“Paine's boy?”

“That's right. He asked me to come see you.”

“About what?”

“Mr. Muleman,” I said.

From Lice Peeking's throat came a sound that was either a chuckle or a cough. He fished under one of the sofa cushions until he found a half-smoked, mushed-up cigarette, which he balanced in a crusty corner of his mouth.

“I don't s'pose you got a match,” he said.

“No, sir.”

He dragged himself to the kitchenette and knocked around until he came up with a lighter. He fired up the moldy butt and sucked on it for a solid minute without even glancing in my direction. The smoke was making me sick to my stomach, but I couldn't leave until I got an answer. For two years, until last Christmas Eve, Lice Peeking had worked as a mate on Dusty Muleman's casino boat.

“Mr. Peeking?” I said. His real name was Charles, but Dad said everyone had called him Lice, for obvious reasons, since elementary school. It didn't look like his bathing habits had improved much since then.

“What do you want, boy?” he snapped.

“It's about the Coral Queen. My dad says Mr. Muleman is dumping the holding tank into the marina basin.”

Lice Peeking propped himself against the wall of the trailer. “Really? Well, let's just say that's true. What's it got to do with you or me or the price of potatoes?”

“My father's in jail,” I said, “for sinking that boat.”

“Aw, go on.”

“I'm serious. I thought everybody'd heard by now.”

Lice Peeking started laughing so hard, I thought he might have an asthma attack and fall on the floor. Obviously the news about my father had brightened his day.

“Please,” I said, “will you help us?”

He stopped laughing and snuffed the nub of his cigarette on the countertop. “Now why would I do a dumb fool thing like that? Help you do what?”

I explained how the toilet scum from the gambling boat flowed down the shoreline to Thunder Beach. “Where the turtles lay their eggs,” I said, “and all the kids go swimming.”