Read Online The Riptide Ultra-Glide by Tim Dorsey - Free Book Online

tell the bird was only unconscious. He didn’t need any more adventure. So to play it safe, he bound the owl’s claws with rope and tied them to a spare, empty gas can that sat in the front of the vessel. He pull-started the motor and began heading home.
    Roughly a half mile from the bank, an abrupt noise. Commotion. The owl was awake. It flapped its wings. And started flying.
    At the other end of the boat, Jeb couldn’t believe his eyes as the bird slowly lifted out of the skiff, can and all, and took off across the lake. It was a damn big owl, but how was the boy supposed to know it was that strong? “Now I’ve lost the frog-darter and a gas can.” He considered running away with the circus. Then Jeb noticed something. The bird could get airborne, but the weight of the can prevented it from gaining any altitude. It flapped and skimmed its way low over the water.
    Jeb gave the motor full throttle. The boat planed up and took off like a shot across Lake Cumberland . . .
    About that time, his father’s trusty Hudson pickup truck with the running boards returned empty from the last hooch run. He walked around the side of the cabin and reached for the screen door. He stopped and squinted into the distance.
    â€œWhat in the jumping fuck?” He walked slowly down toward the bank and scratched his head. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, live long enough and you will see damn near everything.”
    Coming straight toward him, flapping for all it was worth, one of the largest horned owls he’d ever laid eyes on. Carrying a gas can. And right behind, his ten-year-old son, running the fishing skiff at top speed, one hand on the till, the other stretched out over the starboard side with a paddle.
    Wham .
    The paddle snapped. The bird fell in the water and the boy circled around to fetch it. He breathed the biggest sigh of his short life, in the clear. Then he saw his dad onshore.
    Gulp .
    Jeb docked the boat without speaking, and got out like everything was normal.
    Cecil gazed down into the fishing skiff at a broken oar and a dead owl tied to a gas can. He looked up and studied the boy. “Son, what exactly have you been doing this morning?”
    Jeb stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. “Nothin’.”
    â€œHow’d my frog-darter get in that bird’s foot?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Cecil shook his head. “This is some bizarre enough shit.” He headed into the cabin.
    Jeb stood in place and cringed. Here comes the switch.
    Instead, Cecil came back out with a Kodak Brownie camera. “Hold up that owl.”
    Jebediah still kept that photo to this day. But he never did catch a catfish.
    So they called him Catfish.

Chapter Five
    KEY LARGO
    A n old Magnavox television flickered in the modest ranch house. Local news. The picture was a little snowy.
    Coleman randomly tossed sofa cushions on the floor and glanced back at the tube. “Serge, do you think they’ll chase another guy on TV today that we can throw rocks at?”
    Serge ransacked the kitchen cupboards. “One can only hope.”
    Coleman strolled to the dining room and dumped a handful of change on the table. “Found this in the couch.” A nickel skipped off and rolled across the terrazzo. “What about you?”
    Serge closed a cabinet door. “Nothing.” He dumped food containers into the trash. “And I was hoping to find drugs or weapons.”
    â€œDidn’t you say this guy was ninety-three.”
    â€œHe still could have a roll of hundreds stashed in the sugar bowl or Metamucil.” Serge opened a box of spaghetti and watched thin sticks fall into the garbage. “Crap.”
    Coleman went through the cushions of a recliner. “More money.” Seventy-eight cents went on the table. “Why are we going through this old guy’s house anyway?”
    Serge dug a hand into a large can of Folgers. “Because he’s