by Carl Hiaasen
He said, "Tell me what happened, sweetie. Are you all right?"
"Like you care."
And so it went for nearly an hour—Stoat apologizing for coming home so bombed the previous night that he'd failed to notice Desie was missing; apologizing for not being on the airplane to meet her in Gainesville; apologizing for not personally picking her up at the Fort Lauderdale airport (although he'd sent a chauffeured Town Car!); apologizing for failing to comment upon her odd attire—baggy sweatpants and an orange mesh University of Florida football jersey, purchased in haste at a campus bookstore; apologizing for not inquiring sooner if the deranged kidnapper had raped her or roughed her up; and, finally, apologizing for stacking dead doves on the kitchen table.
Then Desie said: "Aren't you even going to ask about Boodle?"
So Stoat apologized again, this time for not being properly concerned about the abducted family pet.
"Where is he, hon?"
"The kidnapper's still got him," Desie announced.
"Oh, this is crazy."
"You're not going to like it."
"How much does he want?" Stoat asked.
"He's not after money."
"Then what?"
Desie repeated what the strange young dog-napper had instructed her to say. She omitted the fact that she was the one who'd tipped him off to the Shearwater project.
When Stoat heard the kidnapper's demand, he cackled.
"Palmer, the man is serious."
"Really."
"You'd better do what he wants."
"Or what," said Stoat. "He's going to kill my dog? My dog?"
"He says he will."
Again Stoat chuckled, and resumed cleaning the birds. "Come on, Des. The sickest bastard in the whole world isn't going to hurt a Labrador retriever. Especially Boodle—everybody falls head over heels for Boodle."
Exhausted though she was, Desie couldn't help but watch as her husband meticulously tugged out the gray feathers one by one and placed them in a soft velvety pile. Naked, the doves looked too scrawny to eat. The breasts were gaunt and the flesh was pocked unattractively with purple-tinged holes from the shotgun pellets.
He said, "Oh, I almost forgot—the package from Panama City?"
"On the porch," Desie said. "What is it, anyway?"
"Stationery."
"In Tupperware?"
"Oh... well, yeah," her husband stammered.
"Keeps out the humidity. It's good stuff. Embossed."
"Cut the crap. Palmer. It's powder."
"You opened it!"
"Yeah. My husband the smack dealer. No wonder you didn't want it sent by regular mail."
Stoat threw back his head and laughed. "Heroin? Now you think I'm moving heroin! Oh, that's priceless."
"Then what is it?" Desie demanded angrily. "What's in the Tupperware? Tell me, Palmer."
So he did, adding: "But I wanted it to be a surprise."
She stared at him. "Rhino sex powder."
"Hon, they don't always shoot the animals to get the horns. That's a common myth."
"You're unbelievable," Desie said.
"I just thought it might liven things up for you and me. Hey, can it hurt to try?"
Wordlessly she stood up and went to the bedroom.
"Aren't you hungry?" Stoat called hopefully after her. "Marisa's firing up the barbecue."
It took another forty-five minutes to finish with the heads and the skins of the birds. Not wishing to stink up his garbage can with the innards, he wrapped them in butcher paper and carried it across the backyard, through the hedge, to the well-manicured property of his neighbors, the Clarks, where he dumped the whole mess in the goldfish pond. Ned and Susan Clark, Stoat happened to know, were on a gambling cruise to Nassau.
After Stoat returned to the house, he sent the cook home, stored the doves in the refrigerator, stood for a long time under a hot shower and pondered what to do about Desirata. He didn't believe the kidnap story but took it as proof that something was seriously amiss, something was unraveling inside her mind. Maybe she'd run off with some guy on a whim, then changed her mind. Or maybe she'd simply freaked out and bolted. Manic depression, multiple-personality syndrome—Stoat had heard of these illnesses but was unclear about the symptoms. This much was true: Given the hinky events of the past twenty-four hours, he had come to suspect that his own unhappy spouse had conspired in the defacing of his prize taxidermy, the trashing of the red BMW, and even the infesting of his luxury sport-utility vehicle with shit-eating insects.
