Flush

  Praise for FLUSH:

  “Hiaasen scores again. Fans of spy stories, action, environmental intrigue, and, well, Hiaasen, will cheer for this one.”

  —The Bulletin

  “Enough twists and turns to satisfy even the most serious adventure junkies.”

  —The Horn Book Magazine

  “Features a wacky father, an astute set of siblings and a polluting casino boat.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Hiaasen is able to portray the world as flawed, weird, yet sometimes wonderful.”

  —USA Today

  “It’s classic Hiaasen—laugh-out-loud satire in a Florida setting.”

  —Life

  “One of the most enjoyable books around.”

  —The Globe and Mail (Toronto)

  “Good guys, bad guys, dumb bullies, and lots of action with just the right touch of humor.”

  —The Oakland Press

  “Another keeper from an author whose tales know no limits.”

  —The Oregonian

  “A comic eco-thriller with an undercurrent of outrage. The far-fetched plot and nonstop one-liners belie a dead-serious exploration of the messy politics of conservation.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Biting humor, wacko characters, and a take-no-prisoners attitude toward rapacious developers.”

  —Seattle Post-Intelligencer

  “Flush contains Carl Hiaasen’s irrepressible mix of wacky eccentrics, ecological barbarians and heroic underdogs in an entertaining adventure set in steamy Florida.”

  —Financial Times

  “Readers will be hooked.”

  —School Library Journal

  “Outrageous but utterly believable.”

  —St. Petersburg Times

  “Hiaasen has written another winner.”

  —The Charlotte Observer

  “Droll dialogue, quirky characters … extremely amusing.”

  —Voice of Youth Advocates

  Also by Carl Hiaasen:

  Hoot

  Winner of a Newbery Honor Award

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The legend of the green flash, however, is well known in the Florida Keys.

  Copyright © 2005 by Carl Hiaasen

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Originally published in hardcover as a Borzoi Book by Alfred A. Knopf in 2005.

  KNOPF, BORZOI BOOKS, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hiaasen, Carl.

  Flush / by Carl Hiaasen.

  p. cm.

  SUMMARY: With their father jailed for sinking a river boat, Noah Underwood and his younger sister, Abbey, must gather evidence that the owner of this floating casino is emptying his bilge tanks into the protected waters around their Florida

  Keys home.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-83752-4

  [1. Environmental protection—Fiction. 2. River boats—Fiction. 3. Fathers—

  Fiction. 4. Florida—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H495Flu 2005

  [Fic]—dc22 2005005259

  v3.0_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  For the mighty Quinn

  ONE

  The deputy told me to empty my pockets: two quarters, a penny, a stick of bubble gum, and a roll of grip tape for my skateboard. It was pitiful.

  “Go on inside. He’s waiting for you,” the deputy said.

  My dad was sitting alone at a bare metal table. He looked pretty good, all things considered. He wasn’t even handcuffed.

  “Happy Father’s Day,” I said.

  He stood up and gave me a hug. “Thanks, Noah,” he said.

  In the room there was another deputy—a broad, jowly bear standing next to the door that led to the jail cells. I guess his job was to make sure I wasn’t smuggling a hacksaw to my father so that he could break out.

  “It’s good they let you keep your own clothes,” I said to Dad. “I figured they’d make you put on one of those dorky uniforms.”

  “I’m sure they will, sooner or later.” He shrugged. “You doing okay?”

  “How come you won’t let Mom bail you out?” I asked.

  “Because it’s important for me to be here right now.”

  “Important how? She says you’ll lose your job if you stay locked up.”

  “She’s probably right,” my dad admitted.

  He’d been driving a taxi for the past year and a half. Before that he was a fishing guide—a good one, too, until the Coast Guard took away his captain’s license.

  He said, “Noah, it’s not like I robbed a bank or something.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “Did you go see what I did?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  He gave me a wink. “It’s impressive.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  He was in a surprisingly good mood. I’d never been to a jail before, though honestly it wasn’t much of a jail. Two holding cells, my dad told me. The main county lockup was miles away in Key West.

  “Mom wants to know if she should call the lawyer,” I said.

  “I suppose.”

  “The same one from last time? She wasn’t sure.”

  “Yeah, he’s all right,” my father said.

  His clothes were rumpled and he looked tired, but he said the food was decent and the police were treating him fine.

  “Dad, what if you just said you’re sorry and offered to pay for what you did?”

  “But I’m not sorry for what I did, Noah. The only thing I’m sorry about is that you’ve got to see me locked up like an ax murderer.”

  The other times my dad had gotten in trouble, they wouldn’t let me come to the jail because I was too young.

