by Carl Hiaasen
Desie said, "I'd say so, judging by the way he hurled his dinner. Where are you?"
"Not far."
"Please tell me it's not Boodle's ear."
"The name's McGuinn, remember?"
"But it's not his ear, is it? God, please don't say you sliced off that poor dog's ear. Not over a bunch of dead toads."
Twilly said, "I didn't. I would never."
"I knew it."
"But this isn't about toads, it's about pillage. We're dealing with an immoral, unforgivable crime." Twilly sighed in frustration. "Don't you read the papers, Mrs. Stoat? Can't you see who's running the show?"
Desie said, "Take it easy." The last thing she wanted to do was set him off.
"Now I've got a question for you," Twilly said. "Why didn't you tell me the truth about your dog?"
"Uh-oh," said Desie.
Twilly recounted the visit to the veterinarian, and the unsavory retrieval of the glass buffalo eye.
"It wasn't your fault. He'll eat anything," Desie said.
"It most certainly was my fault."
"How's he doing now? That's the important thing."
"He seems OK," Twilly said, "but he misses you."
"I miss him, too."
"How much?" asked Twilly. "What I mean is, do you want to see him?"
"Yes!"
"That way, you can count his ears. See for yourself that I'm no puppy slasher."
"Of course I want to see him." Desie climbed out of the water and put on a robe, switching hands with the phone. "Where are you now?" she asked Twilly again.
"But you can't tell your dickhead husband, OK? He's got to believe it's McGuinn's ear, or the whole plan goes bust. Can you promise me? Because if Palmer finds out the truth, neither of you will ever see this animal again. I won't hurt him, Mrs. Stoat, I'm sure you already figured that out. But I swear to God you'll never lay eyes on him again."
Desie knew he wasn't bluffing. She knew he was angry enough to punish her husband, and that he wouldn't stop with snatching the family pet. She said, "Twilly, I won't tell him about the ear. Look, I've trusted you. Now it's your turn to trust me."
Still dripping from the bath, she padded to the kitchen and got a notepad. Twilly made her read back his directions after she'd jotted them down.
"Can I bring you anything?" she said.
There was a pause on the line. "Yes, I'd like a book."
"Poetry?" Desie, thinking of his Ezra Pound approach.
"I'm not in the mood. But anything by John D. MacDonald would be terrific. And also some Tic Tacs. Spearmint, if it's not too much trouble."
Desie caught herself smiling. "No trouble," she said. Something brushed her bare toes and she jumped—it was only the maid, diligently mopping the drops on the kitchen tile.
"How do you know McGuinn misses me?"
"Sometimes he gets mopey," Twilly said.
"Maybe it's Palmer he misses."
"Be serious. I'll see you later."
"Wait. About this ear—what do I do with it?"
"Whatever you want," said Twilly. "Hang it on the Christmas tree, for all I care. Or nail it to the wall, with the rest of your husband's dead animal parts."
Desie thought: Boy, he is in a shitty mood.
She said, "I'm just curious. If it's not Boodle's—"
"McGuinn!"
"Sorry. If it's not McGuinn's ear—"
"And it's not. Didn't I tell you?"
"Right, you did," Desie said. "And that's why I can't help being curious. Anybody would—a gross item like this arrives on your doorstep. But now I'm thinking: Do I really want to know where it came from?"
"You do not," said Twilly Spree. "Definitely not."
Dick Artemus had known Palmer Stoat three years. They'd first met on a quail-hunting plantation in Thomasville, Georgia, across the state line from Tallahassee. At the time, Dick Artemus was the mayor of Jacksonville, and also the multimillionaire owner of seven Toyota dealerships, all prosperous. For the usual reasons he decided he needed to be governor of Florida, and methodically began ingratiating himself with all the major players in state politics. One was Palmer Stoat, the well-known lobbyist, problem fixer and deal broker.
Stoat had been ambivalent about meeting Dick Artemus, as he'd recently purchased a Toyota Land Cruiser that had given him nothing but grief. One of the electric windows shorted out, the CD player got jammed on Cat Stevens, and the four-wheel drive functioned only in reverse. These annoyances were brought to Dick Artemus's attention by a mutual acquaintance of Palmer Stoat, and two days later a flatbed hauling a brand-new Land Cruiser pulled into Stoat's driveway. The next morning, Stoat chartered a plane for Thomasville.
The quails were so quick that he actually managed to hit a few. Another pleasant surprise was Dick Artemus, who turned out to be glib, sufficiently charming and presentable, with the obligatory flawless dentition and mane of silver-gray hair. The man could actually win this thing, Palmer Stoat thought—Artemus was three inches taller and ten times better-looking than any of the Democrats.
In Stoat's occupation it was unwise to take sides (because one never knew when the political tides might change), but he discreetly arranged introductions between Dick Artemus and Florida's heaviest campaign donors, most of whom happened to be Stoat's clients from industry, real estate and agriculture. They were favorably impressed by the handsome automobile tycoon. By midsummer, two months before the Republican primary, Dick Artemus had collected more than $4 million in contributions, much of it traceable and even legitimate. He went on to capture the general election by a breezy margin of 200,000 votes.