A cry for help, Palmer Stoat figured. Obviously the kid's got some loose shingles.
But whatever weird was happening within Desie, it was the part of her yarn about the dog that Stoat couldn't sort out. What had she done with poor Boodle, and why?
He toweled off and crawled into bed. He felt her go tense when he slipped an arm around her waist.
"You OK?" he asked.
"Never felt better."
"You smell good."
"Compared to a sack of dead pigeons, I hope so."
"I know you're upset, sweetie. I think we should talk."
"Well, I think we should be calling the police." Desie knew he wouldn't do it, but she was ticked off that he hadn't raised the prospect. What concerned husband wouldn't at least consider notifying the authorities after an intruder breaks into his home and takes off with his wife! So maybe it hadn't been a real kidnapping (since it was Desie's idea to go), but Palmer didn't know that.
He said, "Sweetie, we can't possibly get the police involved."
"Why not? You said he'll never hurt the dog, so what've we got to lose?"
"Because it'll be all over the TV and the newspapers, that's why. My clients rely on me to be low-profile and discreet," he explained. "This would be a disaster, Desie. I'd be a laughingstock. 'Dognapper Targets Prominent Lobbyist.' Jesus Hubbard Christ, can you imagine the headlines?"
She squirmed out of his embrace.
Stoat said, "Honestly, how could I show my face in Tallahassee or Washington? A story like that, I'm telling you, it might turn up in a Letterman monologue. Try to understand what that could do to my business."
"Fine," she said curtly.
"Don't worry. We'll get our puppy back."
"Then you'll do what this maniac wants. It's the only way," she said.
With an exaggerated sigh, Palmer rolled on his back. "It's not the only way. Trust me."
Desie turned to face him. "Please just do what he says."
"You can't be serious."
She said, "It's just a bridge, Palmer. One lousy bridge to one lousy little island. They'll get by fine without it."
"You don't know what you're talking about. Besides, it's already done. I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to, which I don't."
"Don't lie to me. Not about this."
Stoat sucked in his breath, wondering: What the hell does she mean by that?
Desie said what she'd been told to say by the dognapper: "Your buddy Governor Dick—he hasn't signed the budget bill yet, has he? Tell him to veto the money for the bridge."
"OK, that's it." Stoat sat up and reached for the lamp. "Darling, you've obviously lost your goddamned mind."
She closed her eyes but kept her cheek to the pillow. "Otherwise we'll never see the dog again," she said. "The lunatic has already changed his name, Palmer. He calls him McGuinn."
"Yeah. Whatever." What a whacked-out imagination she has, Stoat thought. He'd had no idea.
Desie stiffened beside him. "So you think I'm out of my mind? Isn't that what you just said?"
Palmer bowed his head and gingerly massaged his tender temples. "Look, Des, let's please finish talking about this tomorrow. I'm having a tough day's night."
His wife groaned in exasperation and rolled over.
Robert Clapley celebrated in his own special style. He returned with his share of the dove kill to the oceanfront condominium his company owned in Palm Beach. There he cooked the birds in a light wine sauce and lovingly serv
ed them to Katya and Tish, whom Clapley half-whimsically referred to as Barbie One and Barbie Two. Katya was from Russia; Tish was from the Czech Republic. They were both five ten and weighed approximately 130 pounds. Clapley didn't know their last names, or their true ages, and didn't ask. He had met them six months earlier on South Beach, at an all-night party thrown by a bisexual German real estate tycoon. The women told Clapley they were models and had come to Miami for new career opportunities. Steady fashion work was hard to come by in Eastern Europe, and the pay was lousy compared with that in France or the States. Robert Clapley thought Katya and Tish looked a bit flashy for big-time modeling, but they were plenty attractive enough for him. The fellow who'd thrown the party had taken Clapley aside and confided that it was he who had purchased the transatlantic plane tickets for Katya and Tish, and half a dozen other women who were exceptionally eager to come to America. The man had chosen them from an array of more than one hundred who had appeared on an audition videotape mailed to him by a "talent agency" in Moscow.
