I pulled up the front of my shirt and wiped the spit off my face. Then I grabbed my fishing rod and took aim.

The bucktail jig I happened to be using weighed one-quarter of an ounce, which doesn't sound like much until it thumps you between the shoulder blades, which is where I thumped Jasper Jr. It was an awesome cast, I've got to admit. The hook on the jig snagged firmly in the mesh of Jasper Jr.'s ratty old basketball jersey, and he let out a howl. I gave a stiff yank and he howled again.

In a panic he twisted the throttle and the johnboat picked up speed, but that didn't help-Jasper Jr. was stuck on the end of my line like a moray eel. He hollered for Bull to cut him loose, which was all right with me. I'd made my point.

Bull found a knife and clambered to the back end of the boat, which turned out to be a humongous mistake. With so much weight in the stern-Bull, Jasper Jr., plus the engine-the bow tilted upward and the johnboat began taking on water.

No sooner had Bull reached behind Jasper Jr. to cut the fishing line than the motor gurgled to a dead stop. The blue-green water of Snake Creek was pouring in over the transom, but nobody in the johnboat moved. Jasper Jr. was yelling at Bull and Bull was yelling back, and they just kept getting wetter and wetter. By now the motor was completely submerged and the bow was pointed nearly straight up in the air, which meant that the boat was about to capsize.

Bull was the first to jump, with Jasper Jr. right behind him. They started swimming like maniacs toward the bumpers of the bridge, cursing the whole way. They were making such an awful racket that the mullet scattered out of the eddies, and I knew that the fishing was pretty much shot for the afternoon.

So I reeled in my line and made my way up the slope, toward the highway.

“You did what?” Abbey said when I told her what happened. “Geez, you're as whacked as Dad.”

“I didn't sink their stupid boat. They sunk it themselves.”

Abbey muttered in exasperation, “If this keeps up, we're gonna get run out of town. Mom'll have to put the house up for sale.”

“Jasper Jr. spit on me,” I said.

“What happened to your eye?”

“He did that, too.”

After examining my bruise, Abbey seemed more sympathetic. “From now on, don't go anywhere without Thom or Rado,” she advised.

It would have been a sensible plan, except that Thom's family was heading to North Carolina for the rest of the summer, and Rado was going camping in Colorado with his mother and stepdad. Thom and Rado were my best friends, and without them I was basically on my own.

Mom came into the bedroom, and the first thing she noticed, naturally, was my black eye. I told her the whole story-Abbey hung around to make sure. My mother was real angry, but I begged her not to call Dusty Muleman and tell him what Jasper Jr. had done.

“It'll just make things worse,” I said.

“What could be worse than getting punched and spit at?” she asked.

“Lots of things. Trust me, Mom.”

“Noah's right,” Abbey said.

“We'll discuss this later.” My mother's mouth wasn't moving much when she talked, which meant she was still mad. “Noah, please go wash up. There's a gentleman waiting in the living room to speak with you.”

“Who is it?” I asked. “Is he from the police?”

“No, from the newspaper,” Mom said, making that sound even worse. “Apparently your father thought it would be a brilliant idea to have an article written about himself. He sent the reporter here to ‘interview' you.”

Abbey rolled her eyes. “You've gotta be joking.”

“I wish I were,” said my mother. “Hurry up, Noah, and put on a clean shirt, please. I don't want you looking like some sort of juvenile delinquent.”

“Then you ought to put some makeup on his shiner,” Abbey suggested.

“No way!” I said.

But it was too late.

The reporter's name was Miles Umlatt. He was thin and blotchy, and his nose was scuffed up like an old shoe.

Mom had stationed him on the sofa so he could set up his tape recorder on the coffee table. On his lap he held a lined yellow pad that was covered with scribbles.

I sat down in the tall armchair where my father usually sits. Mom had dabbed some flesh-colored powder around my black eye, and she must have done a good job because Miles Umlatt didn't seem to notice. He asked what grade I was in, what sort of hobbies I enjoyed, did I own a dog or a cat-the usual stuff. He was pretending to be nice, but I could tell it was a real chore. He was dying to get to the juicy parts.

“I understand you've been to visit your father,” he said finally. “That must've been tough.”

“Not really.” I was trying to sound kind of cool and bored.

“Yes, well, this isn't the first time your dad's had a scrape with the law, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“What do you remember about the other times?” he asked.

I just shrugged. It was amazing that Mom had left me alone in the room with this guy. I knew she was hovering somewhere nearby, but at least for now I was free to say what I wanted.

“I found an old clipping about the Carmichael family,” Miles Umlatt said. He held up the photocopy to show me.

“That was a long time ago,” I said.

“Only three years.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, although three years sounded about right.

Here's what had happened, the way my father told it: The Carmichaels drove their forty-foot, gas-hogging motor home all the way to the Keys from someplace up in Michigan. They were too cheap to rent space at an RV park, so they parked along Highway One near the Indian Key Bridge and camped there for three nights.

Which would have been no big deal, except for the way they treated their dogs-they 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 tire-I think there were, like, eight of them-on 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.