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.
Of course it was imperative that the corrupt arrangement between Chaz and Red remain secret, and in that regard Chaz's serial philandering proved to be a continuing source of concern. More than once Red Hammernut reminded Chaz that his fortunes would take a radically negative turn if he told any of his girlfriends the name of his true employer. Ironically, the woman about whom Red Hammernut worried least was Chaz's wife, because it seemed that Chaz didn't tell her much of anything.
Then came the phone call, Chaz jabbering frantically that Joey had caught him forging the water data. Red asking over and over: "You sure she knows what it is?" Chaz saying that he couldn't be certain, because Joey had just dropped the subject afterward. Over the phone, though, he had sounded suspicious. Definitely spooked. Red Hammernut had urged him to stay cooclass="underline" "Don't assume nuthin'. Wait and see what she says about it."
And Joey Perrone hadn't said anything, not a word. Still, Chaz had remained anxious, and it rubbed off on Red. What if wifey had figured out the Everglades deal and decided to keep quiet and bide her time? In Red's worst nightmare, Joey would catch Chaz with his weenie in the wrong bun and become so enraged that she'd blab to the water dis-
trict about his phony samples. Trying to buy her silence would be useless because she didn't need the dough-according to Chaz, Joey was worth millions.
As the days had turned into weeks, Chaz seemed to calm down. He hadn't talked so much about his wife or what she might suspect, so Red Hammernut had assumed that the situation on the home front had ironed itself out. Suddenly Joey Perrone was dead, and now somebody was trying to blackmail Chaz. Or so he said. Red Hammernut couldn't rule out the possibility that the young man might be trying to rip him off; it would not be entirely out of character.
"You're sure it's the detective?" Red asked.
"Who the hell else could it be? He's the only one who's been hassling me about Joey." Chaz was waving his hands in agitation. "He tried to disguise his voice over the phone and make like he was Charl-tonHeston!"
Tool grunted quizzically.
"That NRA guy," Red explained. "The one's got old-timer's disease."
"He's also in the movies," Chaz said thinly.
"You know who does a funny 'personation of Heston? That Robin Williams fella-"
"Red, are you even listening to me?"
"Course I am, son. This detective who does voices of movie stars, you think he's the same guy that's been sneakin' into your house?"
"Absolutely. It'd be damned easy for a cop," Chaz declared. "Know what he did today? Turned on my sprinklers. Pouring rain when I get home, and the sprinklers are running like Niagara fucking Falls! Dumb shit like that, it can make you nuts."
Red Hammernut thinking: He must be readin' my mind.
They were squeezed together like nuns in the back of the gray Cadillac-Red stinking like a knockoff Montecristo; Tool like a wet bull; and Chaz Perrone like the county dump where he had just tossed several boxes of his wife's belongings.
Red Hammernut had sent his driver into the doughnut shop in case Chaz blurted out something stupid or incriminating. It was a conversation that had to be managed carefully, as Red didn't wish to be taxed with unnecessary details. Whatever had happened between Chaz and Joey Perrone aboard the cruise ship was a private matter and ought to stay that way.
Eyeing Chaz now, Red had trouble picturing him tossing anybody overboard-especially Joey, who was a big strong girl. Tool could have handled her, no problem, but Chaz?
Maybe he's tougher than he looks, Red thought.
He said, "Son, you wanna hear somethin' wild? I met him this morning. Your cop."
"Rolvaag!" Chaz turned ashen. "Christ. How?"
"Drove all the way up to the farm to ask me about a rented mini-van." Red shot a sideways glance at Tool, who was absently picking a scab on his neck.
"Did he mention my name?" Chaz asked anxiously.
"He did not. Gave me a bullshit story, which I believed at the time, about Tool's good looks scarin' some friends of the sheriff. Needless to say, I didn't know it was the same detective that's been ridin' your ass."
Tool spoke up. "Red, I was ready to take care of him. Your boy here tole me not to."
"He was right," Red Hammernut said. "You can't deal with cops the same way you deal with beaners. That's a damn fact."
Chaz sighed dispiritedly. Tool cracked his knuckles and said, "I don't get how anybody can do a blackmail if your boy here ain't committed no crime."
Red laughed to himself. Once again, the man had gotten straight to the nut of the matter.
"The guy on the phone says he saw me throw Joey over the side of the ship. That's just not true," Chaz said.
Tool crinkled his brow. "What's not true? You didn't do it, or you did do it and nobody saw?"
Chaz opened his mouth to respond, but a sickly quack came out.
Red Hammernut quickly changed the subject. "This Rolvaag, he didn't strike me as the type to be runnin' his own game. I been around long 'nough to know a crook when I see 'em."
"And I'm telling you, he's the only one it could be." Chaz didn't sound as certain as Red would have liked. If Chaz had in fact thrown his wife off the ship, some stranger could have witnessed it; another passenger, a cabin boy, whoever.
"This blackmailer fella, let's make sure who he is and how much he wants," Red said to Chaz. "Could be some smartass just saw the story on the news and got the bright idea to shake you down. That kinda shit we can handle." He nodded confidently toward Tool. "But if it's really the cop, like you say, then we gotta be extra careful. He can cause all sorta problems, even if you ain't done nuthin' wrong."
Through clenched teeth, Chaz said, "I haven't, Red. Like I said, it was an accident."
"Take it easy, son. I believe you."
Tool, who was probing a hangnail with a rusty fishhook, snorted doubtfully.
"Next time this sumbitch calls," Red Hammernut said, "you try and set up a meeting."
"Christ, Red, you mean face-to-face?" Chaz whined. "But why? What're we going to do?"
"Listen politely to whatever he's got to say," Red said. "And, son, let's be clear on this. It ain't 'we.' It's 'you.' "
Thirteen
Mick Stranahan phoned Charles Perrone at 5:42 a.m.
"Good morning, dipshit," he said, this time doing Jerry Lewis. The Mexican writer who owned the island adored The Nutty Professor, and Stranahan had watched it often on the VCR. There were worse ways to get through a tropical depression.
At the other end of the line, Joey Perrone's husband needed a few moments to rouse himself. "Are you the same guy who called yesterday?"