"But don't get the wrong idea. Bob. These girls are not common prostitutes," the man had assured Clapley.
No, Katya and Tish were not common. Within a week Clapley had installed them in one of his part-time residences, the sixteenth-floor Palm Beach condo, which featured a seven-jet Jacuzzi, a Bose sound system, and a million-dollar view of the Atlantic Ocean from every room. Katya and Tish were in heaven, and demonstrated their gratitude to Clapley with ferocious ardor. Occasionally they would go out to actual modeling tryouts, but for the most part they filled their days with swimming, sunning, shopping and watching American soap operas. When eventually it came time for their visas to expire, Katya and Tish were crestfallen. They appealed to their generous new boyfriend, Bob, who suggested he might be able to fix their immigration problems in exchange for a favor; not a small favor, though.
Robert Clapley had been the youngest of five children, and the only boy. At some point in an otherwise unremarkable childhood, young Bob had developed a somewhat unnatural interest in Barbie dolls, which his sisters collected like marbles. In fact there were so many Barbies and Barbie playhouses and Barbie wardrobes in the Clapley household that Robert's sisters never seemed to notice when one or two of the dolls went missing, and in any case wouldn't have thought to accuse their meek little brother. Robert's attraction to the Barbies was more than a fleeting puerile curiosity; three of the voluptuous eleven-and-a-half-inch icons—Wedding Day Barbie, Cinderella Barbie and Disco Barbie (plus assorted costumes)—covertly accompanied Clapley when he went off to college at age eighteen. Later, running dope twice monthly from Cartagena to South Bimini, Clapley was never without his favorite Live-Action Barbie, zipped snugly into the fur-lined pocket of his leather flight jacket.
What did he so adore about the plastic dolls? Their pneumatic and shapely flawlessness, to be sure. Each Barbie was dependably perfect to the eye and feel. That Clapley's obsession had an eccentric sexual component, there was no doubt, but he would have argued on the side of harmless fantasy over perversion. And indeed he treated the toy Barbies with the utmost veneration and civility, undressing them only long enough to change (or iron) their exquisite miniature outfits. Innocent or not, Robert Clapley knew enough to guard his secret; who would have understood? Clapley himself was vexed by the doll fixation, and as he got older began to doubt he would ever outgrow it—until he met Katya and Tish. Instantaneously the future appeared to Clapley in dual thunderbolts of lust. The statuesque immigrants represented a luminous opportunity for a therapeutic breakthrough; the transcendence of appetites from toy to flesh, from Barbie worship to Barbie carnality. In other words: from boy to man.
So strong was their desire to remain in the United States (and retain twenty-four-hour spa privileges at Robert Clapley's condominium tower), that Katya and Tish weren't completely unreceptive to his ambitiously twisted proposal. Matching the hair was a cinch; the blond hue of Clapley's choosing came in a brand-name bottle. The surgery, however—to begin with identically sized breast implants—was the cause of some trepidation for the two women.
There's absolutely nothing to worry about! Clapley insisted. America has the best doctors in the world!
Ultimately, Katya and Tish were persuaded to go along, cajoled and flattered and spoiled as they were by their enthusiastic young host. And Clapley was enthralled to observe the concurrent transformations, each cosmetic refinement bringing him closer to his dream of living live-in Barbies. No, it wouldn't be long now!
He sat at the head of the dinner table, sipping a chardonnay and beaming as Katya and Tish hungrily hacked at the scorched little bird carcasses. Palmer Stoat seems like a fellow who would appreciate this setup, Clapley thought cheerily. I can't wait to see his face when I introduce him to the girls.
And Stoat, like every man who'd recently met Katya and Tish, undoubtedly would lean over to his host and whisper: Wow, Bob, are those really twins?
And Robert Clapley would smile and answer the way he always did.
