Sick Puppy

by Carl Hiassen

  Willie Vasquez-Washington, however, wasn't so comfortable among the walnut gun cabinets and the stuffed animal heads, which unblinkingly stared down at him from their stations high on the log walls. Like the governor, Willie Vasquez-Washington also felt as if he'd taken a step backward to another time – a time when a person of his color would not have been welcome at the Wilderness Veldt Plantation unless he wore burgundy doublets and waistcoats, and carried trays of Apalachicola oysters (as efficient young Ramon was doing now). Nor was Willie Vasquez-Washington especially enthralled by the company at the lodge. He had yet to succumb to the famous charms of Dick Artemus, while Palmer Stoat was, well, Palmer Stoat – solicitous, amiably transparent and as interesting as cold grits. Willie Vasquez-Washington was no more favorably impressed by Robert Clapley, the cocky young developer of Shearwater, who had greeted him with a conspicuously firm handshake and a growl: "So you're the guy who's trying to fuck me out of a new bridge."

  It was Willie Vasquez-Washington's fervent wish that the political deal could be settled that night, over dinner and drinks, so he would be spared the next day's rhinoceros hunt. Half-drunk white men with high-powered firearms made him extremely nervous. And while Willie Vasquez-Washington was not, in any sense of the term, a nature freak, he had no particular desire to watch some poor animal get shot by the likes of Clapley.

  So Willie Vasquez-Washington attempted on several occasions to draw the governor aside, in order to state his simple proposal: A new high school in exchange for a yea vote on the Toad Island bridge appropriation. But Dick Artemus was caught up in the frothy mood of the pre-hunt festivities, and he was unwilling to tear himself away from the hearth. Nor was Palmer Stoat a helpful intermediary; whenever Willie Vasquez-Washington approached him, the man's face was so crammed with food that his response was indecipherable. In the soft cast of the firelight, Stoat's damp bloated countenance resembled that of an immense albino blowfish. What meager table manners he had maintained while sober deteriorated vividly under the double-barreled effects of Remy Martin and babyback ribs. The ripe spray erupting from Stoat's churning mouth presented not only an unsavory visual spectacle but also (Willie Vasquez-Washington suspected) a health hazard. The prudent move was to back off, safely out of range.

  At 1:00 a.m., Willie Vasquez-Washington gave up. He headed upstairs to bed just as Stoat and Clapley broke into besotted song:

  "You can't always do who you want,

  No, you can't always do who you want ... "

  They stopped at a shop with a Confederate flag nailed to the door, on U.S. 301 between Starke and Waldo. Twilly Spree purchased a Remington 30.06 with a scope and a box of bullets. Clinton Tyree got Zeiss night-scope binoculars and a secondhand army Colt .45, for use at close range. A five-hundred-dollar cash "donation" toward the new Moose Lodge served to expedite the paperwork and inspire a suddenly genial clerk to overlook the brief waiting period normally required for handgun purchases in Florida.

  Skink and Twilly stopped for dog food, camo garb and other supplies in the town of Mclntosh, seventeen miles outside Ocala. At a diner there, a shy ponderous waitress named Beverly blossomed before their very eyes into a svelte southern version of Rosie O'Donnell – a transformation hastened by a hundred-dollar tip and the gift of a one-of-a-kind Chihuahua-hide vest, which Skink good-naturedly took off and presented to her on the spot. Beverly pulled up a chair and offered numerous scandalous anecdotes about what went on at the Wilderness Veldt Plantation and, more importantly, flawless directions to it. By nightfall Twilly and Skink were comfortably encamped on the north end of the spread, having conquered the barbed ten-foot fence with a bolt cutter. The ex-governor built a small fire ring in a concealed palmetto thicket, while Twilly took McGuinn to scout the area. The dog was like a dervish on the leash, pulling so hard in so many different directions that it nearly dislocated Twilly's acutely tender right shoulder. By the time they returned to the campsite, Skink had dinner cooking over the flames – for Twilly, a rib-eye steak and two baked potatoes; for himself, braised rabbit, alligator tail and fried water moccasin, all plucked, freshly smote, off a bountiful two-mile stretch of pavement south of Micanopy.

  Skink said, "Any sign of the warriors?"

  "No, but I could see the lights of the main lodge at the top of a hill. I'm guessing it's three-quarters of a mile from here."

