“This is the U.S. Coast Guard. Petty Officer Reilly speaking.”

“Yes, I'd like to report a boat dumping sewage in the water.”

“What's the name of the vessel?”

“It's called the Coral Queen.”

“The gambling boat? At the Muleman marina?”

“That's right.”

“Did you witness this violation personally?” Petty Officer Reilly asked.

“Look for a bright purple trail leading to Thunder Beach. But you'd better hurry!”

“Who am I speaking with?”

“Underwood. Paine Underwood.”

My second phone call was to the Island Examiner newspaper. This time I used my own name, not Dad's.

Miles Umlatt remembered me, of course.

“It's good to hear from you, Noah, but I'm sort of busy now. A bait truck just flipped over in Key Largo, and there's live shrimp all over the highway.”

“Want a real story? A front-page story?”

Miles Umlatt said, “Sure, you bet.”

He was humoring me, playing along. I could picture the bored look on his pale splotchy face.

“All that stuff my dad said about Dusty Muleman? Well, it's true. Every word.”

Miles Umlatt said, “I know how you must feel, Noah. If it were my father, I'd stick up for him, too-”

“You want proof? Get over to Dusty's marina right away.”

“Why? What's going on?” Suddenly he was interested.

“Ask the Coast Guard,” I said, and hung up.

Dad, Mom, and Abbey were in the living room, gathered around Grandpa Bobby. When I came out of the kitchen, he motioned for me to sit down beside him. For the first time I noticed his resemblance to my father-Dad was taller and heavier, but he had the same square chin and light green eyes.

Grandpa Bobby took out a small photograph, worn and creased from being folded and unfolded. In the picture, his curly hair was blond, not silvery, and there was no scar on his cheek. He was lifting some half-naked little kid high over his head. The kid was laughing and kicking his chubby white legs.

The kid was me.

“You were only two years old,” my grandfather said.

It was the first photograph of him that I'd ever seen. My parents had lost all their family albums when a tropical storm flooded our house on the night before my third birthday.

Grandpa Bobby passed the snapshot around. Then he carefully refolded it into a square and slipped it in his pocket. Turning back to me, he said, “You wanna go first, champ?”

“No thanks. You go.”

He took a slow sip from a coffee mug. “Lord, where do I start? I guess by sayin' how bad I feel for keepin' out of touch the last ten years or so.”

“Out of touch? Everybody thought you were dead!” Abbey exclaimed.

“I'm sorry, I truly am,” Grandpa Bobby said. “Paine, Donna-believe me when I say I had good reasons for stayin' out of your life.”

I could tell that Mom and Dad were glad to have Grandpa Bobby back, but they were also kind of dazed and quiet. My sister wasn't dazed at all, since she'd never met him. He had disappeared before she was born.

“It's not a happy story,” he began. “One day a man came along, said he needed a captain to make a couple of trips down to South America. The money was right, and I didn't ask many questions. Wasn't like I didn't know what to ask-I just chose not to. Anyways, the first run went fine. No problems with the second run, either. But the third time, oh man…”

“Were you smuggling drugs?” I asked. Even Abbey seemed shocked to hear me say it.

“No, champ, I've got no fondness for dopers. It was stones,” Grandpa Bobby said. “Little green stones called emeralds. But smugglin' is smugglin', and stupid is stupid. And that's what I was-world-class stupid-because the guys I trusted turned out to be greedy, back-stabbin' liars. Actually, face-stabbin' liars.” He pointed ruefully at the M-shaped scar. “Anyways, the details don't hardly matter. There was some serious ugliness, and yours truly had to go underground.”

Up close he didn't look so much like a pirate-at least not the kind of pirate you see in the movies. His teeth were too straight and his manners were too good.

But he also didn't look like the kind of grandpa you usually see in the movies. His belly was still flat and his muscles were hard, and he was brimming with some strange wild energy. You could tell he'd never spent a minute of his life dozing in a rocking chair.

Dad asked, “What happened to the Amanda Rose?”

That was Grandpa Bobby's fishing boat, which he'd named after his wife, my grandmother. I never got to meet her because she passed away when my father was just a kid, about Abbey's age. Some sort of rare cancer, Mom told us. It was one of the only things my dad wouldn't talk about. Not ever.

“Paine, they stole the Amanda Rose,” my grandfather said sadly, “the same night they tried to kill me. Ever since then I've spent every bleepin' minute trying to track down those rat bastards-pardon the language-and get back my boat.”

Mom spoke up. “We kept getting different stories from the State Department. Somebody said your appendix ruptured. Somebody else said it was a bar fight.”

Grandpa Bobby slapped his gut. “Far as I know, my appendix is fine and dandy. As for bar fights, well, who's countin'?”

“Then why'd they tell us you were dead when you weren't?” I asked.

“Because there was a dead American, Noah. They found him near a little village outside Barranquilla. My wallet happened to be in the man's pocket, so the Colombian cops figured that he was me,” Grandpa Bobby explained. “That's the body your daddy's been writing letters to Washington about. The coffin never got dug up and shipped back to the States because I paid off a police captain to make sure it wouldn't.” He grinned slyly. “See, I didn't want to miss my own funeral.”

Abbey folded her arms. “Hold on. How did some dead guy end up with your wallet?”

“He stole it from me, which was a large mistake.” Grandpa Bobby took another sip of coffee. “It tore me up on the inside, knowin' y'all thought I was planted in some pauper's grave in the middle of nowhere. But I couldn't come back to Florida and bring the kind of trouble that was attached to me. You folks had a solid, decent life goin' here-young Noah gettin' started. Abbey on the way.”

“You could've called,” my sister said sharply. “They've got telephones in South America, don't they?”

“Or sent a letter, at least,” I cut in, “just to let Dad know you were okay.”

Grandpa Bobby sat back and smiled. “Kids, lemme tell you somethin' about your daddy. He's a good man, but sometimes his brain takes a nap and lets his heart take the tiller.”

My father shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, come on, Pop.”

But Grandpa Bobby was on a roll. He addressed Abbey and me directly. “When your father was a boy, you know what his nickname was at school? ‘Paine-in-the-Butt' Underwood.”

Abbey and I busted out laughing.

“See, he had a bad habit of doing the very first thing that popped into his mind, no matter how foolish,” my grandfather said. “Now, whaddya think he would've done if he'd found out I was still alive and scramblin' to stay that way, down in the jungles of Colombia? He would've hopped a plane or a boat or a donkey, whatever, and gone lookin' for me! Am I right, son? And likely gotten himself killed in the bargain.”

Dad stared down at his shoes.

My mother asked, “So what made you come back, Pop?”

“This is first-rate coffee. Can I pour myself another cup?”

While Grandpa Bobby was in the kitchen, Abbey nudged my father and whispered: “They really called you Paine-in-the-Butt? You are so busted.”

“Keep it up,” Dad said with a tight smile. “I'll deal with you and your brother later.”

Grandpa Bobby returned with a full mug and a jelly donut. He took two bites of the donut and said, “Here's what happened: I'm sittin' in a bar in this little harbor town, waitin' to meet up with some dock rat who claims he saw the Amanda Rose over in the Grenadines. Anyways, they love their satellite TV down there, and it so happens that this particular cantina picks up one of the Miami stations loud and clear.”