No, but they will be soon.
Vecker Darby's house blew up and burned down while Twilly Spree was asleep. Twilly would notice the photograph in the newspaper two days later, and sleep just as soundly that night. "Justice," he'd mutter to McGuinn, whose chin rested on his knee. "Justice, boy. That's all it is." The dog would sleep fine, too.
They were parked in palmetto scrub off a dirt road near Zolfo Springs when Vecker Darby came into their lives. It was close to midnight. Presumably, Desirata Stoat was home in Fort Lauderdale with her worthless dick-head of a husband, and Twilly found himself thinking about her. He was sitting in the rental car with an empty pizza box on his lap. McGuinn already had downed supper, four heaping cups of premium dry dog food; Desie had strictly instructed Twilly on which brand to purchase. Vet's orders, she'd said. Typically, McGuinn wolfed the whole pile in about fourteen seconds. Afterward Twilly would sneak out the antibiotic pills, each concealed in a square-folded slice of rare roast beef, which McGuinn eagerly inhaled.
Twilly had the radio turned up loud for Derek and the Dominoes, so at first he didn't hear Vecker Darby's flatbed truck. Certainly he didn't see it, as Vecker Darby was driving without headlights. Twilly was drumming his fingertips on the pizza box and wondering if, in retrospect, he'd been too hasty in his decision to ditch Mrs. Stoat in Bronson. Not that she would run to the cops; he had a strong feeling she wouldn't. No, what bothered Twilly was how he sort of missed her. She was good company; plus, she had a lovely laugh. The dog was terrific, a real champ, but he didn't light up the car the way Desie Stoat did.
I wonder if I'll ever see her again, Twilly thought.
When the song ended, he turned off the radio. That's when he heard the truck nearby—specifically, the grinding hydraulics of the flatbed being tilted. McGuinn raised his huge black head and barked. Hush! Twilly whispered. He slipped from the car and circled back through the scrub until he gained a clear view of the truck and what the driver was doing. As the incline of the flatbed steepened, the truck's unbound cargo began sliding off the back—assorted barrels, drums, tanks and cylinders, tumbling one after another down a gentle mossy embankment toward the banks of the Peace River, where Twilly Spree had hoped to spend a soothing, restful night.
The driver, whose name Twilly wouldn't learn until he saw it in the paper, didn't bother to watch his own handiwork. He leaned one hip against the fender and smoked a cigarette and waited until the whole load went down the slope. Then he lowered the flatbed, climbed in the cab and drove the five miles home. Vecker Darby was still in the shower when Twilly hot-wired the truck and raced back to the river to retrieve the barrels, drums, tanks and cylinders. Two hours later, when Twilly returned, Vecker Darby was sleeping in his favorite Naugahyde recliner with six empty Coors cans at his feet and the Playboy Channel blaring on the television.
He failed to awaken when one of the bedroom windows was pried open and the screen was cut, and therefore didn't see the broken-off end of a plastic rain gutter being ins
erted into his house by a stranger clad in Vecker Darby's own canary yellow hazmat moon suit (which Vecker Darby almost never wore but stored faithfully under the seat of his truck, in case of encountering an EPA inspector).
Nor did Vecker Darby awaken during the following ninety minutes, during which approximately 197 gallons of virulent and combustible fluids were funneled from barrels, drums, tanks and cylinders directly into the house. The resulting toxic soup contained the ingredients of xylene, benzyl phythlate, methanol, toluene, ethyl benzene, ethylene oxide and common formaldehyde, any of which would have caused a grave and lasting damage to the Peace River. The risk to an occupied home dwelling was equally dire but would prove far more spectacular, visually.
What finally aroused Vecker Darby from sleep were the caustic fumes. He arose, coughing violently and keenly aware that something was amiss. He fully intended to exit the premises, after first emptying his bloated bladder of beer. Conceivably, he would have survived a brief detour to the bathroom had he not (out of dull, brainless habit) lighted up a Marlboro on the way.