Next I gave her a quick lesson on cranking the outboard motor. It was an ancient little Evinrude that could be stubborn before it warmed up. I showed Abbey how to use both hands to yank the starter cord, which was tricky. If you didn't let go in time, the pull-back could wrench you off balance and spin you overboard.
After a half dozen hard tugs, the motor spluttered to life in a burp of purple smoke. Rado's dad always made sure the gas can was full, but I checked anyway, just in case. Getting stranded would be a total disaster.
My sister moved to the front of the dinghy and untied the bow rope. I unhitched the ropes and shoved off.
“Ready?” I asked her.
“Absolutely,” she said, and flashed me a double thumbs-up.
As we cruised slowly toward the mouth of the canal, I glanced back and saw Godzilla watching us from the seawall. He barked once, but the noise was muffled by the juicy green apple still clenched in his jaws.
Growing up near the ocean, you learn about some strange superstitions. For instance, lots of fishing captains won't let you bring a ripe banana on board because they believe it's bad luck. Nobody knows how that one got started, but Dad told me it's been around the docks since before Grandpa Bobby's time.
Another superstition is that dolphins bring good luck, so I was glad to spot a school of them herding baitfish as Abbey and I motored up the shoreline. By counting the dorsal fins, we figured out there were six grown-up dolphins and one baby-and they were having a blast, zipping in frothy circles, tossing mullets high in the air. I don't know if they're really a good omen, but seeing wild dolphins always makes me feel better. Any other time I would have stopped the boat to watch them play, but Abbey and I were in a hurry.
It stays light pretty late during the summer, so it was a clear ride to Dusty Muleman's marina. By the time we reached the channel markers, the waves had gotten choppy. I nosed the dinghy into some mangroves, cut the engine, and hopped out, balancing in my skateboard shoes on the slick rubbery roots. My sister dug through her backpack and took out a bottle of Gatorade, some bug spray, a Lemony Snicket book, and a flashlight. Then she handed the backpack to me.
“Sure you're okay with this?” I asked. “I'll be gone awhile.”
“Oh, gimme a break,” Abbey said. “'Course I'm okay.”
“Stay right here until you hear me yell ‘Geronimo!' Then you know what to do.”
“Why ‘Geronimo'?” she asked.
“Because I saw somebody do that in a movie once.”
“What the heck does it mean?”
“It means ‘Hurry up and rescue me before I get my butt kicked by Dusty's big ugly goon,'” I said. “No more questions, okay? Keep out of sight and I'll see you later.”
As I began working my way toward the docks, I heard Abbey call out, “Be careful, Noah!”
I waved over my shoulder, but I didn't look back.
By the time I broke free of the mangroves, my shoes were soaking wet and my shins were scraped from the barnacle-covered roots. Crouching low, I dashed across a clearing and ducked behind Dusty Muleman's ticket shed. There on the ground, side by side, were the two large crates that Shelly had told me to look for.
Peeking around a corner of the shack, I saw that the parking area was filling up with cars. Customers were already lined up to board the Coral Queen. There weren't any kids in the crowd because kids weren't allowed on the casino boat; that's why I had to be so careful.
Using the sharp edge of a rock, I pried the lid off the first wooden crate. It was full of liquor bottles-rum from Haiti, according to the labels. Silently I replaced the cover and moved to the other crate.
As Shelly had promised, it was empty. I squeezed inside and dragged the heavy lid back into place. In order to fit I had to lie flat and pull my knees to my chest. Abbey's backpack, stuffed with containers of food dye, served as a lumpy pillow under my head. I was so cramped it felt like I was hiding in one of those magician's boxes, pretending to be disappeared.
The crate was dark and musty inside. At first I was afraid I couldn't breathe, but soon I felt whispers of air seeping under the lid. I took a few gulps, closed my eyes, and began to wait.
Before long I heard the scuff of footsteps and then the low sounds of men talking. The first voice I didn't recognize, but the thick accent of the second one was unmistakable: It was Dusty's bald gorilla, Luno.
The men grunted as they hoisted the first crate and hauled it off to the Coral Queen. By the time they returned, my heart was thumping like a jackhammer. Luno lifted one end of my crate while his companion grabbed the other. I went rigid and held my breath. I could hear them swearing and complaining about the weight.
With every step, the crate tipped and lurched and bounced. I knew I'd be dead meat if the lid fell off, so I dug my fingernails into the wooden slats to keep it in place.
Finally, the goons set me down with a jolting thud, and I knew I was on the boat. Once they were gone, I seriously thought about kicking my way out of that miserable wooden tomb. I could have done it, no problem, except that I'd promised Shelly to stay put until she got there.
So I waited some more.
And waited. And waited.
The Coral Queen was getting noisy as the customers piled aboard. Nobody else came near the crate, though, so I figured I must be in a storage area behind a wall or a door. Wherever it was, there was definitely no air-conditioning.
Before long I was sweating like a horse, and my throat was as dry as sawdust. I wondered how much longer I could stand it inside that moldy old box.
It seemed like I was cooped up for hours, but it probably wasn't even twenty minutes before Shelly tapped three times on the side. She helped me climb out and handed me a cold bottle of water-nothing in my whole life had ever tasted so good. I hugged her, tangerine perfume and all. That's how grateful I was.
She put a finger to her lips and motioned for me to follow. It was impossible not to notice that she was wearing those wild fishnet stockings and tippy high-heeled shoes that made her about five inches taller than normal. She led me along a dim corridor that opened onto one of the busy casino decks. The noise hit me like a roar-the slot machines clanging, people laughing and hooting, some lame calypso band mangling a Jimmy Buffett song.
“There it is, Noah.” Shelly pointed to a door. On it hung a hand-carved sign that spelled out the word “Mermaids.”
“Don't move,” she told me, and promptly disappeared into the stall. Seconds later the door cracked open, and Shelly's blond head poked out. She looked around warily, then signaled for me to join her.
Inside the ladies' restroom.
So I did. The two of us could barely fit.
“Where's the stuff?” she whispered.
I patted Abbey's backpack. The day before, Shelly and I had divided the stash of food coloring: seventeen bottles for me, seventeen for her.
“You got the sign?” I asked.
She smiled and held it up for me to see: a square piece of cardboard on which she had printed in capital letters with a jet-black marker: OUT OF ORDER.
“Guaranteed privacy,” she assured me.
“But what about you?” I was worried that she wouldn't have a safe place to flush her supply of the dye.
“There's another Mermaids' john up front. I'll use that one for my potty breaks.”
“But what if somebody's already in there?” I asked.
“Then I'll crash the Mermen's.”
“The men's room? You serious?”
Shelly shrugged. “Hey, who's gonna stop me?”
She had a point. “I gotta get back to the bar,” she said. “Billy Babcock's waitin' on me all moony-eyed. Poor sap thinks he's in love.” She gave my shoulder a friendly tweak. “Good luck, young Underwood.”