  Twilly looped McGuinn's leash over one ankle and sat down with a jug of water by the fire. The dog rested its chin on its paws, gazing up longingly at the sizzling meat.

  "Still no brainstorm?" Skink inquired.

  "Truth is, we ought to just shoot the fuckers."

  "It's your call, son."

  "How about some input?" Twilly wanted the captain to assure him there was another way to save Toad Island, besides committing murder.

  Instead Skink said, "I've tried everything else and look where it's got me."

  "You're just tired is all."

  "You don't know the half of it."

  They ate in restive silence, the night settling upon them like a dewy gray shroud. Even McGuinn inched closer to the fire. Twilly thought of Desie – he missed her, but he was glad she wasn't with him now.

  "I propose we sleep on it." Skink, crunching on the last curl of snake.

  Twilly shook his head. "I won't be sleeping tonight."

  "We could always just snatch 'em, I suppose."

  "Yeah."

  "Make a political statement."

  "Oh yeah. Just what the world needs," Twilly said.

  "Plus, hostages are a lot of work. You've gotta feed 'em and take 'em to the John and wash their dirty underwear so they don't stink up the car. And listen to all their goddamn whining, sweet Jesus!" Skink laughed contemptuously.

  "On the other hand," Twilly said, "if we kill them, then the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation will be chasing us. That's not a happy prospect."

  The ex-governor pried loose his glass eye and tossed it to Twilly, who held it up before the fire. The thing appeared surreal and distant, a glowering red sun.

  "Beats a plain old patch," Skink said, swabbing the empty socket.

  Twilly handed the prosthetic eye back to him. "What do you think they'll be hunting tomorrow?"

  "Something big and slow."

  "And when it's over, they'll gather around the fireplace, drink a toast to the dead animal and then get down to business. Make their greedy deal and shake hands. And that gorgeous little island on the Gulf will be permanently fucked."

  "That's how it usually goes."

  "I can't sit still for that, captain."

  Skink tugged off his boots and placed them next to the binoculars case. In a pocket of his rain suit he found a joint, which he wedged into his mouth. He lowered his face to the edge of the flames until the end of the doobie began to glow.

  "Son, I can't sit still for it, either," he said. "Never could. Want a hit?"

  Twilly said no thanks.

  "You ever licked toads to get high?" Skink asked.

  "Nope."

  "Don't."

  Twilly said, "I should warn you, I'm not much of a shot."

  "Maybe you won't have to be." Skink dragged heavily on the joint. "All kinds of bad shit can happen to foolish men in the woods."

  "Still, a plan would be helpful."

  "It would, son."

  Twilly stretched out, using McGuinn as a pillow. The rhythmic rise and fall of the dog's chest was soothing. Skink dumped water on the fire, and the aroma of wood smoke mingled sweetly with the marijuana.

  "What time is it, Governor?"

  "Late. You get some rest, we'll figure something out."

  "They've got more guns than we do."

  "That's undoubtedly true."

  The Labrador stirred slightly beneath Twilly's head, and he reached up to scratch the dog's chin. One of McGuinn's hind legs started to kick spasmodically.

  Twilly said, "There's him to consider, too."

  "No need to bring him along. We can tie him to a tree, where he
'll be safe."

  "And what happens to him if we don't make it back?"

  The captain exhaled heavily. "Good point."

  Twilly Spree fell asleep and had another dream. This time he dreamed he was falling. There was a bullet hole in his chest, and as he fell he leaked a curlicued contrail of blood. Far below him were a break of green waves and a long white beach, and in the sky all around him were the seabirds, falling at the same velocity; lifeless clumps of bent feathers and twisted beaks. Somewhere above was the faint, fading sound of a helicopter. In the dream Twilly snatched wildly at the falling gulls until he got one. Clutching the broken bird to his breast, he plummeted in a clockwise spin toward the beach. He landed hard on his back, and was knocked momentarily senseless. When he awoke, Twilly glanced down and saw that the gull had come to life and flown away, out of his hands. It was dark.

  And Clinton Tyree was looming over him. Around his neck was a pair of binoculars. Hefted in his arms like an overstuffed duffel was McGuinn, looking chastened.

  Twilly raised his head. "What?"

  "A flatbed and a forklift. You won't believe it."

