by Carl Hiassen
The trees thinned and the trooper found a bleached rocky ridge that led him to the edge of a shallow tannic-looking lake. He realized he had stumbled into the federal crocodile refuge, a fact that impelled him to sit down, slap the spiders off his ankles and reconsider the practical boundaries of friendship.
Jim Tile was parched, exhausted, well lacerated – and no great fan of carnivorous reptiles. He rose with rictus-grim determination. Rocking on tender feet, he cupped both hands to his mouth.
"HEY!" he yelled out across the lake. "IT'S ME!"
High overhead, a lone osprey piped.
"I'M TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT!" Jim Tile shouted.
Nothing.
"YOU HEAR ME? GODDAMN CROCODILES – YOU THINK THAT'S FUNNY? I GOT A WIFE, GOVERNOR! I GOT PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITIES!"
The trooper was shouting nearly at the top of his lungs.
"COME ON OUT, MAN, I'M SERIOUS! SERIOUS AS A FUCKING HEART ATTACK! YOU COME OUT!"
Jim Tile sucked in his breath and sat down again. He folded both arms across his knees and rested his head. He would've strangled a nun for a drop of warm ginger ale.
Then came the gunshot, followed by two, three, four more. The trooper raised up and smiled.
"Melodramatic sonofabitch," he said.
The man whom Jim Tile had been sent to find was almost sixty now, but he stood formidably erect and broad-shouldered. Beneath a thin plastic shower cap his pate gleamed egg pink and freshly shorn. He had taken to wearing a kilt and little else; a kilt fashioned from a checkered racing flag. Jiffy Lube 300, the man said, I sort of stole it. He offered no explanation whatsoever for the origin of his weapon, an AK-47.
The man had grown out his silver beard in two extravagant tendrils, one blossoming from each cheek. The coils hung like vines down his broad leathery chest, and were so intricately braided that Jim Tile wondered if a woman had done it. Fastened by a ribbon to the end of each braid was the hooked beak of a large bird. Vultures, the man acknowledged. Big fuckers, too. His tangled eyebrows were canted at a familiar angle of disapproval, and somewhere he had gotten himself a new glass eye. This one had a crimson iris, as stunning as a fresh-bloomed hibiscus. Jim Tile found the effect disarming, and somewhat creepy.
The one-eyed kilted man had once been a popular and nationally famous figure, a war hero turned political crusader; brash, incorruptible and of course doomed to fail. It was Jim Tile who had driven the limousine that finally carried the man away from the governor's mansion, away from Tallahassee and a creeping volcanic insanity. It was Jim Tile who had delivered him – his ranting friend – into a private and sometimes violent wilderness, and who had endeavored for more than two decades to keep track of him, watch over him, stop him when he needed to be stopped.
The trooper had done the best he could, but there had been the occasional, unpreventable eruption. Gunplay. Arson. Wanton destruction of property. Even homicide – yes, his friend had killed a few men since leaving Tallahassee. Jim Tile was sure of it. He was equally sure the men must have behaved very badly, and that in any case the Lord, above all, was best qualified to judge Clinton Tyree. That day would come soon enough. In the meantime, Jim Tile would remain recklessly loyal to the man now known as "Skink."
"How's your lovely bride?"
"Just fine," the trooper replied.
"Still like your steaks scorched?" The ex-governor was bending over a crude fire pit, flames flicking perilously at the ringlets of his beard.
Jim Tile said, "What's on the menu tonight?" It was a most necessary question; his friend's dining habits were eclectic in the extreme.
"Prime filet of llama!"
"Llama," said the trooper, pensively. "Should I even ask?"
"A circus came to town. I swear to God, up in Naranja, a genuine carny."
"Uh-oh."
"Not what you think," Skink said. "Poor thing fell off a truck ramp and fractured both front legs. The girl who owned the critter, she didn't have the heart to put it down herself."
"I get the picture."
"So I did it as a favor. Plus you know how I feel about wasting meat."
Jim Tile said, "What in the world were you doing at a circus?"
Skink grinned; the same charming matinee-idol grin that had gotten him elected. "Romance, Lieutenant. It didn't last long, but it was fairly wonderful for a while."
