Skink--No Surrender by Carl Hiaasen

but I had to know.
    “I popped the trunk,” Skink said patiently. “Nothing but a spare tire and some soggy Bibles. The preacher’s stash, no doubt.”
    “So Malley’s still alive!”
    “My guess is they got a boat.”
    Which meant they were probably moving downriver. If they were two miles from the bridge at dawn, when Malley called, they could be much farther now. It all depended on where the fake Talbo intended to go, and how fast. Maybe he was just searching for a place to hide on the river.
    “We need a boat, too,” I said, “like immediately .”
    The governor smiled and extended a dripping arm toward the ramp on the downriver side of the bridge. There a middle-aged man and woman were carefully lifting an aluminum canoe off the top of their minivan.
    “That,” Skink said, “is what you call destiny.”
    “So, those people are just going to loan us their canoe? Two total strangers.”
    “Of course not.”
    “Please don’t tell me we’re going to steal it.”
    “This is not the movies, Richard. There’s a shoe box in the back of the car. Please go get it while I take a long, glorious leak.”
    The couple was Mr. and Mrs. Capps, from Thomasville, Georgia. At first they were rattled by the strange vision of the governor lurching their way, but before long he charmed them into believing that he was my grandfather. He said we were on a camping trip but that some jerk stole our kayak down in Apalachicola.
    “Richard was devastated,” Skink said. “Right, buddy?”
    I tried my best to look devastated.
    Mrs. Capps patted my shoulder and said it was a cold rotten world if people went around swiping kids’ watercrafts.
    “So true,” Skink agreed with a frown. “I tried to stop the thug but he whacked me on the skull with a crowbar and then ran over my foot with his station wagon.”
    He displayed his impressive injuries to Mr. Capps and his wife, who were outraged. They asked if we’d called the police and I said yes, of course, but the bad guy still got away. That was my only contribution to the governor’s made-up story.
    “Folks, here’s the situation,” he went on. “This is probably our very last river trip together, me and Richard. I’m not gettin’ any younger and, well, last time I went in the hospital the MRI didn’t look so peachy. It’s my lungs.”
    Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Capps took this to mean that the cockeyed old man was deathly ill.
    “I’m so sorry,” said Mr. Capps.
    Except it turned out he was actually Doctor Capps, and he started pressing Skink for details about his medical condition. From the governor’s mumbling, it was obvious that he hadn’t thought up an actual disease for himself, so I piped up and said, “Gramps’s got emphysema.”
    Which is a rough deal, I know. One of my great-aunts had it. She’d smoked four packs of cigarettes a day for thirty years, and her insides looked like a tar pit. That’s Malley’s description, not mine.
    “Oh my,” said Mrs. Capps.
    Skink manufactured a sad, sickly cough. “Bottom line, I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to sell us your canoe.”
    Dr. Capps looked reluctant. “Gosh, I don’t know,” he said. “It’s been in the family for years.”
    The governor displayed a roll of cash that he’d taken from the shoe box. The bills were moist and dirty, and for all I knew they’d been buried in a graveyard.
    He held out the money. “Here’s a thousand dollars. That’s how much this trip with my grandson means to me.”
    I’m not sure whose jaw dropped farther, mine or the doctor’s.
    “Please take it,” said Skink.
    “Well …”
    One of Dr. Capps’s hands began to reach for the wad, but his wife slapped it down, saying, “John, that’s way, way too much! We bought that old canoe from your brother for only—”
    “Grace, I’ll handle this.”
    “For heaven’s sake, where’s your heart?”
    I didn’t make a peep. I was still trying to get my head around the fact that we’d been driving