Sick Puppy

by Carl Hiaasen

  "Let 'em go," Stoat said. "I'm begging you."

  "Are you deaf? It's not going to happen." Clapley gave a brittle laugh. "That's why men like Mr. Gash exist—and prosper. Because of situations like this."

  Stoat said, "Speaking of which, here's some of that good news I promised. That pesky problem we've been having up at Toad Island is all taken care of. The kid who grabbed my dog is in the hospital with a forty-five-caliber hole in his chest."

  "Fantastic! That means Mr. Gash is available for a new job."

  "I don't know about Mr. Gash. My information comes directly from the governor," Stoat said, "and he wasn't too clear on the details. The important thing is, that nutty kid is finally out of the picture. And, oh yeah, Desie and Boodle are OK, too. Not that I give a shit."

  Robert Clapley found himself gazing past Stoat, at a dancer performing in a nearby booth. She had long golden hair, high conical breasts and pouty lacquered lips.

  "Close." Clapley was talking strictly to himself. "If only she was taller."

  "Jesus Hubbard Christ. You want to hear the rest, or you want to go diddle with your dollies?" Palmer Stoat unsheathed a Cohiba and fired it up with a flourish. He took his sweet time.

  Without looking away from the woman, Clapley said, "Tell me about the bridge money. Tell me it's all set."

  "We're almost there, Bob. It's ninety-nine percent a done deal."

  "Who's the one percent?"

  "Willie Vasquez-Washington."

  "Again!"

  "Don't worry. He's almost there."

  Robert Clapley sneered. "I've heard that one before. How tall you think that girl is? The blonde."

  "Gee, Bob, it's awful hard to tell while she's got her feet hooked behind her ears."

  "I assume you've got another plan."

  "Oh, a good one."

  "Do tell."

  "We're taking Rainbow Willie on a hunting trip. You, me, and Governor Dick. At that private game reserve I told you about up in Marion County," Stoat said. "We're gonna hunt, drink, smoke and tell stories. And we're gonna make friends with Willie, whatever it takes."

  Clapley scowled. "Whoa. That little prick is not getting my trophy cat,"

  "That's the other thing I came to tell you.

  "Durgess, my guide, he says they sent the ranch a bum cheetah. A stone gimp."

  "That's good news?"

  "No, Bob, the good news is, he's got a rhinoceros instead. A genuine killer rhino." Stoat paused suspensefully. "Stomped a man to death a few years back."

  Robert Clapley's head snapped around. Tremulously he sat forward. "And the horn?"

  "Huge," Stoat whispered. "Major stud dust."

  "God. That's fantastic."

  Clapley's hands dove under the table, into his pockets. Stoat pretended not to notice.

  "When's the hunt?" Clapley was breathless.

  "This weekend. Durgess said the sooner the better."

  "Yes! They'll come back to me now, for sure. Katya and Tish, I know they will." Clapley was radiant. "They'll come running home for the good stuff—especially when they find out I'm going to shoot the big bastard myself. A killer rhino. Can you imagine? They'll dump that ganja turd in a heartbeat."

  "In which case, you wouldn't have to kill him, right?" Stoat cringed whenever he thought of Porcupine Head amok.

  Clapley shrugged. "Frankly, I'd rather spend my money on something else. Mr. Gash isn't cheap." Clapley snatched a cigar out of Stoat's pocket. "And neither are you, Palmer. How much is all this extra fun going to cost me? Remember, you owed me the cheetah and then some. So... how much?"

  "Not a dime, Bob. The hunt is on me."

  "That's mighty kind."

  "But the horn you've got to buy separately," Stoat said, "at the price we discussed. Rules of the house."

  "Glad to do it," said Clapley. "Oh, by the way, these Cohibas of yours are counterfeit."

  "What! Noway."

  "You can tell by the labels, Palmer. See these tiny black dots? They're supposed to be raised up, so you can feel 'em with your fingertips. That's how they come from the factory in La Habana. But these you got"—Clapley, wagging one in front of Stoat's nose—"see, the dots are smooth to the touch. That means they're elfake-o."

  "No way," Stoat huffed. "Three hundred dollars a box at the Marina Hemingway. No way they're knockoffs." He removed the cigar from his lips and set it, unaffectionately, on the table's edge. He hunched close to examine the label.

  Robert Clapley stood to leave. He patted Stoat on the back and said, "Don't worry, buddy. I'll get us some real McCoys, for the big rhinoceros hunt."

  At that moment, a Florida Highway Patrol car entered the black wrought-iron gate of the governor's mansion in Tallahassee. At the door, a plainclothes FDLE agent waved Lt. Jim Tile inside, but not before giving his two companions a hard skeptical look. One was a black dog. The other was a man who was not properly attired for lunch with the chief executive.

  Lisa June Peterson was waiting for them.

  "Nice to see you again," Skink said, kissing her cheek. "You look ever-lovely."

  Lisa June's cheeks flushed. Jim Tile shot a laser glare at his friend, who beamed innocently.

  "I got him to shower," the trooper said, "but that's all."

  "He looks fine," said Lisa June Peterson.