"She do the beard?"
"Yessir. You like it?" Skink stroked his lush silvery braids. "The beaks were my touch. They're fresh."
"So I noticed."
"Had a little run-in with these two birds. They took an unhealthy interest in my llama."
Jim Tile shook his head. "But you know the law on buzzards. They're protected."
"Not too effectively, in my experience." Skink flipped the steaks in the pan and stepped back from the sizzle. He used a corner of the kilt to wipe a spatter of hot grease off his glass eye. "You're here about the Japanese, right?"
"No," said the trooper, "but I am curious."
"You know who they worked for? MatsibuCom, those greedy, forest-nuking, river-wrecking bastards. But they're strong little buggers, one-on-one, even the ladies. Fiberglass canoes are heavier than you think, Jim. Two miles they hauled 'em on their shoulders, through some pretty thick cover."
"What exactly did you do to those folks, Governor?"
"Nothing. We talked. We hiked. Went for a ride. Nibbled on some llama cutlets. I showed them a few sights, too. Immature bald eagle. Butterfly hatch. Baby crocs." Skink shrugged. "I believe I broadened their horizons."
"They didn't have much to say when they got back."
"I should hope not. I explained to them how seriously I value my privacy. Hey, all we got for refreshments is good old H-two-oh. That OK?"
"Perfect," said Jim Tile. It had been a long time since he had seen the man so talkative. "It's nice to find you in a civilized mood."
"Afterglow, brother." Skink spoke wistfully. "The Human Slinky – that was her circus name. Said she was limber in places other women don't even have places. She made me laugh, Jim. I've gotten to where that counts more than ... well, that other stuff. Which means I'm either getting real old or real smart. Brenda make you laugh?"
"All the time."
"Fantastic. How about we shut up now and eat?"
Cooked well done, the llama tasted fine. After lunch Skink snatched up his assault rifle and led the trooper at a brisk pace down a sparse trail, past an abandoned cockfighting ring and across County 905 to his new base camp. He had set it up in the buggy shade of an ancient mangrove canopy, within earshot of the ocean. There was no tent but there was a genuine NASCAR Dodge, number 77, blue and gold and plastered bumper-to-bumper with colorful decals: Purolator, Delco, Firestone, Rain-X, Autolite, Bose, BellSouth, Outback Steak House, Sudafed and more. The governor caught Jim Tile staring and said: "From that obscene racetrack up in Homestead. Fifty million dollars of tax money they spent. The car came from there."
"You swiped it."
"Correct."
"Because ... "
"The godawful noise, Jim. You could hear it all the way across Card Sound. Gave me the worst migraine – you know how I get."
Dumbstruck, the trooper walked a circle around the stolen stock car.
"It's just the body," Skink said. "No engine block or tranny."
"Then how'd you manage?"
"It was on an eighteen-wheeler. The crew parked it behind the Mutineer after the race – the dopes, though I guess they were bright enough to win. They hung the checkered flag off the CB antenna, bless their little hillbilly hearts." Skink paused to admire his new kilt. "Anyhow, the car is where I sleep these days."
The auto theft was one more thing Jim Tile wished he didn't know about. "Where's the truck rig?" he asked uneasily.
"Farther down the shore, toward the abandoned marina. That's where I keep all my books, except for the Graham Greene. Those, I'm traveling with." Skink slid his butt up on the shiny hood of the N AS CAR Dodge. Idly he twirled the buzzard beaks on
the ends of his beard. "So let's hear the bad news, Jim."
The trooper eyed him squarely. "They want you to hunt down a man. Some wild young kid who's hiding out in the boonies. Seems he reminds them of a junior Clinton Tyree."
"They being ... "
"Our current governor, the Honorable Dick Artemus."
Skink snorted. "Never heard of him."
"Well, he's heard of you. Wants to meet you someday."
At this, Skink hooted. The trooper went on: "This boy they want you to find, he's been trying to stop a new bridge from getting built."
"I expect he's got a name."
"Unknown."
"Where are they putting this bridge?"
