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Автор Карл Хайасен

Carl Hiaasen

Acknowledgments

Two

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Nine

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Thirteen

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Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

MISSING!!!

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A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carl Hiaasen

Skinny Dip

In memory of Warren Zevon

Acknowledgments

I am most grateful for the advice, enthusiasm and talents of Esther Newberg, Liz Donovan of the Miami Herald, Bob Roe of Sports Illustrated, Burl George, Nathaniel Reed, Sean Savage, Capt. Mike Collins, the mysterious Sonny Merita, my tenacious sister Barb, my spectacular wife, Fenia, and Dr. Jerry Lorenz, one of the many unsung heroes of the Everglades.

This is a work of fiction. All names and characters are either invented or used fictitiously. The events described are mosdy imaginary, except for the destruction of the Florida Everglades and the $8 billion effort to save what remains.

One

At the stroke of eleven on a cool April night, a woman named Joey Per-rone went overboard from a luxury deck of the cruise liner M. V. Sun Duchess. Plunging toward the dark Atlantic, Joey was too dumbfounded to panic.

I married an asshole, she thought, knifing headfirst into the waves.

The impact tore off her silk skirt, blouse, panties, wristwatch and sandals, but Joey remained conscious and alert. Of course she did. She had been co-captain of her college swim team, a biographical nugget that her husband obviously had forgotten.

Bobbing in its fizzy wake, Joey watched the gaily lit Sun Duchess continue steaming away at twenty nautical miles per hour. Evidently only one of the other 2,049 passengers was aware of what had happened, and he wasn't telling anybody.

Bastard, Joey thought.

She noticed that her bra was down around her waist, and she wriggled free of it. To the west, under a canopy of soft amber light, the coast of Florida was visible. Joey began to swim.

The water of the Gulf Stream was slightly warmer than the air, but a brisk northeasterly wind had kicked up a messy and uncomfortable chop. Joey paced herself. To keep her mind off sharks, she replayed the noteworthy events of the week-long cruise, which had begun almost as unpromisingly as it had ended.

The Sun Duchess had departed Port Everglades three hours late because a raccoon had turned up berserk in the pastry kitchen. One of the chefs had wrestled the frothing critter into a sixty-gallon tin of guava custard before it had shredded the man's jowls and humped snarling to the depths of the ship. A capture team from Broward Animal Control had arrived, along with health inspectors and paramedics. Evacuated passengers were appeased with rum drinks and canapes.

Later, while reboarding, Joey had passed the Animal Control officers trudging empty-handed down the gangplank.

"I bet they couldn't catch it," she'd whispered to her husband. Despite the inconvenience caused by the raccoon, she'd found herself rooting for the addled little varmint.

"Rabies," her husband had said knowingly. "Damn thing lays a claw on me, I'll own this frigging cruise line. "