  Skink rekindled the fire and made coffee. Wordlessly they changed into camouflage jumpsuits and broke out the guns and ammunition. Twilly removed the dog's collar, so it wouldn't jingle.

  "Hey, captain, I got one for you. Not a plan but a poem."

  "Good man."

  " 'I should have been a pair of ragged claws,' " Twilly said, " 'Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.' "

  The former governor of Florida clapped his hands in delight. "More!" he exhorted. "More, more, more!" His laughter crashed like a hailstorm through the tall trees and scrub.

  Durgess awoke everybody an hour before dawn. No one in the hunting party had the stomach for a hearty breakfast, so the four men gathered quietly around the table for coffee, aspirins, Imodium and, in Robert Clapley's case, two Bloody Marys. Willie Vasquez-Washington had correctly guessed that khaki would be the fashion order of the day. He wondered if Clapley, Stoat and Governor Dick had purchased their nearly identical big-game wardrobes at a sale (although Stoat's absurd cowboy hat somewhat set him apart).

  The mood at the table was subdued; a few lame hangover jokes, and halfhearted inquiries about the weather. Durgess sat down to explain how the hunt would be organized. Because the rhinoceros was Clapley's kill, he and Durgess would go first into the bush. Asa Lando would follow twenty or so yards behind, accompanied by the governor, Palmer Stoat and Willie Vasquez-Washington. Ten yards behind them would be the governor's two regular bodyguards.

  Weaponry was the next subject, Robert Clapley announcing he had come armed with a .460 Weatherby, "the Testarrosa of hunting rifles."

  Durgess said, "That's all we'll need." Thinking: A slingshot and a pebble would probably do the job.

  Not to be outdone, Stoat declared he was bringing his .458 Winchester Magnum.

  "My choice, too," interjected Dick Artemus, who had never shot at anything larger, or more menacing, than a grouse. The governor had yet to fire the powerful Winchester, which he had received as a bribe six years earlier while serving on the Jacksonville City Council.

  It was hopeless to object, but Durgess felt obliged. "Mr. Clapley's gun is plenty. I'll be armed and so will Asa, in case the animal gives us any trouble. And so will the governor's men." The FDLE bodyguards had lightweight Ruger assault rifles, semiautomatics.

  "He's right," Clapley chimed in. He didn't want anybody else sneaking a shot at his trophy rhino.

  "Just hold on," Palmer Stoat said to Durgess. "You said this was a killer, right? A rogue."

  "Yessir."

  "Then – no disrespect meant to you, Bob, or to Dick's security people – but I intend to protect myself out there. I'm bringing my own rifle."

  "Me, too," the governor said. "The more the merrier."

  Durgess relented without comment. It was always the same story with these big-city shit-heads, always a dick-measuring contest. One guy gets a gun, they allgotta have one.

  The guide turned to Willie Vasquez-Washington. "You a Winchester man, too?"

  "Nikkormat. Pictures is all I'm shooting."

  "That's cool." Once Durgess had turned down an offer to guide big-game photo safaris in South Africa because he'd heard that hunters tipped better than photographers. Sometimes, on mornings such as this, Durgess wished he'd taken the gig anyway.

  Robert Clapley said, "One thing we've got to get straight right now. It's about the horn – I'm taking that sucker home with me. Today."

  Durgess thought: Sure, tough guy. Soon as we see the dough. Otherwise Mr. Yee awaits, cash in hand.

  "The horn? What in the world you gonna do with that?" Willie Vasquez-Washington asked.

  Palmer Stoat explained how rhinoceros horn was ground into an illicit powder that was sold as an aphrodisiac. "It didn't put any extra lead in Bob's pencil, but his two blond babeniks went animal for the stuff."

  Willie Vasquez-Washington chortled in astonishment.

  "They got so wet, Bob needed a spatula to scrape 'em off the sheets." Stoat winked archly at Clapley, who turned as red as his tomato cocktail.

  Still hollow-eyed from the night before, Dick Artemus gamely looked up from his coffee cup. "I heard about that stuff from a buddy works for Toyota HQ. These horns are very pricey, he says, plus you've got to go all the way to Hong Kong or Bangkok to find one. Supposedly you sprinkle it in your sakeand get a hard-on that lasts longer than a hockey season."

  "Some men do, but not Bob," Palmer Stoat chirped.