Dick Artemus never forgot the value of Palmer Stoat's early guidance, because Palmer Stoat wouldn't let him forget. Usually it was the lobbyist who needed a favor but occasionally the governor himself made the phone call. They cut back on the weekend hunting trips, as both men agreed it would be imprudent to be seen spending time together. Stoat couldn't afford to piss off the Democrats, while Dick Artemus couldn't afford to be branded the stooge of some oily wheeler-dealer lobbyist. The two remained friendly, if not close. When (after less than a year!) Palmer Stoat traded in the Toyota for a new Range Rover, Dick Artemus diplomatically hid his disappointment. He had reelection to worry about; he would need Stoat's connections.
So naturally the governor said yes when Palmer called to request a rare meeting alone. Lisa June Peterson, the aide who took the call, knew it was a serious matter because Stoat didn't try to flirt with her over the phone, or invite her out for drinks, or ask for her dress size so he could buy her a little something the next time he was in Milan. No, Palmer Stoat sounded more tense and distracted than Lisa June Peterson had ever heard him.
Dick Artemus set up one of his famous private lunches at the governor's mansion, and made sure Stoat arrived through the service entrance, out of view of visitors and journalists. The menu featured sauteed baby lobsters, quite illegal to possess, which had been confiscated from poachers by the marine patrol in Key Largo and then transported by state helicopter to Tallahassee. (Anyone who asked questions was told the undersized crustaceans were being donated to the kitchen of a local church orphanage, and on infrequent occasions—when the governor had a prior dinner commitment, for example—that act of charity would actually come to pass.)
The lobsters were so runty that Palmer Stoat immediately abandoned the fork and went to his fingers. Dick Artemus couldn't help but notice how Stoat delicately stacked the empty carapaces on his butter plate, a display of meticulousness that contrasted oddly with his wet sloppy chewing.
"The bridge," Stoat said, after his second glass of wine.
"Which bridge?"
"Toad Island. The Shearwater project." Stoat had a baby lobster plugged in each cheek. It made him appear mottled and goggle-eyed, like a grouper.
Dick Artemus said, "What's the problem, Palmer? The bridge money is in the budget—it's a done deal."
"Well, I need you to undo it."
"Is this a joke?"
"No," Stoat said, "it's a matter of life and death."
"That's not good enough," said the governor.
"Dick, you've got to veto the bridge."
"You're completely insane."
"No, you listen up." Palmer Stoat wiped his butter-slick hands on a linen napkin and slugged down the rest of his wine. Then he told Dick Artemus the whole story about the missing dog; about the deranged lunatic who broke into his house and stole Boodle and vowed to murder the animal if Robert Clapley got that new bridge; about how Desie was threatening to leave him if he didn't do what the dognapper demanded; about how he couldn't afford another costly divorce, couldn't afford to have a humiliating story like this splashed all over the newspapers and television; and, finally, about how much he loved his big dopey pooch and didn't want him to die.
The governor replied with a murmur of disappointment. "It's that fucking Willie Vasquez-Washington, isn't it? He wants something else from me."
Palmer Stoat rose off his chair. "You think I'd make up something like this—a dog abduction, for Chrissake!—to cover for a greedy two-bit cocksucker like Willie V? He's nothing to me, Dick, a jigaboo gnat on the fucking windshield of life!"
"OK, keep it down." Three hundred Brownie scouts were touring the governor's mansion, and Dick Artemus preferred that their tender ears be spared Stoat's profane braying.
"This is my reputation I'm talking about," Stoat continued. "My marriage, my financial situation, my whole future—"
"What kind of dog?" the governor asked.
"Black Lab."
Dick Artemus smiled fondly. "Aw, they're great. I've had three of 'em."
"Then you know," Stoat said.
"Yeah, yeah. I sure loved those hounds, Palmer, but I wouldn't have tanked a twenty-eight-million-dollar public works project for one. I mean, there's love and then there's love." The governor raised his palms.
Stoat said, "I'm not talking about killing the bridge project, my friend. You sign a line-item veto next week. Maybe Clapley screams and hollers for a little while. Same for Roothaus. My crazy dognapper reads in the papers how the Shearwater deal is suddenly DOA, and he lets Boodle go free and everything's hunky-dory."
"Boodle?" Dick Artemus said quizzically.
"That's his name—long story. Anyhow, soon as I get back my dog, here's what you should do, Dick. You call the legislature back to Tallahassee for a special session."
"All for a bridge? You can't be serious. I'll get slaughtered by the press."
In agitation Stoat lunged for a fresh bottle of wine. "Dick, in the immortal words of Jethro Tull, sometimes you're as thick as a stick."
The governor glanced at his wristwatch and said, "How about cutting to the chase."
"OK," said Stoat. "You're not calling a special session for one lousy bridge, you're calling it for education. You aren't happy with how your colleagues in the House and Senate hacked up your education package—"
"That's the truth."
