Star Island by Carl Hiaasen

Author:Carl Hiaasen [Hiaasen, Carl]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Humorous, Florida, Fiction, General, Thrillers, Humorous fiction, Paparazzi, Women singers
ISBN: 9781445855974
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2010-07-27T23:00:00+00:00

The governor, seeking quiet on a raucous Saturday night, hunkered beneath an empty lifeguard tower, not far from the stretch where he’d beached the speedboat. Along the dim shore a few couples could be seen, some strolling at the water’s edge, some lying entwined on the sand. They didn’t notice the man called Skink, who’d dug himself a sleeping pit and was speaking low into his phone.

On the other end of the line was Jim Tile, who was alarmed to learn that his volatile friend was roaming South Beach.

“Nothing good can come of this,” he warned.

“What have you got for me?” Skink asked.

During his years with the state Highway Patrol, Jim Tile had made many useful contacts in local law enforcement. As a favor, one of them had agreed to call American Express and say that he was working on a possible missing-persons case, and that he needed a printout of recent activity on the account of one Claude Abbott. The name and card number had been provided to Jim Tile by Skink after his productive chat with the day clerk at the Comfort Inn.

“Your boy spent twenty-six and change at some adult novelty shop,” Jim Tile said, reading from his notes.

The governor belched.

“Then there’s forty-two dollars at a place called Oldies But Goldies. Apparel, it says. Next there’s a charge at a Marriott.”

“Here on the beach?” Skink asked.

“1530 Washington. Looks like a room deposit.”

“When?”

“Today. This stuff is all from today.”

“Good work, my brother. We’ll talk later.”

“Don’t hang up. Tell me what’s going on,” Jim Tile said. “This is all about that girl, right?”

“I need to see her again. She enriched my outlook on humanity.”

Jim Tile pointed out that Ann DeLusia was young enough to be his daughter. “Or even granddaughter,” he added archly.

Skink said, “You dirty old goat. Don’t you believe in platonic enchantment?”

“Actually, I do.” Jim Tile had observed his friend behaving like this before, after he’d been touched by some unlikely encounter with what he termed “a pure true soul.” Clearly the woman was important to him or he wouldn’t have traveled all that way to find her; almost nothing could make him leave his encampment in the Keys, not even a hurricane.

“Governor, where’s the shotgun?” Jim Tile asked.

“Relax, gramps. I stashed it.”

Being retired, there were limits to how much assistance Jim Tile could provide if Clinton Tyree got himself arrested for shooting up a city. The man was psychologically unsuited for a setting as loud and preposterous as South Beach; he might snap at any moment.

“Please go home,” Jim Tile urged.

“When Annie is safe. I fear she’s in a fix.”

“But nobody’s reported her missing. I checked with the Beach cops.”

Skink said, “She called me for help. You think I dreamed that?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Jim, you’ve become quite a grump in your old age. For your information, I fished her cell phone from a toilet at the Comfort Inn.”

“Oh.”

“Apology accepted. I’ll be in touch.”

Skink hung up and directed his attention to two men with dishonorable intent who had brought a drunken young woman down to the beach.

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