by Carl Hiassen
Palmer Stoat fought to stay calm. Considering the political stakes, it almost made sense that Governor Dick would recruit his own tracker to take care of the dognapper – maybe not to kill him but certainly to stop him before he caused more trouble. But where had the governor found such a crazed and reckless brute? Stoat wondered. He was like Grizzly Adams on PCP.
Stoat asked: "Are you a manhunter?"
"More like a shit scraper," the visitor replied, "and I'm starting with you."
"Look, I'll tell you the whole story, everything, but first let me towel off and put on some clothes. Please."
"Nope. You stay right there." The man rose and reached for the toilet paper. "In my experience," he said, hoisting his checkered kilt, "men who are buck naked and scared nutless tend to be more forthcoming. They tend to have better memories. So let's hear your sad doggy story."
Stoat realized what was bothering him about the manhunter's eyes: They didn't match. The left eyeball was artificial and featured a brilliant crimson iris. Stoat wondered where one would procure such a spooky item, and why.
"Are you going to start talking," the man said, "or just stand there looking ridiculous."
Palmer Stoat talked and talked, nude and dripping in the shower stall amid the broken glass. He talked until the dripping stopped and he had completely dried. He told the one-eyed stranger everything he thought might help in the manhunt – about the tailgater in the black pickup truck; about the cruel trashing of Desie's Beemer convertible; about the break-in at his house and the perverse defacing of his trophy taxidermy; about the swarm of dung beetles set loose inside his sports-utility vehicle; about Boodle's abduction and the ensuing eco-extortion demand; about the resort project turning Toad Island into Shearwater Island, and the ingenious wheeling and dealing required to get a new bridge funded; about the mocking note from the stranger in sunglasses at Swain's, probably the damn dognapper himself; about the severed ear arriving soon after, by FedEx, followed by the paw in the cigar box; about the governor agreeing to veto the bridge; about how Stoat was expecting the lunatic to free his beloved Labrador any day now, and also his wife –
Here he was interrupted by the man with the crimson eye.
"Hold on, sport. Nobody said anything about a woman hostage."
"Well, he's got her," Stoat said. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure. That's why the situation is so dicey, why it would be better for you to wait until after he lets Desie go."
The man said, "What makes you so sure she'll want to come home?"
Palmer Stoat frowned. "Why wouldn't she?" Then, as an afterthought: "You don't know my wife."
"No, but I know these situations." The man handed a towel to Stoat and said: "Show me this room where you keep your dead animals."
Stoat wrapped the towel around his waist and tiptoed through the shattered glass. He led the bearded man down the hall to the den. Stoat began giving a stalk-by-stalk history of each mount, but he was barely into the Canadian lynx saga when "the captain" ordered him to shut up.
"All I want to know," the man said to Stoat, "is what exactly he did in here."
"Pried out the eyes and left them on my desk."
"Just the mammals, or the fish, too?"
"All of them." Stoat shook his head somberly. "Every single eyeball. He arranged them in a pattern. A pentagram, according to Desie."
"No shit?" The captain grinned.
"You don't find that sick?"
"Actually, I admire the boy's style."
Palmer Stoat thought: He wouldthink it's cute. Him with his moldy rain suit and funky fifty-cent shower cap and weird fake eye. But then again, Stoat mused, who better to track down a perverted sicko than another perverted sicko?
"You shot all these critters for what reason, exactly?" The man was at the long wall, appraising the stuffed Cape buffalo head. Being so tall, he stood nearly nose-to-nose with the great horned ungulate.
"You shot them, why – for fun or food or what, exactly?" he asked again, twirling the bird beaks on the platted ends of his beard.
"Sport," Stoat answered warily. "For the sport of it."
"Ah."
"You look like you do some hunting yourself."
"On occasion, yes," the man said.
"Whereabouts?"
"The road, usually. Any busy road. Most of what I'm after is already dead. You understand."
Dear God, thought Palmer Stoat: Anotherprofessional hit man. This one shoots his victims on the highway, while they're stuck in 'traffic!
"But certain times of the year," the visitor added, "I'll take a buck deer or a turkey."