  Former Governor Clinton Tyree wore hiking boots, his blaze orange rain jacket with matching trousers, a new shower cap (with a daisy pattern) and a vest made from Chihuahua pelts.

  "For special occasions," he explained.

  "Dear Lord," Jim Tile said.

  "It's truly one of a kind."

  Lisa June said nothing; surely there was a story behind the vest, and just as surely she didn't want to hear it. She knelt to scratch McGuinn's chin. "Aw, what a handsome boy."

  "An OK dog," Skink conceded, "but definitely not the brightest bulb in the chandelier."

  Lisa June took the former governor's arm. "Come on. He's waiting for you."

  "Oh, I'm tingling with excitement."

  "Don't start," Jim Tile said. "You promised."

  Skink told Lisa June: "Hon, don't mind Jim. He's just pissed because I lost his cell phone."

  She led them to the dining room. Lunch was hearts-of-palm salad, conch chowder, medallions of venison and Key lime pie.

  "An all-Florida menu," Lisa June announced with a whimsical curtsy, "in yore onna, sun!"

  Skink parked himself at the head of the long table. The trooper said, without irony, "That's the governor's place, Governor."

  "Yes, Jim, I remember."

  "Don't do this."

  "Do what?"

  Lisa June said, "It's fine, Lieutenant. Governor Artemus has been fully briefed."

  "With all due respect, I seriously doubt that."

  Through a side door burst Dick Artemus; dapper, energized and primed to charm. His face was fresh-scrubbed and ruddy, his hair lustrous and ardently brushed, his green eyes clear and twinkling. When Clinton Tyree stood up, the governor bear-hugged him as if he were a long-lost twin.

  "The one and only! I can't believe you're here!" Dick Artemus looked positively misty.

  Dropping to one knee, he fondly grabbed McGuinn by the ruff and made coo-cheee-coo sounds. "Hey, boy, I'm glad to see you still got both ears. That bad man didn't hurt you after all!"

  Skink glanced skeptically at Jim Tile.

  "This is quite an honor," Dick Artemus said, rising.

  "Why?" Skink asked.

  "Because you're a legend, Governor."

  "I'm a goddamned footnote in a history book. That's all."

  "How about a glass of orange juice?" Lisa June Peterson suggested.

  "Thanks. Heavy on the pulp," Skink said.

  Dick Artemus exclaimed: "Me, too! The best OJ is the kind you gotta chew. What're those little beauties tied to the ends of your beard—may I ask?"

  "Buzzard beaks."

  "Ah! I was gonna guess eagles." Dick Artemus signaled to one of the stewards. "Sean, an orange juice for
the governor and how about a screwdriver for me. And you folks?"

  In unison, Jim Tile and Lisa June Peterson declined a beverage.

  "So, tell me," Dick Artemus burbled to Skink, "how's the old place look? Seven hundred North Adams Street."

  "About the same."

  "Bring back memories?"

  "More like hives."

  The governor was undaunted. "Was the gym built when you were here? Would you like a tour?"

  Skink looked at Lisa June. "Is he for real?" He threw back his head and cackled. "A tour!"

  Lunch was more small talk; Dick Artemus was the world champion of small talkers. Lt. Jim Tile was strung drum-tight, and he finished his meal as rapidly as decent manners allowed. He had argued vigorously against such a meeting, as there was no telling how Clinton Tyree would react upon returning to the mansion after so many years. The trooper also held no expectation that the ex-governor would take a liking to the present governor, or for that matter show him even a trace of respect. Nothing good could come of the visit, Jim Tile had warned Lisa June Peterson, who had promised to warn the governor.

  But Dick Artemus wasn't worried, for he believed he was the most irresistible sonofabitch in the whole world. He believed he could make anyone like him. And he had been flattered to learn that the legendary Clinton Tyree wanted to meet him.

  "Tell me about your eye," he chirped.

  "If you tell me about your hair."

  Lisa June, helpfully: "Governor Tyree lost the eye many years ago, during a violent robbery."

  "Actually, it was more of an old-fashioned assault," Skink said, inhaling a frothy sliver of pie. "I go through glass eyeballs like underwear. A friend of mine found this one in Belgrade." He tapped the crimson iris with a tine of his silver dessert fork. "Said she got it off a Gypsy king, and I choose to believe her. She had quite a circus background."

  The governor nodded as if this were conversation he heard every day. His attention was broken by something poking him between his legs—the Labrador, lobbying for a handout. Dick Artemus genially slipped the dog a chunk of corn bread.

  "Let's talk turkey," he said. "First, I want to thank you, Governor, for finding this troubled young man."

  "Unfortunately, someone else found him first."

  "Yes. Lieutenant Tile notified me as soon as he heard. He also told me how you risked your life to get the kid out alive."

  "A promise is a promise." Skink put down the fork with a sharp clink. "I kept mine."

  "Yes. You sure did." The governor shifted uneasily, then pretended it was because of the dog nosing him beneath the table. Lisa June Peterson knew better. So did Jim Tile.

  Skink said, "You said you're going to get the boy some counseling."

  "That's right."

