Free Carl Hiaasen by Nature Girl Page A

site was accessed, she typed in “Shreave” and got twenty-seven hits, including several repeats. There were three Boyds, four B.S.’s and two Lilys with the same telephone number and South Willow Street address in Fort Worth.
    Honey timed her call for 6:45 p.m. in East Texas. She was hoping Boyd and his wife were in the midst of dinner.
    I’m Mr. Shreave.
    Honey knew it was him. That voice, dripping confidence and cordiality, was unforgettable.
    She was caught off guard when he interrupted her pitch, but she rolled with it, letting him play the wise old pro. His description of her telephone style as “creamy” was amusing, since she’d deliberately softened her tone to sound different from their only previous conversation.
    The moment he asked about travel expenses, Honey knew he was hooked. It was a total high; she was almost ashamed by how excited she felt. Now all she had to do was talk her ex-husband out of the plane tickets.
    In the car Honey reached to turn down the radio, only to find that it was off. The music she heard was coming from inside her skull, one of the usual symptoms. Today it was two oldies—a wretched disco number, and the peppy “Marrakesh Express” by Crosby, Stills & Nash. The static, over which Honey had no control, was worse than on the Cuban stations from Miami.
    Her mouth was dry by the time she pulled into Perry Skinner’s driveway. The house sat on the Barron River, up the bend from the Rod and Gun Club. It wasn’t a huge place but she liked its old, comfortable look. The floors and beams were made of real Dade County pine, which these days was practically impossible to find. Perry Skinner had purchased the house shortly after the divorce, Honey suspecting that the down payment was left over from his smuggling days. Three doors down lived a famous fishing guide who’d taught Fry how to cast for tarpon.
    Skinner was alone on the front porch, having a drink.
    “Where’s the boy?” he asked when Honey got out of the car.
    “Track practice. He’ll be home around nine,” she said, letting Perry know she couldn’t stay and chitchat—she had a tight schedule.
    He nodded toward a wicker rocking chair.
    Honey sat down but made a point of not rocking. This was a business appointment, after all.
    “Fry said you had some problems with the plane tickets.”
    Skinner said, “Not problems, just questions.”
    “All I need is two coach seats on American. I remembered you had tons of frequent-flier miles from visiting Paul out West.”
    Paul was Perry’s older brother and former partner in the marijuana trade. Thanks to his arrogant Tampa attorney, Paul got heavier time, and for spite the feds stuck him in a prison camp way out in Oregon.
    Skinner said, “I can
buy
you the damn tickets, Honey. That’s not the issue.”
    “Then what is?”
    “Are you taking Fry somewhere? I’ve got a right to know—it says so in the settlement.”
    Honey puffed her cheeks and blew out the air. “Honest to God, the kid’s like a mini-you. He asked me the same ridiculous thing.”
    “So the answer is no.”
    “A big fat capital N-O! What—did you think I was moving away?” she asked. “I wouldn’t do that to Fry. He loves it here.”
    Skinner said, “I heard you quit the fish market.”
    She shrugged. “There’s other things I want to do with my life. And don’t give me that sideways look of yours.”
    Lord, he’s still a handsome guy, she thought. Nobody could ever say I didn’t have a good eye.
    “Did Louis Piejack really grab one of your boobs?” Skinner asked matter-of-factly.
    Honey Santana felt herself blush. “Word sure gets around. Yeah, but don’t worry—I fixed his sorry wagon.”
    Skinner leaned close and whispered, “Hold still.”
    Honey almost broke into a tremble, thinking he was going to kiss her, yet all he did was very gently brush a mosquito from her neck. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
    Skinner said, “So who are the plane tickets