by Carl Hiassen
"That's a better answer," Desie said. "Not as flattering as the others, but a little more original."
"What if it's the truth?"
"And what if I feel the same way?"
Twilly let out a soft whistle.
"Exactly," she said.
"So we're both off the rails."
"A case could be made, yes."
He was silent for several miles. Then he said: "Just for the record, I dowant to sleep with you."
"Oh, I know." Desie tried not to look pleased.
"What are your views on that?"
"We'll discuss it later," she said, "when you-know-who is asleep." She cut her eyes toward the rear of the station wagon.
"The dog?" Twilly said.
"My husband'sdog. I'd feel weird doing it in front of him – cheating on his master."
"He licks his butt in front of us."
"This isn't about modesty, it's about guilt. And let's talk about something else," Desie said, "such as: Where the heck are we going?"
"I don't know. I'm just following this car."
"Why?" Desie said. It was a cobalt four-door Lexus with a Michigan license plate. "May I ask why?"
"Because I can't help myself," said Twilly. "About twenty miles back she tossed a cigarette, a lit cigarette. With piney woods on both sides of the road!"
"So she's an idiot. So what?"
"Luckily it landed in a puddle. Otherwise there could've been a fire."
Swell, Desie thought, I'm riding with Smokey the Bear.
"All right, Twilly, she threw a cigarette," Desie said, "and the point of following her is ... "
Inside the blue Lexus was only one person, the driver, a woman with an alarming electric mane of curly hair. She appeared to be yakking on a cellular phone.
Desie said: "You do this often – stalk total strangers?"
"The woods look dry."
"Twilly, there's lots of dumb people in this world and you can't be mad at all of 'em."
"Thanks, Mom."
"Please don't tailgate."
Twilly pointed. "Did you see that?"
Desie had seen it: the woman in the Lexus, tossing another smoldering butt. Twilly's fists were clamped on the steering wheel, and the cords of his neck stood out like cables, yet no trace of anger was visible in his face. What frightened Desie was the gelid calm in his eyes.
She heard him say, "I bet that car's got a huge gas tank."
"Twilly, you can't possibly go through life like this."
She was digging her fingernails into the armrest. They were inches from the bumper of the Lexus. If the idiot woman touched the brakes, they'd all be dead.
Desie said, "You think you can fixthese people? You think you can actually teach 'em something?"
"Call me an optimist."
"Look at her, for God's sake. She's in a whole different world. Another universe."
Gradually Twilly slid back a couple of car lengths.
Desie said, "I'm an expert, remember? I'm married to one of them."
"And it never makes you mad?"
"Twilly, it made me nuts. That's why I'm here with you," she said. "But now you've got me so scared I'm about to wet my pants, so please back off. Forget about her."
Twilly shifted restlessly. The driver of the Lexus had no clue; her tangly head, wreathed in smoke, bobbed and twitched as she chattered into the phone.
"Please." Desie touched his wrist.
"OK."
He eased off the gas. The cobalt Lexus began to pull away, and as it did a can of Sprite flew out the window and bounced into the scrub. Desie sighed defeatedly. Twilly stomped the accelerator and the station wagon shot forward. He got tight on the bumper again, this time punching the horn.
"Jesus," Desie gasped. "I can practically see her dandruff."
"Well, I believe she finally knows we're here."
The woman in the Lexus anxiously fumbled with the rearview mirror, which had been angled downward for makeup application instead of traffic visibility.
"Moment of truth," Twilly announced.
"I'm begging you," Desie said. Ahead of them, the idiot driver was now frantically jerking the Lexus all over the road.
Twilly wore a wistful expression. "Admit it," he said to Desie. "It would be a glorious sight, that car going up in flames – and her hopping around like a cricket in the firelight, screeching into that damn phone ... "
"Don't do this," Desie said.
"But you can see it, can't you? How such an idea might take hold – after what she's done?"
"Yes, I understand. I'm angry, too." Which was true. And the scene Twilly described would not have been completely unsatisfying, Desie had to admit. But, God, it was nuts ...
The Lexus began to slow down, and so did Twilly. The curly-haired woman clumsily veered onto the shoulder, gravel flying. Desie's pulse pounded at her temples, and her mouth felt like dry clay. She could feel the car shudder when Twilly pumped the brakes. Groggily, McGuinn sat up, anticipating a walk.
