Carl Hiaasen by Nature Girl Page A

said, “per the usual.”
    “Sure it’s the same guy?”
    “Sweetie, how could it
not
be?” She took the printout and taped it to the refrigerator. “Listen, I’ve got another small favor to ask. I need you to go on the computer and do your magic.”
    Fry said, “No chance. I’m done for the day.”
    “Please? It won’t take long.”
    The boy headed down the hallway, Honey trailing behind. “He’s got an unlisted number, can you believe that?”
    “Easily,” Fry said.
    “But thank God for that stupid lawsuit,” his mother went on, “because it means there’s a court file somewhere in Texas with Mr. Boyd Shreave’s address and home phone number in it. If you can find it on-line, then I can…”
    Fry fell into bed and shut his eyes. “You can what? Call up this a-hole and give him a piece of your mind?”
    “Yeah. Exactly,” Honey Santana said.
    “And that’s all you’re gonna do? Promise?”
    “Well, I might have a little fun with him. Nothing he doesn’t deserve.”
    Fry sighed. “I knew it.”
    “Jesus, I’m not gonna do anything dangerous or against the law.”
    Fry opened his eyes and gave her a hard stare. “Mom, I’m not going to Texas with you.”
    “What on earth are you talking about?”
    “Oh, come on. Even if you con Dad into givin’ you the plane tickets, I’m not going.”
    Honey laughed lightly. “Well, I’m not flying to Texas, either. Fry, that’s the nuttiest thing I ever heard—you honestly think I’d jump on a jetliner to go chasing after this slug? Just ’cause he called me a dried-up old whatever.”
    “Then who are the tickets for?” her son demanded.
    Honey got up and cranked open a window. “I’m starving. You want a snack?”
    Fry groaned and yanked the sheet across his face. “I told Dad you were doing okay. Please don’t make a liar out of me.”
    “Hush,” said his mother. “How about some popcorn?”

    To distance himself from an overhead air-conditioning vent, the haunted-looking Sacco had moved into the cubicle left empty by Boyd Shreave. When Eugenie Fonda passed him a playful note, Sacco swatted it away as if it were a scorpion. His skittishness hinted at a bruised and volatile soul, which naturally piqued Eugenie’s curiosity. Even the man’s telephone voice sounded spent and frayed, although he still managed to churn plenty of leads. After Eugenie slipped him a second note, casual and innocuous, Sacco scrawled a one-word response—“GAY!”—and sailed it back to her desk. By the end of the shift she found herself missing Boyd, dull lump that he was.
    When she got home at half past midnight, he was waiting at her front door.
    With more flowers.
    “Oh Lord,” said Eugenie Fonda.
    “Okay if I come in?”
    “You look terrible, sugar.”
    “Bad day,” said Shreave, following her inside.
    They began to make love on the sofa, Eugenie bouncing with her customary determination upon his lap. Within moments she found herself detached, literally, Boyd having waned to limpness.
    “Sorry,” he mumbled.
    Eugenie climbed off and pulled on her panties. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she said.
    “It’s Lily. She’s acting really weird.”
    “You think she knows?”
    “How could she? We’ve been so careful,” Shreave said.
    “Right. Like that day in the sub shop.” Eugenie clicked her teeth.
    She went to get a vase for the flowers, Shreave calling after her, “I’m telling you, Genie, she doesn’t know about us. There’s no way.”
    What a voice, she thought. Sometimes when Boyd was talking, she’d close her eyes and imagine for a moment that he looked like Tim McGraw. That’s how good he sounded.
    By the time she returned to the living room, he’d removed his shoes and socks and was sucking loudly on a lime Jolly Rancher candy that he’d taken from a silver bowl on the end table.
    Eugenie Fonda put down the vase and got two beers from the refrigerator. “So,” she said, stationing herself beside him on the sofa, “what’d