  "Where?"

  "Uh... well, wherever he wants," Dick Artemus fumbled. "How's he doing, by the way? How bad was he hit?"

  "He'll make it. He's tough," Skink said. "Why're all those cops outside his hospital room?"

  "For his own protection," the governor replied matter-of-factly. "Somebody tried to kill him, remember?"

  "So he's not under arrest?"

  "Not to my knowledge. Mr. Stoat isn't interested in prosecuting. He says the publicity of a trial would be unwelcome, and I couldn't agree more."

  "All right." Skink, planting his elbows on the table. "Now, what about my brother?"

  "Yes?" The governor snuck an anxious glance at Lisa June Peterson.

  "Doyle," she said.

  "Right. Doyle Tyree!" Dick Artemus, awash with relief. "The lighthouse keeper. Certainly he can stay there as long as he wants. Hillsborough Inlet, right?"

  "Peregrine Bay." Again Skink turned to Lisa June Peterson. "Would you and Jim mind if I spoke to the governor in private?"

  Lisa June tried to object and Jim Tile weighed in with a grave sigh, but Dick Artemus brushed them off. "Of course they don't mind. Lisa June, why don't you take this puppy out back and introduce him to some of our magnificent old Leon County pine trees." Dick Artemus had a speech to give in thirty minutes, and he didn't wish to be seen with dog snot on his inseam.

  Once they were alone, the former governor said to the present governor: "What about that island?"

  "It'll be real nice when they're done."

  "It's real nice now," Skink said. "Ever been there?"

  Dick Artemus said he hadn't. "Look, you remember how this stuff works." He drained his glass down to the ice cubes, chasing the last of the vodka. "The guy wrote some major checks to my campaign. In return, he expects a little consideration. Slack, if you want to call it that. And I've gotta say, he's done most everything by the book with this Shearwater thing. The zoning, the permits, the wildlife surveys—it all looks kosher. That's what my people say."

  "You oughta at least see the place before you let 'em wreck it."

  "Governor, I appreciate how you feel."

  "You don't appreciate shit."

  "What're you doing? Hey, let go!"

  The bulldozer dream kept rerunning itself, the snarling chorus of machines chasing Twilly Spree farther and farther from shore. The way it finally ended was: The gulls began falling from the sky, just as Twilly had dreaded. The birds were stiff before they hit the water and they hurtled down like rocks, splashing around his head. He dove to escape, but whenever he surfaced for a breath he got struck; a sickening thwock against his skull. Twilly soon lost the strength to swim, and he found himself sinking into an icy whorl of cobalt and foam. It felt like talons pulling him down, death clawing at his bare legs. Then something powerful took hold of him and tugged him upward, out of the swirling cold and free of the grasping claws.

  The black dog! It was like a damn Disney flick, a plucky hound swimming to the rescue, dragging him to the top for air...

  Except it wasn't a dog bringing him up. It was Desie, one arm behind his head, holding him upright while she adjusted the pillows. The first thing Twilly saw when he opened his eyes was the pale cleft at the base of her neck. He leaned forward to kiss it, a deed that (judging by the pain) split open his chest.

  Desie was smiling. "Somebody's feeling better."

  "Lots," Twilly gasped.

  "Don't try to talk," she said, "or smooch."

  She pecked him on the forehead; not a good sign. They always pecked him on the forehead right before they said good-bye.

  "I'm sorry about everything," he told her.

  "Why? I was there because I wanted to be."

  "You leaving?"

  She nodded. "Hot-lanta. Spend some catchup time with the folks."

  "I love you," Twilly said blearily, though it was absolutely true. It was also true he would fall in love with the next woman who slept with him, as always.

  Desie Stoat said, "I know you do."

  "You look incredible."

  "It's the Demerol, darling. I look like hell. Get some rest now."

  "What about that man... "

  "Oh!" Desie tweaked his ankle through the blanket. "You'll never guess who he is!"

  When she told him, Twilly acted as if he'd been mainlined with pure adrenaline. His head rocked off the bed and he blurted: "I know that name! From my mother."

  "Clinton Tyree?"

  "The whole story! She thought he was a hero. My father said he was a nut."

  Desie said, "Well, he hit on me in the helicopter."

  "See? That proves he's sane." Twilly flashed a weak smile before sinking back on the pillows.

  "He also expressed an extremely low opinion of my husband. He said a school-yard flasher would be a step up."

  Twilly chuckled. A nurse bustled in to fiddle with the drip on his IV bag. She told him to get some sleep, and on her way out favored Desie with a scalding glare.

  "I spoke to Palmer this morning. Just to let him know I'm OK," Desie said. "He sounded happy as a clam. He's going hunting this weekend with Governor Dick and—guess who else—Robert Clapley. I suppose they're celebrating Shearwater."

  Twilly grunted curiously. "Hun
ting for what? Where?"

  "Honey, even if I knew, I'd never tell." Desie wore a sad smile. She traced a finger lightly down his cheek. "All that crazy talk about killing somebody—you keep it up, hotshot, you're headed for an early grave. Call me selfish but I don't want to be around when it happens."