The Roadmaster eased up alongside the Lexus. The driver cowered behind the wheel. She wore enormous rectangular sunglasses, which spared Desie from seeing the dread in her eyes.
Twilly glowered at the woman but abruptly turned away. Desie watched him draw a deep breath. She was holding hers.
Then, to her surprise, the station wagon began to roll. "Maybe some other time," Twilly said quietly.
Desie leaned across and kissed him. "It's all right."
"Honey, where's the Tom Petty CD?"
"Right here."
She felt a rush as Twilly gunned the big car toward the interstate. He cranked up the music.
" 'One foot in the grave,' " he sang.
" 'And one foot on the pedal,' " sang Desirata Stoat. She was glad to be with a man who got the words right.
"This is all your fault," said Robert Clapley.
"I beg your pardon."
"You're the one who gave me that shit."
"In the first place," said Palmer Stoat, "it was for youto use, not the girls. That's my understanding of powdered rhinoceros horn, Bob. It's a male stimulant. In the second place, only a certifiable moron would smoke the stuff – you mix it in your drink. You know, like NutraSweet?"
They were in the doorway of the master bedroom at Clapley's Palm Beach condominium, which reeked of garlic and hashish and stale sweat. The place was a wreck. The mirror hung crooked and cracked, and the king-sized mattress lay half on the floor; the silk bed-sheets were knotted in a sticky-looking heap. Above the headboard, the walls were marked with greasy partial imprints of hands and feet and buttocks.
"Fucking olive oil," Robert Clapley growled. "And I meanfucking olive oil."
"What else they were taking," Stoat asked, "besides the rhino powder?"
"Hash, ecstasy, God knows what – trust me, you'd need a moon suit to go in their bathroom." Clapley laughed mirthlessly. "Some asshole they met at the spa sent up some Quaaludes. When's the last time you ever sawan actual Quaalude, Palmer? You can't find that shit in a pharmaceutical museum."
The men moved to the bay window that overlooked the sundeck, where Katya and Tish floated toe-to-toe in the Jacuzzi, with their eyes closed. Today they did not look much like Barbie dolls. They looked like whored-up junkies. In fact they were so blotched and bloated and unappetizing that Palmer Stoat almost felt sorry for Robert Clapley – almost, but not quite. This was, after all, the same prick who'd called him a turd fondler; the same prick who'd threatened him and brought that psycho Porcupine Head into his home. Therefore it was impossible for Stoat to be wholly sympathetic to Clapley's predicament.
"Where does it stand now. Bob? Between you and the twins."
"Limp is how it stands," Clapley said. Nervously he tightened the sash on his bathrobe. Stoat noticed a fresh scab on one earlobe, where once there had been a diamond stud.
"Here's the thing. The last couple days were wild, real carny stuff," said Clapley. "Truth is, the rhino horn didn't do a damn thing for me exce
pt ruin a perfectly good bourbon. But the girls, Palmer, they think it's some kind of supercharged jingle crack ... "
"But they were stoned, anyway."
"The point is," Clapley said, raising a hand, "the point is, they think it was the rhinoceros powder that gave 'em the big wet high. They believe,Palmer, and that's ninety percent of what dope is about: believing in it. And these are not – let me remind you, pardner – these are not the most sophisticated ladies you'll ever meet. They escape from a dull, cold, miserable place and end up in beautiful sunny South Florida, a.k.a. paradise. Everything's supposed to be new and exciting here. Everything's supposed to be better. Not just the weather but the drugs and the cock and the parties. The whole nine yards."
Through the tinted glass Stoat studied the two nude women in the tub, their impossibly round implants poking out of the water like shiny harbor buoys. The bright sun was brutally harsh on their facial features; puffy eyelids, puffy lips. Their sodden, matted hair looked like clumps of blond sargassum – Stoat could see by the dark roots it was time for refresher dye jobs. He heard Clapley say: "They want more."
"They used it all up?"
Clapley nodded grimly. "And now they want more."
"Bob, that shit is extremely hard to come by."
"I can imagine."
"No, you can't. You have no idea."