  Willie Vasquez-Washington couldn't believe what he was hearing – Clapley clearly was more excited about scoring the sex powder than stalking the formidable African rhinoceros. White guys were truly pathetic, the worst, when it came to fretting about their dicks.

  Addressing the table, Robert Clapley said, "Palmer disapproves of my two ladies, though I suspect he's just jealous. They have exotic tastes, it's true – and talents to match."

  There was a ripple of appreciative laughter.

  "So bring a hacksaw for the horn," Clapley instructed Durgess firmly.

  "Yessir."

  "You know what's also supposed to be good for boners? Bull testicles," the governor volunteered informatively. "Rocky Mountain oysters is what they call 'em out West. Can you imagine eating barbecued bull's balls?"

  Durgess rose sluggishly, as if cloaked in cast iron. "We best be movin' out now," he told the men. "I'll go fetch Asa. You fellas meet us in front."

  "With our guns," Palmer Stoat added.

  "Yessir. With your guns," Durgess said, with dull resignation.

  29

  They found a knoll with a clear downhill view of the towering moss-draped oak, which stood alone at the confluence of two slopes. The men laid down in the tallest grass to wait, Twilly sighting with the Remington while Skink scanned with the field glasses. McGuinn sat restlessly between them, nosing the foggy dawn air. The end of his leash was looped once around Skink's ax-handle wrist.

  "Is it alive?" Twilly, squinting through the rifle scope.

  "Hard to say," Skink said.

  They were talking about the black rhinoceros.

  "Lookie there!"

  "What?"

  Skink, who needed only half of the binoculars, said: "It's eating. See for yourself."

  Twilly positioned the crosshairs and saw twin puffs of mist rising from the beast's horned snout. Its prehensile upper lip browsed feebly at a bale of hay.

  "Looks about a thousand years old," Twilly said.

  Skink sounded somber. "If we're going to do this thing, whatever it is, it's gotta happen before they plug that poor sonofabitch. That I won't watch, you understand?"

  McGuinn edged cagily toward the slope, but Skink yanked him on his butt. Twilly pointed on a line with his rifle: "Here they come, captain."

  The hunting party arrived in a zebra-striped Chevy Suburban, parking no more than two hundred yards from the solitary oak. Eight men in all, the group made no effor
t at stealth. The great El Jefe, masticating serenely beneath the tree, seemed oblivious to the slamming doors, clicking gun bolts and unmuffled male voices.

  At the front of the truck they held a brief huddle – Skink spotted the orange flare of a match – before the stalk began in earnest. Two men headed out first, both armed. Twilly didn't recognize either of them but he knew one had to be Robert Clapley.

  Four men followed in a second group. Twilly didn't need a scope to pick out Desie's husband. He remembered Palmer Stoat's oversized cowboy hat from that first day, when he had pursued the obnoxious litterbug down the Florida Turnpike. Another giveaway was the bobbing cigar; downwind or upwind, only a stooge such as Stoat would smoke while tracking big game.

  Skink said, "There's your boy." He recognized Stoat's dough-ball physique from the night he'd broken into the lobbyist's house and usurped his bathroom. Seeing him again now, in such an inexcusable circumstance, Skink was even less inclined toward mercy. Twilly Spree had related how all the madness had started – Stoat blithely chucking hamburger cartons out the window of his Range Rover. The ex-governor had understood perfectly Twilly's infuriated reaction, for such atrocious misbehavior could not be overlooked. In Skink's view, which he kept to himself, Twilly had shown uncommon restraint.

  In the same contingent of hunters as Palmer Stoat marched the governor, looking theatrically chipper in an Aussie bush hat. Dick Artemus carried his gun in a way that suggested he practiced everything except shooting. A third man, leaner and darker, held a long-lensed camera but no weapon. The fourth man in the group walked out front with a rifle at the ready; he was older and wiry-looking, dressed more like a mechanic than a hunter.

  The last two members of the motley safari stayed many paces behind and shouldered shorter rifles – semiautomatics, Skink somberly informed Twilly. The men wore jeans, running shoes and navy blue windbreakers with the letters fdle visible on the back.

  "Governor Dick's bodyguards," Skink said, "with Mini-14s, if I'm not mistaken."

  Twilly didn't like the odds. The sun was rising behind the knoll, which meant he and the captain would get some cover from the glare. But still ...