Bones

looked really impressed.

Rumley moved his mouth.

Community service. Oh, shit.

And here the frick he was.

Sitting in the Save the Marsh office on night eleven of his thirty-night sentence. Shitty little puke-colored room with pictures of ducks and bugs, whatever, on the wall. One dirty window looking out to a parking lot where no one but him and Duboff parked. Stacks of bumper stickers in the corner he was supposed to hand out to anyone who walked in.

No one walked in and Duboff left him by himself so he could run off to investigate how global warming got up a duck’s butt, what made birds hurl, did bugs have big dicks, whatever.

Thirty frickin’ nights of this, nuking his summer vacation.

Five to ten p.m., instead of hanging after school with Sarabeth and his friends, all because of a social norm four out of five people did.

When the phone did ring, he mostly ignored it. When he did answer, it was always some loser wanting directions to the marsh.

Go on the frickin’ website or use MapQuest, Rainman!

He wasn’t allowed to make outgoing calls but since yesterday he’d started to hook up with Sarabeth for cell phone sex. She was loving him even more for not ratting her to Rumley.

He sat there. Drank from his can of Jolt, now warm. Felt the Baggie in his pants pocket and thought Later.

Nineteen more nights of supermax confinement, he was starting to feel like one of those Aryan Brotherhood dudes.

Two and a half more frickin’ weeks until he was free at last, doing his Luther King thing. He checked his TAG Heuer. Nine twenty-four. Thirty-six minutes and he’d be good to go.

The phone rang.

He ignored it.

It kept going, ten times.

He let it die a natural death.

A minute later, it rang again and he figured maybe he should answer it, what if it was Rumley testing him?

Clearing his throat and getting Mr. Sincere ready, he picked up. “Save the Marsh.”

Silence on the other end made him smile.

One of his friends pranking him, probably Ethan. Or Ben or Jared.

“Dude,” he said. “What’s up?”

A weird kind of hissy voice said, “Up?” Weird laughter. “Something’s down. As in buried in your marsh.”

“Okay, dude-”

“Shut up and listen.”

Being talked to like that made Chance’s face go all hot, like when he was ready to sneak a flagrant in on some loser on the opposing team, then get all innocent when the dude wailed about being nut-jammed.

He said, “Fuck off, dude.”

The hissy voice said, “East side of the marsh. Look and you’ll find it.”

“Like I give a-”

“Dead,” said Hissy. “Something real real dead.” Laughter. “Dude.”

Hanging up before Chance could tell him to shove dead up his…

A voice from the door said, “Hey, man, how’s it shaking?”

Chance’s face was still hot, but he put on Mr. Sincere and looked over.

There in the doorway was Duboff, wearing his Save the Marsh T-shirt, geek shorts showing too much skinny white thigh, plastic sandals, that stupid gray beard.

“Hey, Mr. Duboff,” said Chance.

“Hey, man.” Duboff gave a clenched-fist salute. “Did you have a chance to check out the herons before you got here?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“They’re incredible animals, man. Magnificent. Wingspread like this.” Unfolding scrawny arms to the max.

You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone who gives half a shit.

Duboff came closer, smelling gross, that organic deodorant he’d tried to convince Chance to use. “Like pterodactyls, man. Master fishers.”

Chance had thought a heron was a fish until Duboff told him different.

Duboff edged near the desk, showed those gross teeth of his. “Rich folk in Beverly Hills don’t like when the herons swoop in during hatching season and eat their rich-folk koi. Koi are aberrations. Mutations, people messing with brown carp, screwing up the DNA to get those colors. Herons are Nature, brilliant predators. They feed their young and restore nature to true balance. Screw those Beverly Hillbillies, huh?”

Chance smiled.

Maybe it wasn’t a big enough smile because Duboff suddenly looked nervous. “You don’t live there, do I recall correctly?”

“No, sir.”

“You live in…”

“Brentwood.”

“Brentwood,” said Duboff, as if trying to figure out what that meant. “Your parents don’t keep koi, do they?”

“Nope. We don’t even have a dog.”

“Good for you guys,” said Duboff, patting Chance’s shoulder. “It’s all servitude. Pets, I mean. The whole concept is like slavery.”

Keeping his hand on the shoulder. Was the guy a fag?

“Yeah,” said Chance, inching away.

Duboff scratched his knee. Frowned and rubbed a pink bump. “Stopped by the marsh to check for trash. Musta got bit by something.”

“Providing food for the little guys,” said Chance. “That’s a good thing, sir.”

Duboff stared at him, trying to figure out if Chance was messing with his head.

Chance brought out Mr. Sincere and Duboff decided Chance was being righteous and smiled. “Guess you’re right… anyway, I just thought I’d stop in, see how you’re doing before your shift ends.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Okay, check you out later, man.”

Chance said, “Uh, sir, it’s kinda close to the end.”

Duboff smiled. “So it is. At ten, you can lock up. I’ll be by later.” Walking to the door, he stopped, looked back. “It’s a noble thing you’re doing, Chance. Whatever the circumstances.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Call me Sil.”

“You got it, Sil.”

Duboff said, “Anything I should know about?”

“Like what, sir?”

“Calls, messages?”

Chance grinned, flashing perfect white chompers, courtesy five years of Dr. Wasserman.

“Nothing, Sil,” he said, with utter confidence.

CHAPTER 2

Bob Hernandez needed the money.