"Problem is, they're supposed to get their chins done next week," Robert Clapley said. "I've got the top chin guy in the whole goddamn world flying in first-class from Sao Paulo. But the girls – get this – first thing this morning they announce: No more sex and no more surgery and no more Barbie wardrobe until we get rhino dust. That's what they call it, rhino dust."
"How adorable." Palmer Stoat, stroking his own artificially sculpted chin. "My advice, Bob? Deport these ingrates straight back to the motherland, then get on with your life."
Clapley looked pained. "You don't understand. I had plans for these two. I had a timetable."
"Bob, you can always find new Barbies to climb your little staircase to heaven. Florida's crawling with 'em."
"Not like these. Not twins."
"But they're notreally twins, for Christ's sake – "
Robert Clapley seized Stoat's arm. "I have too much invested here. And not just time and money, Palmer. This is an important project to me. They" –jerking his head toward the hot tub – "are important to me."
A project, Stoat mused. Like customizing Chevys.
"Christmas," Clapley was saying. "We're right on schedule to be finished by the Christmas holidays – everything, head to toe. That's how close we are."
"They're hookers, Bob. They'll do whatever you tell them."
"Not anymore." Clapley wheeled away from the window. "Not without the rhino dust."
Palmer Stoat followed him into the living room. "I'll make some calls. I can't promise anything."
"Thank you." Clapley sagged into an over-stuffed chair.
"But I'm not responsible for what might happen. They could croak smoking that stuff. They could fall down dead right before your eyes. Where'd they get such a damn fool idea?"
"TV probably. For some reason they decided to put the shit in a pipe. They were sucking it out of a glass pipe. Then they were sucking on me – "
"Enough. I get the picture," Stoat said.
"Then Spa Boy showed up and they were sucking on him, and he was sucking on them ... " Robert Clapley clicked his teeth. "Oh, it was a regular tropical suckfest, Palmer. You should've been here."
"No thanks. I had my own excitement."
"Yeah?" Clapley gave a halfhearted leer.
"That's what I need to talk to you about. The dognapper."
"What now?"
"He sent me a paw," Stoat said, "in a Cuban cigar box."
Clapley grunted. "To go with the ear? Man, that's cold."
"Here's what else, Bob. He's got my wife."
"Still? I thought – didn't you tell me he let her go?"
"He did," said Stoat. "But he got her again."
"How, for God's sake?"
"Who knows. Point is, he's most definitely got her."
"Plus the dog?" Clapley asked.
"That's right."
"Damn." Clapley looked exasperated. "What a sick fucking world. Sick, sick, sick."
"Speaking of which," said Palmer Stoat, "your charming Mr. Gash – where might he be, Bob?"
"Shearwater Island, last I heard. Hunting for the sicko dognapper."
Palmer Stoat said, "Call him off, please."
"What for?"
"I don't want him anywhere near my wife. Call him off until this puppy-slicing freak lets her go."
"What if he doesn't let her go?"
"He will," Stoat said. "Governor Dick vetoed your twenty-eight-million-dollar bridge. It was in the papers this morning."
The veto was a very sore subject with Clapley. "You're damn lucky to be alive," he reminded Palmer Stoat.
"I know, I know. The point is, Bob, that's all the dognapper guy asked for – the veto. So now he'll think he won."
Clapley fidgeted impatiently. "And you're saying this twerp is as good as his word. Some demented fruitcake who's mailing you chunks of your pet dog – him you trust. Is that about the size of it?"
"Look, I want him out of the picture as much as you do. Once Desie's free, then Mr. Gash can go do his thing and you can get on with Shearwater. Just give it a couple days, that's all I'm asking. Until she's home safe and sound."
"The dog, too?" Robert Clapley said. "Or should I say, what's left of the dog."
Stoat ignored the snideness. "When does Mr. Gash usually check in?"
"When there's a result to report."
"Next time he calls – "
"I'll be sure to relay your concerns," Clapley said, "and in the meantime, you'll make inquiries about purchasing another rhinoceros horn."
Stoat nodded. "If I find one, it won't be cheap."
"When did perfection ever come cheap?"