Stoat felt a wavelet of relief, perceived a sliver of common ground. "I got my first whitetail when I was seventeen," he volunteered. "An eight-pointer."
The one-eyed man said, "That's a good animal."
"It was. It really was. From then on I was hooked on hunting." Stoat thickly laid on the good-ole-boy routine, and with it the southern accent. "And now, hell, lookit me. I'm runnin' outta wall space! The other day I got a black rhino – "
"A rhino! Well, congratulations."
"Thank you, cap'n. My first ever. It was quite a thrill."
"Oh, I'll bet. You cook him?"
Stoat wasn't sure he'd heard right. "I'm gettin' the head mounted," he went on, "but I jest don't know where to hang the dang thing – "
"On account a ya'll runnin' outta gawdamn wall space!"
"Right." Stoat gave a brittle chuckle. The big sonofabitch was making fun of him.
"Sit your ass down," the man said, pointing toward the desk. The leather chair felt cool against Palmer Stoat's bare back; he tried to cross his flabby thighs but the bath towel was wrapped too snugly. The bearded one-eyed man walked around the desk and stood directly behind the leather chair. The only way Stoat could see the man was to cock his head straight back. From that upside-down vantage, the captain's visage appeared amiable enough.
"So you're a lobbyist," he said to Stoat.
"That's right." Stoat began to explain his unsung role in the machinations of representative government, but the one-eyed man slammed a fist so hard on the polished wood that Stoat's picture frames toppled.
"I know what you do," the man said mildly. "I know all about the likes of you."
Palmer Stoat made a mental note to call a Realtor first thing tomorrow and put his house on the market; it had become a chamber of torture, practically every room violated by demented intruders – first the dognapper, then the sadistic Mr. Gash and now this nutty bald cyclops ...
"I've only got one question," the man said to Stoat. "Where is this Toad Island?"
"Up the Gulf Coast. I'm not exactly sure where."
"You're not sure?"
"No ... captain ... I've never been there," Stoat said.
"That's beautiful. You sold the place out. Single-handedly greased the skids so it could be 'transformed' into a golfer's paradise – isn't that what you told me?"
Stoat nodded wanly. Those had been his exact words.
"Another fabulous golfer's paradise. Just what the world needs," the one-eyed man said, "and you did all this having never set foot on the island, having never laid eyes on the place. Correct?"
In a voice so timorous that he scarcely recognized it, Palmer Stoat said: "That's how it goes down. I work the political side of the street, that's all. I've got nothing to do with the thing itself."
The man laughed barrenly. " 'The thing itself! You mean the monstrosity?"
Stoat swallowed hard. His neck muscles hurt from looking upward at such a steep angle.
"A client calls me about some piece of legislation he's got an interest in," he said. "So I make a phone call or two. Maybe take some senator and his secretary out for a nice dinner. That's all I do. That's how it goes down."
"And for that you get paid how much?"
"Depends," Stoat replied.
"For the Shearwater bridge?"
"A hundred thousand dollars was the agreement." Palmer Stoat could not help himself
, he was such a peacock. Even when faced with a life-threatening situation, he couldn't resist broadcasting his obscenely exorbitant fees.
The captain said, "And you have no trouble looking at yourself in the mirror every morning?"
Stoat reddened.
"Incredible," the man said. He came purposefully around the leather chair and with one hand easily overturned the heavy desk. Then he kicked the chair out from under Stoat, dumping him on his butt. The towel came untied and Stoat lunged for it, but the one-eyed man snatched it away and, with a theatrical flair, flung it cape-like across the horns of the stuffed buffalo.
Then he wheeled to stand over Stoat, a bloated harp seal wriggling across the carpet. "I'm going to do this job for your buddy Dick," the man growled, "only because I don't see how notto."
"Thank you," cheeped the cowering lobbyist.
"As for your dog, if he's really missing an ear or a paw or even a toenail, I'll deal appropriately with the young fellow who did it." The captain paused in contemplation.
