Skinny Dip - Страница 25

"O'Toole. That's what was on the car-rental contract."

"O'Toole," Hammernut repeated for Lisbeth, who said she would check. Less than a minute later the phone buzzed. This time Hammer-nut turned off the speaker and snatched up the receiver.

"Hmmm. Okay, yeah, I think I 'member him. Thank you, darlin'."

The detective opened his notebook and waited.

Hammernut hung up and said, "That big ole boy used to be a crew boss round here, but not for some time. I don't know how he come to get hold of that credit card, but I aim to find out."

"Do you know where he works now?"

"Nope. Lisbeth says he left on account of medical problems," Hammernut said. "It's hard, runnin' a crew. Maybe he just got broke-down and wore-out."

Rolvaag went through the motions of scribbling in his notebook. "Can you think of any reason Mr. O'Toole was hanging around that particular neighborhood in Boca? He didn't hurt anybody, but still it's a matter of concern for some of the residents-you can understand."

"Oh hell yes," Red Hammernut said. "If he's the same ol' boy I'm thinkin' of, he could scare hot piss out of an igloo."

Rolvaag managed a chuckle. "Mind if I take a look at his personnel file?"

"What file? Ha!" Hammernut roared. "We got, like, index cards. Half these fellas, we're lucky they cop to their real names. That's a problem with your itinerant labor."

The detective nodded commiseratively. "You'd tell me, I'm sure, if your records showed that Mr. O'Toole had a history of violence or mental instability."

Hammernut sneezed and groped in his pockets for a handkerchief. "Psychos ain't much use on a farm operation like mine. Somebody turns out to be a goony bird, he don't last long."

"But you get all kinds, I bet," Rolvaag said.

"You say this boy hasn't hurt nobody, right? I'm curious how come you drove all the way from Broward County to check up on him. Is he what you call 'under investigation'?"

The detective had no intention of telling Red Hammernut the truth-that he was fishing for leads in a possible homicide; that he had nothing better to do than track down some dumb gorilla who seemed to be surveilling his prime suspect; that he needed an excuse to get out of the office anyway, before Captain Gallo tossed a new case in his lap.

"No, but you're right. Normally this is worth a phone call," Rolvaag said, "or even a fax. But some of the folks who live in that neighborhood where Mr. O'Toole was seen… how can I put this? They've been very loyal supporters of our sheriff-"

"Meaning they give serious bucks to his re-election campaigns," Hammernut cut in, "so when they got a problem, the sheriff, he takes a personal interest. Right?"

"I'm glad you understand." Rolvaag let his gaze wander appreciatively across the photographs on the wall. "I had a feeling you would."

Hammernut smiled sagely. "Works the same way everywhere, don't it? Politics, I mean."

The detective smiled back. "Anyway, I'm supposed to make sure this O'Toole character isn't some sort of serial killer waiting to pounce on unsuspecting Republican housewives."

Another cataclysmic sneeze erupted from Hammernut, who swabbed daintily at his florid nose. "You go on home and tell your sheriff not to worry about ol' Earl Edward whatever. He won't bother nobody. I'll see to it."

Rolvaag put away his notebook and rose to leave. He considered tossing out the name of Charles Perrone to see what reaction it might elicit, but he changed his mind. Red Hammernut was too sharp to admit having a connection to the scientist, if there was one.

The detective said, "You can prosecute Mr. O'Toole for using that credit card."

"I could do that. I could also get him some, whatchacallit, private counselin'." Red Hammernut winked. "Big and hairy as he is, I got some boys even bigger and hairier. Know what I mean?"

The detective had not mentioned O'Toole's startling pelt, which meant that Hammernut plainly remembered the man more clearly than he'd let on.

At the door, the bantam tycoon slapped a hand on Rolvaag's shoulder and asked if he wanted to take home a crate of fresh-picked esca-role. Rolvaag said leafy greens gave him indigestion, but he thanked Hammernut just the same.

Driving back toward the highway, the detective swerved to miss a baby snake that was sunning itself on the gravel. It was a speckled king, the size of a child's necklace, and right away the detective noticed it was grossly deformed. The snake had been born with only one eye, and on the ebony tip of its nose was a growth the size of an acorn. Rolvaag knew it probably wouldn't survive much longer, but he released it in a nearby grove anyway.

Thinking: Poor little guy. What a lousy roll of the dice he got.