Clapley smiled wearily. "Do your best, Palmer." A commotion arose from outside, on the deck. Clapley hurried to the door, Stoat at his heels. The two Barbies were fighting in the Jacuzzi, throwing punches and shrieking in two thickly dissonant tongues. As Clapley waded haplessly into the hot tub, Palmer Stoat could not help but reflect once more on the seedy, disturbing downturn his own life had taken. Here he was, standing in the scorching sun like a eunuch servant, obediently holding a silk robe for a man – his own client! – who had filled both pockets with dolls. Not only dolls but a tiny hand mirror and makeup kits and a hairbrush, too!
Stoat held the miniature brush, no larger than a stick of Dentyne, in the palm of one hand. The bristles were exquisitely fine and the handle – my God, could it possibly be? Stoat squinted in amazement. Pearl!
Slowly he looked up, beyond the sordid tumble of yowling flesh in the Jacuzzi,toward the tranquil gem blue of the Atlantic. What's happening to this country of ours? Stoat wondered ruefully. What's happening to me?
16
No, Mr. Gash was not a patient man.
And Toad Island was a drag; no trace of the dick-faced boy he was supposed to murder.
After much searching, Mr. Gash located a tolerable motel on the mainland. He chose not to call Robert Clapley, as there was nothing to report except for the drunken biologist whom Mr. Gash had shot and buried with the backhoe. No bonus points there.
So Mr. Gash got in his car and returned to Toad Island. All morning he drove back and forth across the old bridge, with a favorite 911 compilation in the tape deck: Snipers in the Workplace,accompanied by an overdub of Tchaikovsky's Symphony no. 3 in D Major.
caller: It's Tim! Tim from the ramp! He's gone totally batshit! He's shooting all the goddamned supervisors!
dispatcher: What's your last name, Tim?
caller: I AM NOT TIM! Tim's the shooter!!!
dispatcher: You say he's got a gun?
caller: Hell yes. He's got, like, FIVE guns! You better send some cops fast!
&
nbsp; dispatcher: Sir? Sir?
caller: You hear that? Holy Christ.
dispatcher: Was that gunfire?
caller: Well, it ain't the [bleeping] Fourth a July. Is somebody on the way yet?
dispatcher: Yes, sir, we've got units en route. Could you give me a description of the suspect?
caller: He's about six two, two hundred forty pounds, dark curly hair.
dispatcher: What's his full name?
caller: Hell, I got no idea. He doesn't even work for me, OK? Tim is all I know – Tim, the day-shift loading-ramp guy.
dispatcher: Does he have any – sir, you there? Sir?
caller: Yeah, I'm still here. Can't you hear all those shots? Don't you understand what's going on here? All [bleeping] hell is breaking loose. The man is runnin' from office to office, poppin' the supervisors –
dispatcher: Does this Tim have any distinguishing features, any scars or tattoos?
caller: No, lady, but he won't be hard to pick out. He'll be the only one with five smoking handguns. In fact, he'll be the only one here with a pulse, if the cops don't show up real soon ... Oh Jesus!
dispatcher: Sir?
caller: Hey there, Timmy boy! ... Howzit goin', bro? ... Yeah, it's me ... Oh, just catchin' a few z's here in the old broom closet ... So how's it going? Man, you look really stressed –
dispatcher: Sir, please don't hang up. Sir?
Mr. Gash was buoyed by the panic that infused the tape recording; it connected him to a more familiar realm, and temporarily relieved his sense of dreary isolation on Toad Island. Back and forth across the bridge he went, reasoning that it was the best way to monitor who was coming and going. No cars or trucks could slip past, while small boats approaching from the mainland would be visible from the low span.
But even with his 911 emergency tapes in the car, Mr. Gash found himself battling boredom and impatience. Part of him wanted to bag the Clapley job and rush home to his comfortable apartment on South Beach, where he could change to a clean houndstooth suit and get some sushi on Lincoln Road and then head to the clubs, scouting for girls. One was never enough for Mr. Gash. Oh, he was way past one-on-one. Two was all right but three was even better. In his apartment Mr. Gash had a custom-made bed, double the width of a standard king. Bolted into the overhead ceiling beams was a pulley rig, to which was attached a harness made of the choicest green iguana hides. A furniture upholsterer on Washington Avenue had tailored the lizard-skin harness to fit Mr. Gash's block-like torso; first-rate work, too, and reasonably priced.