  “I’m not a common criminal.” Dad reached across and put a hand on my arm. “I know right from wrong. Good from bad. Sometimes I just get carried away.”

  “Nobody thinks you’re a criminal.”

  “Dusty Muleman sure does.”

  “That’s because you sunk his boat,” I pointed out. “If you just paid to get it fixed, maybe then—”

  “That’s a seventy-three-footer,” my dad cut in. “You’ve got to know what you’re doing to sink one of those pigs. You ought to go have a look.”

  “Maybe later,” I said.

  The deputy standing by the door made a grunting noise and held up five chubby fingers, which was the number of minutes left before he took my father back to the cell.

  “Is your mom
still ticked off at me?” Dad asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I tried to explain it to her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Then maybe you can explain it to me,” I said. “I’m old enough to understand.”

  Dad smiled. “I believe you are, Noah.”

  My father was born and raised here in Florida, so he grew up on the water. His dad—my Grandpa Bobby—ran a charter boat out of Haulover Marina on Miami Beach. Grandpa Bobby passed away when I was little, so I honestly didn’t remember him. We’d heard different stories about what happened—one was that his appendix burst; another was that he got hurt real bad in a bar fight. All we knew for sure is that he took his fishing boat down to South America on some sort of job, and he never came back.

  One day a man from the U.S. State Department showed up at our house and told my parents that Grandpa Bobby was dead and buried near some little village in Colombia. For some weird reason they couldn’t bring his body home for a funeral—I knew this because I’d seen the paperwork. My dad kept a file, and at least four or five times a year he would write to Washington, D.C., asking someone to please help get his father’s coffin back to Florida. This is, like, ten years later. Mom worked with my dad on the letters—she’s a legal secretary, and she gets straight to the point.

  My mom and dad first met while they were standing in line to pay speeding tickets at the Dade County Courthouse, and they got married six weeks later. I know this for a fact because Mom put the speeding tickets in a scrapbook, along with their wedding pictures and stuff like that. The ticket my mother got was for driving 44 miles an hour in a 35-mile-per-hour zone. My father’s ticket was much worse—he was doing 93 on the turnpike. In the album Dad’s ticket looks sort of lumpy and wrinkled because he’d crumpled it into a ball when the state trooper handed it to him. My mother said she used a laundry iron to flatten it out before pasting it next to hers in the scrapbook.

  About a year after they got married, my parents moved down to the Keys. I’m sure this was Dad’s idea, because he’d been coming here ever since he was a kid and he hated the big city. I was actually born in a 1989 Chevrolet Caprice on U.S. Highway One, my dad racing up the eighteen-mile stretch from Key Largo to the mainland. He was trying to get my mother to the hospital in Homestead. She was lying in the backseat of the car, and that’s where I was born. Mom did it all by herself—she didn’t tell my dad to pull over and stop because she didn’t want him interfering. They still argue about this. (She says he’s got a tendency to get overexcited, which is the understatement of the century.) He didn’t even realize I was born until they got to Florida City and I started bawling.

  Abbey came along three years later. Dad talked my mom into naming her after one of his favorite writers, some weird old bird who’s buried out west in the middle of a desert.

  Most of my friends aren’t crazy about their sisters, but Abbey’s all right. Maybe it’s not cool to say so, but the truth is the truth. She’s funny and tough and not nearly as irritating as most of the girls at school. Over the years Abbey and I developed a pretty good system: She keeps an eye on Mom, and I keep an eye on Dad. Sometimes, though, I need extra help.

  “So, what’s the deal?” Abbey asked after I got back from the jail.

  We were sitting at the kitchen table. For lunch Mom had fixed us the usual, ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

  “He says he got carried away again,” I said.

  Abbey raised her eyebrows and snorted. “No duh.”

  Mom set two glasses of milk on the table. “Noah, why does he insist on staying in jail? It’s Father’s Day, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I guess he’s trying to make a point.”

  “All he’s making,” my sister said, “is a jackass of himself.”

  “Hush, Abbey,” Mom told her.

  “He said it’s okay to call the lawyer,” I added.

  “He’s not pleading guilty?” Abbey asked. “How can he not plead guilty? He did it, didn’t he?”

  “It’s still smart to have an attorney,” said my mother. She seemed much calmer now. When the police first called, she’d gotten real mad and said some pretty harsh things about Dad. Honestly, I couldn’t blame her. Even for him this was a major screwup.

  “Noah, how are you doing?” she asked.

  I knew she was worried that the jailhouse visit had shaken me up, so I told her I was fine.

  She said, “I’m sure it wasn’t easy seeing your father behind bars.”

  “They brought him to a private room,” I said. “He wasn’t even wearing handcuffs.”