Red Hammernut remembered the day he first met Charles Perrone. Lisbeth had fluttered into his office, saying there was a young man wanting to see him about a job; a persistent young man, she'd said, wouldn't speak to anybody but the boss himself. Red Hammernut's first impulse was to call security and have the impertinent punk heaved off the property, but then he glanced at the man's resume and said what the hell, give him five minutes. Red Hammernut was curious to know why anybody with a master's degree in marine biology was so keen on working for a vegetable farm.

Chaz Perrone walked in wearing a blue blazer, tan trousers and a club tie. He pumped Red Hammernut's hand, installed himself on the other side of the desk and started yakking like he was pushing time-shares. His cockiness was so annoying that Red Hammernut couldn't help interrupting now and then with a belch, but after a while the young man started making a certain amount of sense.

Perrone opened a file and took out a recent newspaper clipping that Red glumly recognized, the headline reading local farm cited as glades polluter. The article was about a series of water samples taken downstream from Red Hammernut's vegetable operation. Phosphorus had been measured in suspension at 302 parts per billion, nearly thirty times higher than the legal limit for runoff into the Everglades. By itself, Hammernut Farms was flushing more fertilizer per gallon into South Florida's water than the state's largest cattle ranch and sugarcane grower combined, an act of pollution so egregious that even Red Hammernut's powerful cronies in Washington dared not intercede.

It was Chaz Perrone's opinion that Hammernut Farms would continue to face harsh scrutiny from regulatory agencies as well as the news media, which is why he was generously offering his services as an environmental consultant. When Red Hammernut pointed out that Perrone had no background whatsoever in agricultural waste treatment, Chaz replied that he was a quick learner. He described his experience defending his current employer, a renowned cosmetics firm, against charges that their products contained carcinogens and industrial corrosives. Proudly he recalled the time that his testimony had cast critical doubt upon that of a female plaintiff whose cheekbones had mysteriously delaminated after an application of designer blush. Chaz asserted it was important for corporations to have their own experts, people who could credibly challenge accusers on points of science, or at least muddle the debate.

Red Hammernut liked Chaz Perrone's attitude. It was a pleasure to encounter a young biologist so unfettered by idealism, so unabashedly sympathetic to the needs of private enterprise. Morever, Chaz wasn't nerdy and soft-spoken like some of the scientists Red Hammernut had hired in the past. He was sharp-looking and glib, and would come across credibly on TV Unfortunately, a master's degree in sea lice wouldn't cut it. "You need a Ph.D. on swamps and such," Red Hammernut had informed Chaz, "else these enviros gonna eat you for breakfast."

And so it unfolded that Charles Regis Perrone was enrolled in a doctoral program at Duke University's Wetland Center. His improbable acceptance at such a lofty institution coincided with a substantial cash endowment from Mr. S. J. Hammernut, who also happened to be paying Chaz's tuition. Red Hammernut guessed correctly that, being in the heart of tobacco country, Duke would have no qualms about accepting phosphorus-tainted farm dollars.

Unlike during his stay at the University of Miami, Chaz Perrone required no whip cracking on his quest for a Ph.D. Although he didn't distinguish himself academically at Duke, he didn't embarrass himself, either. This time he was self-motivated; this time he smelled real money down the line. Upon graduation he expected to be presented with a lucrative consulting contract for Hammernut Farms, but Red had other plans. After pulling a few strings, he'd landed Chaz a gig as a state biologist, testing water purity in a particular sector of the Everglades Agricultural Area. The young biologist was profoundly disappointed, but Red assured him that a six-figure position (and an air-conditioned office) awaited-if he proved himself in the field.

And that Chaz was doing. Less than six weeks after he took the job, phosphorus levels in the runoff from Hammernut Farms were recorded at 150 parts per billion, a startling reduction of more than 50 percent. Two months later, the figure dropped to 78 ppb. Six months after that, field surveys showed the phosphorus discharge holding steady at about 9 ppb, a level so low that regulators removed Hammer-nut Farms from their target list of outlaw polluters. The local Sierra Club even gave a plaque to Red Hammernut, and planted a cypress seedling in his honor.

Red was pleased by the positive publicity, and he was glad to get those goddamn tree-huggers off his case. More important to the bottom line, however, was that the fictitious phosphorus readings allowed Red Hammernut to escape the costly inconveniences being imposed on his neighbors in the name of wetlands restoration. Unlike other farms in the area, Red's operation wasn't forced to cut back on the potent amounts of fertilizer it was dumping on crops, for example, or made to spend millions building filtration ponds to strain out the phosphate crud. Thanks to the innovative fieldwork of Dr. Charles Perrone, Hammernut Farms could continue using the Everglades as a cesspit.