"Place called Toad Island, up on the Gulf. The boy's kidnapped the pet dog of some important guy, some asshole buddy of the governor. And now the governor's pal is receiving pooch parts via Federal Express."
Skink's eyebrows arched. "FedEx? That could run into some money, depending on the size of the animal."
"It's a Labrador, I'm told." Jim Tile reached for his friend's canteen and took a swig of water. "The point is, Governor Artemus is keen on getting this bridge built – "
"Like I care – "
" – and he wants this disturbed young fellow tracked down and apprehended at your earliest convenience. Please don't look at me that way."
Skink said, "I'm no damn bounty hunter."
"I'm aware of that."
"And, furthermore, I wouldn't know Dick Artemus from an elephant hemorrhoid. I don't give two shits about him and I don't give two shits about his bridge, though I do feel badly about the dismembered canine. Now" – Skink, boosting himself off the hood of the race car – "you may return to Tallahassee, my large Negro friend, and advise the governor to go fuck himself, repeatedly and without lubricants, at my behest."
"Not so fast." The trooper reached under his shirt for the brown envelope, damp with sweat. "He told me to give this to you. He thought it might change your mind. I'm afraid he's right."
"What the hell is it?"
"See for yourself."
"You peeked?"
"Certainly," said Jim Tile.
Inside the envelope was a single piece of paper, to which The Honorable Richard Artemus had been wise enough not to affix his name. The man known as Skink read the paper twice, silently. He looked up and said, "The bastard might be bluffing."
"He might be."
"On the other hand ... " Skink turned, and for several moments he gazed off through the mangroves, toward the sounds of the waves on the coral. "Goddammit, Jim."
"Yeah."
"I don't see another way but to do this thing."
"Not one you could live with, I agree."
"So now what?"
"Take me back to wherever the hell I parked that little boat. I'll go up to Ocean Reef and make some calls. Then we'll meet up tonight outside the Last Chance, say ten o'clock."
"All right." For once Skink sounded old and worn-out. He slung the AK-47 over his shoulder and adjusted his shower cap.
Jim Tile said, "I got a feeling you'll get another uninvited guest today. A fat-assed Cracker rent-a-badge – Gale would be his name. He'll be lost and thirsty and chewed up, and he'll be screaming bloody murder about some crazy nigger cop ditching him on Steamboat Creek. Otherwise he's mostly harmless."
"I'll show him the way to the road."
"I'd appreciate that, Governor."
On the trek out, the two men came across a full-grown crocodile with a blue heron clamped in its jaws. The beast lay in the reeds on the edge of a brackish pond, its massive corrugated tail blocking Skink's footpath. He stopped to watch, motioning for the trooper to do the same. The idea of using their guns would not have occurred to either man. Respectfully they waited while the reptile, spraying feathers, gulped down the magnificent stilt-legged bird.
"A sad sight," whispered Skink, "but also a beautiful one. Because you and I and the six billion other selfish members of our species didn't interfere."
"Honestly, I wouldn't dream of it."
Jim Tile was relieved when the crocodile skidded off the muddy bank and into the lake. Twenty minutes later the two men reached the johnboat. Skink held it steady while the trooper climbed in. The motor was cold and didn't crank until the fifth pull. Skink eased the bow away from the mangroves and gave a light push.
"See you tonight," he said.
"Wait, there's one more thing," said Jim Tile. The engine coughed and stopped. The boat began to drift, slowly.
Skink said, "Tell me later, Jim."
"No, I need to tell you now. Artemus says somebody else is out hunting for this boy. Somebody bad."
"Imagine that."
"Well, you need to know." The trooper waved. "Ten o'clock sharp?"
Skink nodded heavily. "With bells on." He bent over and plucked the Schweppes can out of the roots. He tossed it into the John-boat, where it clattered against the others.
The trooper chuckled. "Nice shot." He jerked the starter cord and the outboard motor hiccuped to life.
Skink stood on the shore, twirling his twin buzzard beaks. "Jim, I'm sorry. I truly am."
"For what, Governor?"
"For whatever's coming," he said. "I'm sorry in advance." Then he turned and splashed into the trees.