  My mother frowned slightly. “Still, it’s not a happy picture.”

  Abbey said, “Maybe he ought to plead insanity.”

  Mom ignored her. “Your father has many good qualities,” she said to me, “but he’s not the most stable role model for a young man like yourself. He’d be the first to admit it, Noah.”

  Whenever I get this speech, I listen patiently and don’t say a word. She won’t come right out and say so, but Mom worries that I’m too much like my dad.

  “Drink your milk,” she said, and went to the den to call our lawyer, a man named Mr. Shine.

  As soon as we were alone, Abbey reached over and twisted the hair on my arm. “Tell me everything,” she said.

  “Not now.” I jerked my head toward the doorway. “Not with Mom around.”

  Abbey said, “It’s all right. She’s on the phone.”

  I shook my head firmly and took a bite of my sandwich.

  “Noah, are you holding out on me?” my sister asked.

  “Finish your lunch,” I said, “then we’ll go for a ride.”

  The Coral Queen had gone down stern-first in twelve feet of water. Her hull had settled on the marly bottom at a slight angle with the bow aiming upward.

  She was a big one, too. Even at high tide the top two decks were above the waterline. It was like a big ugly apartment building had fallen out of the sky and landed in the basin.

  Abbey hopped off my handlebars and walked to the water’s edge. She planted her hands on her hips and stared at the crime scene.

  “Whoa,” she said. “He really did it this time.”

  “It’s bad,” I agreed.

  The Coral Queen was one of those gambling boats where passengers line up to play blackjack and electronic poker, and to stuff their faces at the all-you-can-eat buffet. It didn’t sound like a ton of fun to me, but the Coral Queen was packed to the rafters every night.

  There was one major difference between Dusty Muleman’s operation and the gambling cruises up in Miami: The Coral Queen didn’t actually go anywhere. That’s one reason it was so popular.

  By Florida law, gambling boats are supposed to travel at least three miles offshore—beyond the state boundaries—before anyone is allowed to start betting. Rough weather is real bad for business because lots of customers get seasick. As soon as they start throwing up, they quit spending money.

  According to my father, Dusty Muleman’s dream was to open a gambling boat that never left the calm and safety of its harbor. That way the passengers would never get too queasy to party.

  Only Indian tribes are allowed to run casino operations in Florida, so Dusty somehow persuaded a couple of rich Miccosukees from Miami to buy the marina and make it part of their reservation. Dad said the government raised a stink but later backed off because the Indians had better lawyers.

  Anyway, Dusty got his gambling boat—and he got rich.

  My dad had waited until three in the morning, when the last of the crew was gone, to sneak aboard. He’d untied the ropes and started one of the engines and idled out to the mouth of the basin, where he’d opened the seacocks and cut the hoses and disconnected the bilge pumps and then dived overboard.

  The Coral Queen had gone down crosswise in the channel, which meant that no other vessels could get in or out of the basin. In other words, Dusty Muleman wasn’t the only captain in town who wanted to strangle my dad on Father’s Day.

/>   I locked my bike to a buttonwood tree and walked down to the charter docks, Abbey trailing behind. Two small skiffs and a Coast Guard inflatable were nosing around the Coral Queen. We could hear the men in the skiffs talking about what had to be done to float the boat. It was a major project.

  “He’s lost his marbles,” Abbey muttered.

  “Who—Dad? No way,” I said.

  “Then why did he do it?”

  “Because Dusty Muleman has been dumping his holding tank into the water,” I said.

  Abbey grimaced. “Yuck. From the toilets?”

  “Yep. In the middle of the night, when there’s nobody around.”

  “That is so gross.”

  “And totally illegal,” I said. “He only does it to save money.”

  According to my father, Dusty Muleman was such a pathetic cheapskate that he wouldn’t pay to have the Coral Queen’s sewage hauled away. Instead his crew had standing orders to flush the waste into the basin, which was already murky. The tide later carried most of the filth out to open water.

  “But why didn’t Dad just call the Coast Guard?” my sister asked. “Wouldn’t that have been the grown-up thing to do?”

  “He told me he tried. He said he called everybody he could think of, but they could never catch Dusty in the act,” I said. “Dad thinks somebody’s tipping him off.”

  “Oh, please,” Abbey groaned.

  Now she was starting to annoy me.

  “When the wind and the current are right, the poop from the gambling boat floats out of the basin and down the shoreline,” I said, “straight to Thunder Beach.”

  Abbey made a pukey face. “Ugh. So that’s why they close the park sometimes.”

  “You know how many kids go swimming there? What Dusty’s doing can make you real sick at both ends. Hospital-sick, Dad says. So it’s not only disgusting, it’s dangerous.”