punch. The Permian Extinction Event will be like that. The next mega-explosion will come when least expected, annihilate us all.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Mother Nature takes us out before we pollute the whole damn galaxy.”
Noah patches in another call. A brusque male voice bellows. “This is Big Conch, CEO of Neptune Bay Resort.”
“Ah, the guy who hits on my wife all the time when he isn’t busy raping the environment.”
“Don’t give me that stink load about the environment. I create jobs. What do you create?
Nada!
You want the Florida Keys turned back into a mosquito-infected mangrove swamp.”
“I’d rather live with mosquito bites on my ass than be imprisoned on a concrete island of condos surrounded by a dead sea.”
“You’re just a dipshit bobbing alone on the ocean, trying to get people to jerk off to phony environmental rage. The truth is, it’s all about your wife. She left you. You’re a pirate without a treasure.”
Noah punches Big Conch off the line. “Fun and games are over for today. Here’s something for my lost treasure out there, if she’s listening.” He picks up a CD. “This is a lament of love lost, sung by a man who has crawled on hands and knees over a thousand miles of broken-glass heartbreak road. Enjoy!”
Noah pushes the disc into the CD player and swivels around in his chair as the song begins. Behind him is the Haitian teenager Rimbaud Mesrine, who has been silently watching the whole time. Noah speaks in French to the boy. “You don’t understand anything that’s been said here today, do you?” Rimbaud shakes his head. Noah continues: “How old are you, kid?”
Rimbaud answers hesitantly in French. “Sixteen.”
“Then you’re old enough to understand this.” Noah cranks up the volume on the CD player.
The man singing his lament from the speakers slits open the heart of the song with a howl of pain.
H igh-noon sun slams down on a junkyard of abandoned boats of all types and sizes rotting in brutal tropical heat. Some boats are tilted on their sides; some are mounted on concrete blocks with weeds growing up around them; others have their once-tight wooden hulls snapped open and gaping, like prizefighters with their teeth knocked out. Overhead, in the cloudless washed-out sky, vultures glide in circles, looking down among the junked boats for any sign of a dead opportunity.
Between a row of square-hulled houseboats walks Hard Puppy, dressed in his shiny white silk suit. Hard’s white alligator-skin shoes crunch the white coral gravel underfoot as he leads three pit bulls tied to a rope. He stops next to a rusted iron ship anchor half wedged into the ground. He ties the pit bulls to the anchor. He walks back ten feet, swings around, and pulls out a Magnum. He aims the long-barreled gun at the pit bulls straining against the rope. He pulls the Magnum’s trigger. A reverberating blast shocks through the air. One of the tied pit bulls drops to the ground with a dying yelp. The two remaining dogs bark and lunge against the new dead weight of the rope restraining them.
The scent of blood and burnt metal fills the air. Hard aims the Magnum and fires again. In front of the two pit bulls, a chunk of dirt is ripped out and tossed up in a dust cloud. Hard shouts at the dogs, “Keep your asses still!” He grips the gun in both hands, aims, and fires. A bulletzings through the air, striking a pit bull between the eyes. The bullet’s sudden impact explodes the dog’s head in a spew of blood, bone, and flesh.
Behind Hard, a white Dodge Charger roars up and brakes to a stop in the gravel. Luz opens the front door and gets out. Hard swings his Magnum around in his two-handed grip and aims it at Luz. She pushes the bottom of her guayabera shirt aside, exposing her holstered Glock; she steadies her hand on the handle and calls out to Hard across the gravel expanse, “Let’s have an even fight. Killing a cop isn’t as easy as killing a helpless
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Mother Nature takes us out before we pollute the whole damn galaxy.”
Noah patches in another call. A brusque male voice bellows. “This is Big Conch, CEO of Neptune Bay Resort.”
“Ah, the guy who hits on my wife all the time when he isn’t busy raping the environment.”
“Don’t give me that stink load about the environment. I create jobs. What do you create?
Nada!
You want the Florida Keys turned back into a mosquito-infected mangrove swamp.”
“I’d rather live with mosquito bites on my ass than be imprisoned on a concrete island of condos surrounded by a dead sea.”
“You’re just a dipshit bobbing alone on the ocean, trying to get people to jerk off to phony environmental rage. The truth is, it’s all about your wife. She left you. You’re a pirate without a treasure.”
Noah punches Big Conch off the line. “Fun and games are over for today. Here’s something for my lost treasure out there, if she’s listening.” He picks up a CD. “This is a lament of love lost, sung by a man who has crawled on hands and knees over a thousand miles of broken-glass heartbreak road. Enjoy!”
Noah pushes the disc into the CD player and swivels around in his chair as the song begins. Behind him is the Haitian teenager Rimbaud Mesrine, who has been silently watching the whole time. Noah speaks in French to the boy. “You don’t understand anything that’s been said here today, do you?” Rimbaud shakes his head. Noah continues: “How old are you, kid?”
Rimbaud answers hesitantly in French. “Sixteen.”
“Then you’re old enough to understand this.” Noah cranks up the volume on the CD player.
The man singing his lament from the speakers slits open the heart of the song with a howl of pain.
H igh-noon sun slams down on a junkyard of abandoned boats of all types and sizes rotting in brutal tropical heat. Some boats are tilted on their sides; some are mounted on concrete blocks with weeds growing up around them; others have their once-tight wooden hulls snapped open and gaping, like prizefighters with their teeth knocked out. Overhead, in the cloudless washed-out sky, vultures glide in circles, looking down among the junked boats for any sign of a dead opportunity.
Between a row of square-hulled houseboats walks Hard Puppy, dressed in his shiny white silk suit. Hard’s white alligator-skin shoes crunch the white coral gravel underfoot as he leads three pit bulls tied to a rope. He stops next to a rusted iron ship anchor half wedged into the ground. He ties the pit bulls to the anchor. He walks back ten feet, swings around, and pulls out a Magnum. He aims the long-barreled gun at the pit bulls straining against the rope. He pulls the Magnum’s trigger. A reverberating blast shocks through the air. One of the tied pit bulls drops to the ground with a dying yelp. The two remaining dogs bark and lunge against the new dead weight of the rope restraining them.
The scent of blood and burnt metal fills the air. Hard aims the Magnum and fires again. In front of the two pit bulls, a chunk of dirt is ripped out and tossed up in a dust cloud. Hard shouts at the dogs, “Keep your asses still!” He grips the gun in both hands, aims, and fires. A bulletzings through the air, striking a pit bull between the eyes. The bullet’s sudden impact explodes the dog’s head in a spew of blood, bone, and flesh.
Behind Hard, a white Dodge Charger roars up and brakes to a stop in the gravel. Luz opens the front door and gets out. Hard swings his Magnum around in his two-handed grip and aims it at Luz. She pushes the bottom of her guayabera shirt aside, exposing her holstered Glock; she steadies her hand on the handle and calls out to Hard across the gravel expanse, “Let’s have an even fight. Killing a cop isn’t as easy as killing a helpless
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