"—and so you're bringing them back to Tallahassee to finish the job, on behalf of all the children of Florida. You say they deserve bigger classrooms, more teachers, newer books, and so on. You follow me?"
The governor grinned. "Let me guess. Robert Clapley intends to build a public school on Shearwater Island."
"I expect he'll be receptive to the idea, yes."
"But school buses are heavy vehicles, aren't they?"
"Especially when they're full, that's absolutely right." Palmer Stoat was pleased. There was hope yet for Dick Artemus. "You can't have a bus loaded with innocent little kids going back and forth across the bay on a rickety old bridge."
"Too dangerous," the governor agreed.
"Risky as hell. And how can you put a price tag on a child's safety?"
"You can't," said Dick Artemus.
Stoat's voice rose melodramatically to the occasion. "Try telling Mom and Dad that little Jimmy doesn't deserve a safe new bridge for his first school bus ride to Shearwater Elementary. See if they don't think twenty-eight million dollars is a small price to pay... "
The governor's eyes twinkled. "You're a stone genius, Palmer."
"Not so fast. We've got lots of phone calls to make."
The governor canted one eyebrow. "We?"
"Hell, Dick, you said you liked dogs."
This is craziness, thought Dick Artemus, whacko world. That he was even considering such a scheme was a measure of how desperately he wanted to keep Palmer Stoat on his side.
Said the governor: "I assume Bob Clapley's on board for all this nonsense."
"Oh, I'll handle Clapley," Stoat said with the flick of a hand. "He doesn't give a damn how he gets the bridge, as long as he gets it. Don't you worry about Clapley."
"Fine, then."
"In fact, I'd keep my distance from him until we get this ironed out."
"You're the man, Palmer."
They talked about basketball and hunting and women until they were done with dessert, homemade pecan pie topped with vanilla ice cream. Stoat was putting on his coat when the governor said: "Your kooky dognapper—how do you know he's not fulla shit?"
"Because he sent me a goddamn ear, that's how," Stoat said. "An ear off a real dog."
The governor was dumbfounded. "Yours?"
"I don't know for sure. It's very possible," Stoat acknowledged, "but even if it isn't Boodle's ear, you see what I'm up against. He hacked the damn thing off a dog, some dog somewhere. That's the point. An actual ear, Dick, which he then sent to me via Federal fucking Express. Just so you appreciate what we're dealing with."
"Yes. I get the picture." The governor looked shaken. He was thinking: Again with the "we"?
11
Palmer took Desie to a seafood restaurant on Las Olas Boulevard, where she was so distracted by his table manners that she hardly ate a bite. He'd ordered two dozen oysters, slurping them with such sibilant exuberance that customers at nearby tables had fallen silent in disgust. Now Palmer was arranging the empty oyster shells around the rim of his plate, six identical piles of four. He was chattering away, seemingly unaware of his deviant tidying. Desie was as perplexed as she was embarrassed. Wasn't this the same slob who had, on the drive to the restaurant, lobbed an empty coffee cup and three handfuls of junk mail out of the Range Rover? Desie didn't know the clinical name of her husband's disorder, but the symptoms were not subtle; anything he couldn't eat, drink or reorganize got chucked.
"You're not listening to me," said Palmer Stoat.
"Sorry."
"What're you staring at?"
"Nothing."
"Is there something wrong with your scrod?"
"It's fine, Palmer. Go on, now. Tell me what Dick said."
"He said he'll do it."
"Are you serious?" Desie had assumed there was no chance.
"For me, he'll do it," said Stoat self-importantly. "He'll kill the bridge."
"That's fantastic."
"Yeah, well, it's gonna cost me big-time. Bob Clapley'll want my testicles on a key chain before this is over, and he won't be alone. Twenty-eight million bucks buys an army of enemies, Des."
She said, "What's more important—another stupid golf resort or saving your dog's life?"
"Fine. Fine. When do we get the big guy back?"
"When it makes the newspapers, about the bridge veto. That's when the kidnapper will let Boodle go. He said he'll be in touch in the meantime."
"Wonderful." Stoat signaled for the check. "Too bad you didn't get his name."
"Palmer, he's a criminal. They don't give out business cards." Desie didn't understand why she continued to protect Twilly Spree, but it was no time to change her story.
Stoat said, "I'm just curious is all. It's gotta be somebody who knows me. Somebody I pissed off somewhere up the line. Seriously pissed off, to break into my house and snatch my goddamn Labrador."
"What's the difference?" she said. "You said everything's set. Governor Dick's going to do what you asked, then we get Boodle back and all the fuss i
s over. Right?"
"That would be the plan," said her husband.
Then, turning to the waiter: "Could you please see that my wife's entree is taken off our bill? The scrod was so freezer-burned she couldn't eat it."
"For heaven's sake," Desie said.
Driving home, Palmer slid his free hand beneath her skirt. "You proud of me?" he asked.
"I am." Involuntarily she pressed her knees together.