Carl Hiaasen – Lucky You

After Trish had brought home the art supplies, Demencio had selected a dozen of the liveliest specimens from JoLayne’s big aquarium. The delicate process of painting had been preceded by a brief discussion about how the apostles could be most respectfully portrayed on the carapace of a mud-dwelling reptile. Neither Demencio nor his wife could name even half of the original disciples, so they’d consulted a Bible (which, unfortunately, had not provided a complete set of portraits). Trish then had fished through a box of her late father’s belongings and found a Time-Life volume about the world’s greatest masterpieces. In it was a photograph of Leonardo’s The Last Supper, which Trish had torn out and placed on the workbench in front of her husband.

“This is peachy,” he’d said, “but who’s who?”

Trish, pointing: “I believe that’s Judas. Or maybe Andrew.”

“Christ.”

“Right there,” Trish had said helpfully, “in the middle.”

Whereupon Demencio had expelled her and settled down with the cooters to paint. There was no sense getting fancy, because the animals’ corrugated shells were difficult to work with—as small as silver dollars. Beards was the way to go, he’d told himself. All the big shots in the Bible wore beards.

Soon Demencio had found a rhythm—restraining each baby turtle with his left hand, wielding the brush with his right. He’d been steady and precise, finishing the job in less than three hours. Although every apostle was given lush facial hair, Demencio had tried to make each one distinct.

Beholding the miniature visages, Trish had asked: “Which is which?”

“Beats the hell outta me.”

And, as Demencio had expected, it hadn’t mattered. One pilgrim’s Matthew was another pilgrim’s John.

Avidly Reverend Moody’s followers had clustered around the cooter corral that Trish had fashioned out of plastic gardening fence. Demencio had called out the names of each apostle as he pointed with deliberate ambiguity among the scrabbling swarm. The pilgrims hadn’t merely been persuaded, they’d been overwhelmed. In the center of the small enclosure Demencio had stationed the fiberglass Virgin Mary, who (he’d announced) would not be crying on this special day. The pilgrims had understood completely—the Holy Mother obviously was cheered by the unexpected arrival of her Son’s inner circle.

The apostolic turtles proved such a smash that Demencio decided to use them again the next morning. By noon the yard was jammed. Demencio was fixing a sandwich in the kitchen when Trish urgently reported that the cooters were dehydrating in the sun and that the paint on their shells was beginning to flake. Demencio solved the problem by digging a small moat around the fiberglass Madonna and filling it with a garden hose. Later a divinely inspired tourist from South Carolina asked if that was holy water in which the turtles were swimming. When Demencio assured him it was, the man asked to buy a cupful for four dollars. The other visitors rushed to queue up, and before long Demencio had to refill the moat.

He was aglow at his windfall. Turtle worship! Reverend Moody had been right—it was pure genius.

The visitation proceeded smoothly until midafternoon, when Dominick Amador showed up to hustle Demencio’s overflow, exhibiting his seeping stigmata in a most vulgar way. Trish chased him away with a rake. The altercation took place in full view of Mayor Jerry Wicks, who made no attempt to intervene on the shameless Dominick’s behalf.

Mayor Wicks had arrived at the shrine in the company of three persons who definitely weren’t pilgrims. Two of them Demencio recognized from around town; the third was a stranger. Demencio acknowledged the group with the air of a busy man on his way to the bank, which he was.

“Please,” the mayor said. “We won’t be long.”

“You caught me at a bad time.” Demencio, stuffing the last of three fat envelopes.

Jerry Wicks said, “It’s about JoLayne Lucks.”

“Yeah?” Demencio, thinking: Shit, I knew it was too good to be true. The damn turtles are probably stolen.

Trish popped her head in the front door: “More lettuce!”

Demencio locked the bank deposits in a drawer and headed for the refrigerator. “Have a seat,” he said indifferently to his visitors. “Be with you in a minute.”

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