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three nights.
    Which would have been no big deal, except for the way they treated their dogsthey had two chocolate Labrador retrievers that rode along with them in the motor home. One morning my dad was heading out on a tarpon-fishing charter when he spotted Mr. Carmichael whipping the dogs with a bungee cord. I guess the dogs had had an accident inside the Winnebago or something. Anyhow, they were crying and yipping and trying to get away, but Mrs. Carmichael (who was the size of a whale) was standing on their leashes so that Mr. Carmichael could beat them.
    When Dad saw that, he sort of freaked. He beached the skiff, took out his tarpon gaff, and flattened every single tireI think there were, like, eight of themon the Carmichaels’ RV. Then he put the two Labradors in his boat and went fishing.
    The sheriff’s deputies were waiting on the dock at the end of the day. My father confessed right away, as he always does, but he wouldn’t apologize. He also wouldn’t say what he’d done with the dogs because he knew they’d be safer away from the Carmichaels.
    That time, Dad spent only two nights in jail before he let my mom bail him out. Eventually he pleaded guilty to vandalism and, I guess, dognapping, although he agreed to pay for the Labradors and a new set of Winnebago tires. Later we found out that Dad probably would’ve beaten the charges because the Carmichaels had refused to come back to the Keys for a trial. They wrote a letter to the judge saying that my father was a raving lunatic and they were scared to be in the same county with him, which was ridiculous.
    Anyway, my dad said that running
    those puppy-whipping lowlifes
    out of the islands was worth the legal hassle. A public service, is what he called it. The two chocolate Labs ended up with some friends of ours, nice people who run an Italian restaurant down in Marathon.
    I listened while Miles Umlatt went through the whole story again.

    Dad just lost his temper,
    I said when he was done.
    But those people were wrong. It’s against the law to treat animals like that.

    Miles Umlatt wrote that down on his pad, which made me a little nervous. So did the tiny green light blinking on his tape recorder.

    Dad’s just got to work on his self-control,
    I added.

    Are you ever afraid of him?

    I burst out laughing, it was such a lame question.

    Afraid of my dad? You serious?

    Well, Noah, you’ve got to admit,
    Miles Umlatt said,
    his behavior has been erratic. Unpredictable, I mean.

    I knew perfectly well what
    erratic
    meant.

    Dad wouldn’t hurt a flea,
    I said firmly.

    But would he hurt a humanwho would hurt a flea?

    That’s when Mom breezed in to refill Miles Umlatt’s coffee cup, or at least that was her excuse.

    How’s it going, fellas?
    she asked.

    Just fine, Mrs. Underwood,
    said Miles Umlatt.
    Noah’s a bright young man.

    I felt like sticking my finger down my throat. Mom flashed her fake-polite smile and said,
    Yes, we’re very proud of him.

    She hung around for a while, making small talk, until the phone rang in the kitchen. As soon as we were alone again, Miles Umlatt leaned forward and said,
    Noah, what can you tell me about the incident with Derek Mays?

    Not much.
    I was sure he already knew the whole story. Everybody in the Upper Keys did. And what he didn’t know he could have found out from the Coast Guard files.

    Derek says he was afraid for his life,
    Miles Umlatt said.

    Maybe he was just afraid of getting busted.

    Here’s what my dad said had happened: He was out bonefishing with two doctors from New Jersey when he spotted Derek Mays stringing a gill net near Little Rabbit Key. Gill nets were outlawed years ago in Florida because they kill everything that gets tangled, not just the baitfish but sharks, reds, snook, tarpon, turtlesyou name it, it dies. To make things worse, the island where Derek Mays was poaching was deep in Everglades National Park, which is totally protected. Or supposed to be.
    When he spotted my