"As for your wife – is that her?" – pointing at the upended picture frame on the floor, and not waiting for Stoat's answer. "If I find her alive," the man said, pacing now, "I'll set her loose. What she does then, that's up to her. But I do intend to advise her to consider all options. I intend to tell her she can surely do better, much better, than the sorry likes of you."
Palmer Stoat had crawled into a corner, beneath a stacked glass display of antique cigar boxes. The bearded man approached, his legs bare and grime-streaked below the hem of the kilt. Stoat shielded his head with his arms. He heard the big man humming. It was a tune Stoat recognized from an old Beach Boys album – "Wouldn't It Be Great," or something like that.
He peeked out to see, inches from his face, the intruder's muddy boots.
"What I ought to do," Palmer Stoat heard the man say, "I ought to kick the living shit out of you. That's what would lift my spirits. That's what would put a spring in my step, ha! But I suppose I won't." The man dropped to one knee, his good eye settling piercingly on Stoat while the crimson orb wandered.
"Don't hurt me," said Stoat, lowering his arms.
"It's so tempting."
"Please don't."
The bearded man dangled the two bird beaks for Stoat to examine. "Vultures," he said. "They caught me in a bad mood."
Stoat closed his eyes and held them shut until he was alone. He didn't move from the floor for two hours, long after the intruder had departed. He remained bunched in the corner, his chin propped on his pallid knees, and tried to gather himself. Every time he thought about the last thing the captain had said, Palmer Stoat shuddered.
"Your wife is a very attractive woman. "
17
The dog was having a grand time.
That's the thing about being a Labrador retriever – you were born for fun. Seldom was your loopy, freewheeling mind cluttered by contemplation, and never at all by somber worry; every day was a romp. What else could there possibly be to life? Eating was a thrill. Pissing was a treat. Shitting was a joy. And licking your own balls? Bliss. And everywhere you went were gullible humans who patted and hugged and fussed over you.
So the dog was having a blast, cruising in the station wagon with Twilly Spree and Desirata Stoat. The new name? Fine. McGuinn was just fine. Boodle had been OK, too. Truthfully, the dog didn't care whatthey called him; he would've answered to anything. "Come on, Buttface, it's dinnertime!" – and he would've come galloping just as rapturously, his truncheon of a tail wagging just as fast. He couldn't help it. Labradors operated by the philosophy that life was too brief for anything but fun and mischief and spontaneous carnality.
Did he miss Palmer Stoat? It was impossible to know, the canine memory being more sensually absorbent than sentimental; more stocked with sounds and smells than emotions. McGuinn's brain was forever imprinted with the smell of Stoat's cigars, for example, and the jangle of his drunken late-night fumbling at the front door. And just as surely he could recall those brisk dawns in the duck blind, when Stoat was still trying to make a legitimate retriever out of him – the frenzied flutter of bird wings, the pop-pop-popof shotguns, the ring of men's voices. Lodged in McGuinn's memory bank was every path he'd ever run, every tomcat he'd ever treed, every leg he'd tried to hump. But whether he truly missed his master's companionship, who could say. Labradors tended to live exclusively, gleefully, obliviously in the moment.
And at the moment McGuinn was happy. He had always liked Desie, who was warm and adoring and smelled absolutely glorious. And the strong young man, the one who had carried him from Palmer Stoat's house, he was friendly and caring and tolerable, aroma-wise. As for that morbid bit with the dog in the steamer trunk – well, McGuinn already had put the incident behind him. Out of sight, out of mind. That was the Lab credo.
For now he was glad to be back at Toad Island, where he could run the long beach and gnaw on driftwood and go bounding at will into the cool salty surf. He loped effortlessly, scattering the seabirds, with scarcely a twinge of pain from the place on his tummy where the stitches had been removed. So energetic were his shoreline frolics that McGuinn exhausted himself by day's end, and fell asleep as soon as they got back to the room. Someone stroked his flank and he knew, without looking, that the sweetly perfumed hand belonged to Desie. In gratitude the dog thumped his tail but elected not to rise – he wasn't in the mood for another pill, and it was usually Desie who administered the pills.
