Sick Puppy

by Carl Hiaasen

  In preparation for the fragile cargo, Asa Lando had padded the truck bed with two layers of king-sized mattresses. Upon being deposited there, the pachyderm blinked twice (which Durgess optimistically interpreted as a sign of curiosity). Asa tossed up an armful of fresh-cut branches and said, "Here go, Mr. El Jeffy. Breakfast time!"

  Durgess himself had selected the location for the kill: an ancient moss-covered live oak that stood alone at the blue-green cleft of two vast grassy slopes, about a mile from the Wilderness Veldt lodge. A hundred years ago the land had produced citrus and cotton, but back-to-back winter freezes had prompted a switch to more durable crops—watermelon, cabbage and crookneck squash. It was the sons and grandsons of those early vegetable growers who eventually abandoned the farm fields and sold out to the Wilderness Veldt Plantation Corporation, which turned out to be co-owned by a Tokyo-based shellfish cartel and a Miami Beach swimsuit designer named Minton Tweeze.

  In the dark it took Durgess a half hour to find the designated oak tree—he was driving the flatbed slowly so as not to lose Asa Lando, who was following with the forklift. Durgess parked the truck so that its headlights illuminated the clearing around the craggy trunk of the old tree. Before unloading the rhino, Durgess looped one end of a heavy cattle rope around its neck. The other end he secured to the trailer hitch of the flatbed.

  "Why bother?" Asa Lando said.

  "I got fifty thousand excellent reasons."

  But the rhino never made a move to break free; in fact, it made no movement at all. When Asa lowered the animal to the ground, it settled immediately to its knees, its drowsy demeanor unchanged. If it was happy to be outdoors again, neither Durgess nor Asa Lando could tell. They might as well have been rearranging statuary.

  Uneasily, Durgess studied Robert Clapley's high-priced quarry in the twin beams of the truck lights. "Asa, he don't look so good."

  "Old age. That's what he's dyin' from."

  "Long as he makes it till morning." Durgess cocked his head and put a tobacco-stained finger to his lips. "You hear a dog bark?"

  "No, but I heard a wheeze." Asa Lando jerked a thumb toward the rhino. "Chest cold. Doc Terrell says he probably picked it up on the aeroplane."

  Durgess hastily stubbed out his cigarette. "Christ. A rhinoceros with fucking asthma."

  "Comes and goes, Durge. Same with the arthritis."

  "To hell with that. I heard a dog out there, I swear I did."

  He cupped a hand to his ear and listened: Nothing. Asa Lando shrugged. "I'm tellin' you, it's Jeffy got a chest wheeze. That's all."

  Durgess edged toward the somnolent load and unslipped the rope. It seemed unnecessarily harsh to keep the aged creature tied down, as some prey had to be (due to the incompetent riflery of Wilderness Veldt clients, most of whom had no reasonable chance of hitting anything that wasn't tethered to a stake).

  Asa Lando took out a camera and snapped a picture of the rhinoceros, for posting on the Wilderness Veldt's Web site. Then he heaved a bale of wheat in front of the animal, which acknowledged the gesture with a gravelly sniff.

  "Well, Durge, that's it. All we can do now is go back to the lodge until dawn."

  "And say our prayers," Durgess said. "What if he up and dies, Asa? You think he'll fall over on one side, or will he stay... you know... "

  "Upright? That's a good question."

  "Because if he don't fall, I mean, if he just sorta keeps on his knees... "

  Asa Lando brightened. "They won't even know!"

  "There's a strong possibility," Durgess agreed. "The damn thing could be stone-dead and... "

  "From fifty yards away, how could they tell?"

  "That's what I'm savin', Asa. These clowns'll never figger it out. Long as Jeffy here don't keel over before they actually squeeze off a shot."

  Durgess took a step closer, into the spear of white light and swirling insects. He peered skeptically at the motionless rhino. "You still with us, old-timer?"

  "He is," Asa Lando said. "Unless that's a puddle of your piss on the grass."

  The hunting party had come in the night before and, against Durgess's advice, celebrated into the late hours with rich desserts, cognac and Cuban cigars. It was rare that the governor was able to cut loose and relax without fear of ending up in a snarky newspaper column—ordinarily he was careful not to be seen socializing so intimately with insider lobbyists such as Palmer Stoat or shady campaign donors such as Robert Clapley. And upon first arriving at the Wilderness Veldt, Dick Artemus had been subdued and remote, his wariness heightened by a recent unsettling event inside the governor's mansion.

  Gradually, however, the chief executive began to feel at ease within the gated privacy of the Wilderness Veldt Plantation, drinking fine whiskey and trading bawdy stories in cracked leather chairs by a cozy stone fireplace. This was what it must have been like in the good old days, the governor thought wistfully, when the state's most important business was conducted far from the stuffy, sterile confines of the capitol—hammered into law by sporting men, over smoky poker games at saloons and fish camps and hunting lodges; convivial settings that encouraged frank language and unabashed horse trading, free from the scrutiny of overzealous journalists and an uninformed public.

  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 "d
onation" 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 peb
ble 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.