15
As agreed, Governor Dick Artemus vetoed from the state budget all $27.7 million set aside for "the Toad Island-Shearwater bridge and highway-improvement project." Other funds blocked by the governor included $17.5 million for the construction and promotion of a Southern Bowler's Hall of Fame in Zolfo Springs; $14.2 million for the "agronomic testing" of a technique to genetically remove the navel-like aperture from navel oranges; $2.6 million to rebuild Aqua Quake, a simulated tidal-wave attraction owned by the uncle of a state senator, and destroyed in a fire of dubious origin; and $375,000 to commence a captive breeding program for the endangered rose-bellied salamander, of which only seven specimens (all males) were known to survive.
In all, Dick Artemus used a line-item veto to eliminate more than $75 million in boondoggles. Except for the Toad Island bridge, all had been proposed by Democrats. Among the items notvetoed by the governor were numerous frivolities initiated by his fellow Republicans, including: $24.2 million to redesign a private golf course in Sarasota, ostensibly to attract a PGA tournament but in truth to spruce up the back nine for the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee, who owned three prime lots along the fourteenth fairway; $8.4 million for the purchase of an abandoned South Dade tomato farm liberally appraised at $561,000, purportedly to expand the crucial buffer around Everglades National Park, but actually to enrich the absentee owners of the property, who had contributed magnanimously to the state Republican Committee; $19.1 million to pave and widen to six lanes a gravel road leading to a 312-acre cow pasture in Collier County, said pasture being the as-yet-unannounced future site of a mammoth outlet mall, its silent developer partners including the wife, sister-in-law and niece of the Republican Speaker of the House.
None of the pet projects overlooked by Governor Dick Artemus made the newspapers, but the vetos did. Desie found the list in the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel,beneath the following headline:
GOVERNOR AXES $75 MILLION FROM BUDGET
DECLARES WAR ON POLITICAL "PORK"
Desie read the story aloud to Twilly Spree in the truck.
"Be happy," she told him. "You did it. The bridge is history."
Twilly said, "We'll see." He held one hand on the steering wheel and one hand out the window of the pickup, cupping air. He nodded when Desie asked if he was still thinking about the dream.
She said, "You know what a psychologist would say? A psychologist would say you had a breakthrough."
"Anything's possible." Twilly didn't seem unhappy or upset; only absorbed.
Desie said, "Do you remember asking me to stay?"
"Yes."
"Why did you?"
"Because I was scared."
"Of what �
� more dreams?"
Twilly smiled. "No, not dreams." He adjusted the rearview to check on McGuinn, riding in the bed of the truck. "You think he's OK back there?"
"Oh, he's loving life," Desie said.
"I think he ought to be riding with us."
"Twilly, he's in heaven."
"But what if it starts to rain – "
"He's a Labrador!"
"But he's been sick. He shouldn't be out in the weather."
Twilly parked on the shoulder and brought McGuinn into the cab, between him and Desie. It proved to be a cramped arrangement, made worse by an onset of canine flatulence.
"From the dog food," Desie explained. "Liver-flavored is the worst."
Twilly grimaced. He got off at the next exit and stopped at a Buick dealership, where he traded in the pickup truck on a 1992 Road-master station wagon. The entire transaction took twenty-one minutes, Twilly making up the difference in cash that he peeled from a wad in his denim jacket. Desie watched, intrigued.
"This is the largest domestic passenger vehicle ever manufactured in the United States," Twilly announced, loading McGuinn into the cavernous rear compartment. "Now you can fart all you want."
And off they went again.
Desie almost asked where Twilly had gotten the money, but it didn't matter. He could've robbed a church and still she wouldn't have wanted to go home. She understood him no better than she understood herself, but she felt unaccountably comfortable at his side. Sometimes she caught him glancing sideways at her – it was a look no other man had ever given her, a combination of naked desire, penetrating curiosity and also sadness. Finally she said: "What in the world is going through your head?"
"How beautiful you are."
"Please."
"OK. How much I want to sleep with you?"
"No, Twilly. There's more."
"You're right. I keep forgetting how complicated I am." He took a slow breath and interlocked both hands at the top of the steering wheel. "What I'm thinking," he said, "is how much I wantto need you."