But what was this? Something being draped across his face – a piece of cloth smelling vaguely of soap. The dog blinked open one eye: blackness. What had she done? McGuinn was too pooped to investigate. Like all Labradors, he frequently was puzzled by human behavior, and spent almost no time, trying to figure it out. Soon there were unfamiliar noises from the bed, murmurs between Desie and the young man, but this was of no immediate concern to McGuinn, who was fast asleep and chasing seagulls by the surf.
Twilly Spree said: "I can't believe you blindfolded him."
Desie tugged the sheet to her chin. "He's Palmer's dog. I'm sorry, but I feel funny about this."
She moved closer, and Twilly slipped an arm around her. He said, "I guess this means we have to be extra quiet, too."
"We have to be quiet, anyway. Mrs. Stinson is in the next room," Desie said.
Mrs. Stinson was the proprietress of Toad Island's only bed-and-breakfast. She stiffly had declared a no-dogs policy, and was in the process of turning them away when Twilly had produced a one-hundred-dollar bill and offered it as a "pet surcharge." Not only did Mrs. Stinson rent them the nicest room in the house but she brought McGuinn his own platter of beef Stroganoff.
Twilly said, "Mrs. Stinson is downstairs watching wrestling on Pay-Per-View."
"We should be quiet, just the same," said Desie. "Now I think you ought to kiss me."
"Look at the dog."
"I don't want to look at the dog."
"A purple bandanna."
"It's mauve," Desie said.
Twilly was trying not to laugh.
"You're making fun of me," said Desie.
"No, I'm not. I think you're fantastic. I think I could search a thousand years and not find another woman who felt guilty about fooling around in front of her husband's dog."
"They're very intuitive, animals are. So would you please stop?"
"I'm not laughing. But just look at him," Twilly said. "If only we had a camera."
"That's it." Desie reached over and turned off the lamp. Then she climbed on top of Twilly, lifted his hands and placed them on her breasts. "Now, you listen," she said, keeping her voice low. "You told me you wanted to make love."
"I do." McGuinn looked outrageous. It was all Twilly could do not to crack up.
Desie said, "Did you notice I'm in my birthday suit?"
"Yup."
"And what am I doing?"
"Straddling me?"
"That's correct. And are those your hands on my boobs?"
"They are."
"And d
id you happen to notice," Desie said, "where myhand is?"
"I most certainly did."
"So can we please get on with this," she said, "because it's one of the big unanswered questions about this whole deal, about me running off with you, Twilly – this subject."
"The sex?"
Desie sighed. "Right. The sex. Thank God I don't have to spell everything out." She squeezed him playfully under the covers.
He smiled up at her. "Nothing like a little pressure the first time out."
"Oh, you can handle it." Desie, squeezing him harder. "You can definitelyhandle it."
"Hey! Watch those fingernails."
"Hush," she said, and kissed him on the mouth.
They were not so quiet, and not so still. Afterward, Desie rolled off and put her head next to Twilly's on Mrs. Stinson's handmade linen pillowcases. Desie could tell by the frequent rise and fall of his chest that he wasn't drowsy; he was wired. She switched on the lamp and he burst out laughing.
"Now what?" She snapped upright and saw McGuinn sitting wide-awake at the foot of the bed. His tail was bebopping and his ears were cocked and he looked like the happiest creature in the whole world, even with a ludicrous mauve blindfold.
Twilly whispered: "Dear God, we've traumatized him for life."
Desie broke into a giggle. Twilly removed the bandanna from the dog and put out the light. In the darkness he was soothed by the soft syncopations of their breathing, Desie's and McGuinn's, but he didn't fall asleep. At dawn he rose and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Desie stirred when she heard him murmur: "Time for a walk."
She propped herself on one elbow. "Come back to bed. He doesn't need a walk."
"Not him. Me."
She sat up, the sheet falling away from her breasts. "Where you going?"
"The bridge," said Twilly.
"Why?"
"You coming?"
"It's nippy out, Twilly. And I'm beat."
He turned to McGuinn. "Well, how about you?"
The dog was up in an instant, spinning euphorically at Twilly's feet. A walk – was he kidding? Did he even haveto ask?