tell her I’ll be back someday to play her a song.”

    Eugenie Fonda had been briefly famous as a mistress in another relationship. In the summer of 1999 she had dallied with a man named Van Bonneville, a self-employed tree trimmer in Fernandina Beach. Soon after the affair had begun, a hurricane pushing thirteen feet of tidal surge struck the coast and smashed Van Bonneville’s house into toothpicks. He survived, but his wife was lost and presumed drowned.
    Hurricanes being to tree cutters what Amway conventions are to hookers, Van Bonneville was an exceptionally busy fellow in the days following the tragedy. While neighbors were impressed by his stoicism, his in-laws were disturbed by what they considered an inadequate display of grief by the young widower.
    Certain grisly suspicions were floated before the local police, but no one paid much attention until Mrs. Bonneville’s body was found in her Pontiac at the bottom of the St. Johns River. It was her husband’s contention that Mrs. Bonneville’s Bonneville had