Nature Girl by Carl Hiaasen

Author:Carl Hiaasen [Hiaasen, Carl]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery & Detective, Humorous, Unknown, Florida, Fiction, Suspense, General
ISBN: 9780552773713
Publisher: Black Swan
Published: 2007-10-08T23:18:33+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

She thought she’d heard voices, but what else was new? Rarely was there a silence in her world; no peace, no quiet. Nat King Cole crooned a duet with Marilyn Manson, a sniper tripped a fire alarm at the nursing home, a parakeet landed in a margarita blender

Just another day inside the head of Honey Santana.

“Some vacation,” said Boyd Shreave, the man who’d phoned during dinner and given his name as Eisenhower and tried to sucker her into buying a tract of overpriced real estate.

The man who’d called her a skank.

“Not what we had in mind,” he added. “Right, Genie?”

“It isn’t much like the Bahamas,” his mistress allowed.

Honey said, “What were you two hoping for? Besides a beach and a tiki bar, I mean. This is raw, untouched wilderness, the very last of it. That’s what people come to see on an eco-tour.”

Boyd Shreave chuckled coldly. “Just give us the damn sales pitch and take us back to town.”

“There is no sales pitch,” Honey said.

“Yeah, right.”

Eugenie Fonda stretched her arms. “What’s the name of this island, anyhow?”

“I don’t know,” Honey said, “but it’ll do.”

Shreave frowned. “For what?” He stalked up to her and flicked the half-eaten granola bar out of her hand. “Do for what?”

“That was rude,” Honey said. She collected the pieces off the ground and placed them in a garbage tote. “Beyond rude, as a matter of fact.”

Eugenie Fonda told Shreave to quit acting like a jerk.

“No sales pitch, she says?” He kicked at the ashes of the previous campers’ fire. “What the hell’s going on?”

Honey Santana decided it was pointless to wait any longer. She was ready; he was more than ready.

She stood up and said, “There’s no pitch because there’s no such development as Royal Gulf Hammocks, Mr. Eisenhower.”

Shreave’s brow inverted in a simian portrait of vexation. He swayed slightly, working his lower jaw.

Having connected the dots, Eugenie Fonda said, “Shit, Boyd. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Do I know you?” he asked Honey. The words came out as a rattle. “Don’t tell me you’re the same one who called my house.”

“You called me first, Boyd. Peddling some worthless scrub in Gilchrist County, remember? I gave you a short history lesson on Stephen Foster, how he never laid eyes on the Suwannee River. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Shreave spun around. Stammered. Shook his arms. Finally, Eugenie snagged him by the belt and pulled him down beside her.

“Do the voice,” he said to Honey. “If you’re really her, do the phone voice.”

She was well prepared. “Good evening, Mr. Shreave. My name is Pia Frampton and I’m calling with a very special offer—”

Shreave’s chin dropped. “Aw, Jesus.”

“You said it was too ‘creamy-sounding,’ remember? You gave me lots of helpful pointers.”

Eugenie Fonda said, “Incredible.”

Honey recognized the inflection of fatigue; of low expectations, unmet. What am I doing with this loser? Honey had more than once asked herself the same question, before she swore off dating.

“Boy, she got you good,” Eugenie said to Shreave.

“Bullshit. It was a free trip to Florida!”

“Nothing’s free, Boyd.

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