Sick Puppy (12 page)

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 sautéed 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 is over. Right?”

“That would be the plan,” said her husband. Then, turning to the waiter: “Could you please see that my wife’s entrée 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.

“How proud?”

Desie felt her chest tighten. She locked her eyes straight ahead, as if watching the traffic.

“Proud enough for a little you-know-what?”

“Palmer.” But she was leaden with guilt. Of course she’d have sex with him tonight—after what he’d done for the dog, how could she say no?

“It’s been a couple of weeks,” he noted.

“I know. A rough couple of weeks.”

“For both of us, sweetheart. So how about it? Lilac candles. A bottle of French wine—”

“Sounds nice,” said Desie.

“—and maybe a spoonful of rhino dust for some extra-special excitement.”

“No!”

“Des, come on.”

“No way, Palmer.
No way
!” She removed his hand from inside her panties and told him to mind the road. It took three traffic lights for Stoat to compose himself and rally for the salvage operation.

“You’re right,” he said to Desie. “Forget the rhino horn, forget I even mentioned it. I’m sorry.”

“Promise me you’ll throw it away.”

“I promise,” Stoat lied. Already he was thinking about the intriguing call girl he’d met the other night at Swain’s, the one who fucked only Republicans. Certainly
she
would have no liberal qualms about aphrodisiacs harvested from endangered species. Nor would Roberta, the free-spirited, prodigiously implanted blonde who was Stoat’s occasional travel companion. For the promise of a new and improved orgasm, Roberta would’ve killed the rhinoceros with her own bare hands.

But to his wife, Palmer Stoat declared: “I’ll toss the stuff first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

With a sly sideways glance, he said: “Does that mean we’re still on for later?”

“I suppose.” Desie turned her head, pretending to scout the bikinis in the display window of a beachwear shop. She felt the spiderish return of Palmer’s fingers between her legs. He left them there after the light turned green.

“You look soooooo gorgeous tonight,” he said. “I can’t wait to see the pictures!”

Lord, Desie thought. The shutterbug routine again.

“Palmer, I’m not really in the mood.”

“Since when? Come on, darling, learn to relax.”

Stoat stopped at a convenience store, where he purchased three packs of Polaroid film. He compulsively tore them open inside the truck, throwing the empty boxes into the parking lot. Desie got out and retrieved each one, much to her husband’s consternation.

“What’s gotten into you?” he demanded.

“Just drive,” she told him. “Just take me home.”

So we can get it over with.

That night Twilly Spree was pulled over by a policeman on Route A1A in the snowbird community of Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. Twilly thought he knew why: There had been another incident of anger mismanagement, this one involving four college students, two personal watercrafts and a large volume of beer.

It had happened after Twilly returned the rented Chevrolet Corsica and transferred McGuinn to the black pickup truck. Twilly was minding his own affairs, waiting in traffic on the Commercial Boulevard drawbridge, when he noticed two Jet Skis racing at break-ass speed down the Intracoastal Waterway. One Jet Ski was white with bright blue stripes; the other was white with red stripes. Each carried a matching pair of riders—a young stud at the helm with a young babe behind him, arms locked around his waist. They were jumping the wakes of yachts, buzzing the sailboats, spraying the bait netters and otherwise announcing their drunken idiocy to the world. Such brain-dead antics were so commonplace among water bikers that it was hardly noteworthy, and Twilly Spree would have paid no further attention except that the drawbridge was still up and he was stuck for entertainment. Besides, there was a better-than-average chance that the bozos would crash their noisy toys head-on into the seawall at fifty miles per hour—and Twilly was always eager to see Darwin vindicated in such cinematic style.

Back and forth the Jet Skis went, bitch-howling like runaway chain saws. A frightened pelican took off from a piling, and instantly both water bikes lit out in a deafening pursuit. Twilly jumped from his truck and ran to the bridge rail. McGuinn poked his snout out the window and whined.

It was over in less than a minute. At first the bird flew low to the water, struggling to gain speed. The Jet Ski riders came swiftly from behind, the afternoon rays glinting off their beer cans. All four kids let loose at the same time, just as the pelican began its ascent. Three of the cans missed the bird, but one struck the crook of a wing. The exploding cartwheel of gold mist told Twilly the beer can was full, as heavy as a rock. The pelican went down in an ungainly spin, landing backward with its beak agape. The water bikers circled the splash once and then sped off, up the Intracoastal in a frothy streak. They were too far away for Twilly to see if they were laughing, but he chose to assume they were. He watched a river taxi retrieve the injured pelican, which was flogging the water with its good wing, trying to lift off.

Twilly got in his truck and turned up the radio and scratched McGuinn under the chin and waited for the bridge to go down. Then he shot free of the traffic and drove north like a psychopath along the waterfront, searching for the marina where the water bikers had put in. At dusk he finally caught up with them, at a public wharf in Pompano Beach. They were winching the Jet Skis up on a tandem trailer that was hitched to a black Cadillac Seville coupe, new but dirty from a long road trip. The expensive car, which bore Maryland license tags, probably belonged to somebody’s father. The kids obviously were on spring break from college, and even more obviously drunk. The two young studs had put in some serious gym time, and they wore mesh tank tops to advertise the results. Their girlfriends were both slender and brunette, possibly sisters, and too cadaverously pale for the neon thongs they wore. Their bare bike-wrinkled butt cheeks looked like pita loaves.

Twilly’s initial impulse was to ram the Cadillac so hard that it would roll in reverse down the boat ramp. That way he could sink the car and the Jet Skis and all cash and valuables therein. Unfortunately, the Caddy substantially outweighed Twilly’s pickup truck, making such an impact problematic. Twilly didn’t give a hoot about himself, but there was McGuinn to consider—the last thing the poor dog needed was whiplash.

And besides, Twilly reasoned to himself, what would be accomplished by petty property destruction? The insurance company would replace the luxury coupe and the Jet Skis, and no important lessons would have been learned. The water bikers would fail to see any connection between the vandalism against their belongings and their cruel attack on the pelican. To Twilly, that was unacceptable. Vengeance, he believed, ought never to be ambiguous.

So he clipped McGuinn to the leash and got out of the truck. The two tipsy college girls spotted the huge dog and scampered over, their sandals flopping on the asphalt. They knelt beside McGuinn, cooing and giggling while he licked their salty sunburned faces. This, Twilly had counted on, as Labrador retrievers were magnets for children and women. The beefy college boyfriends wandered up with an air of sullen, incipient jealousy; as trashed as they were, they still resented not being the center of attention. While the girls fawned over the dog, Twilly struck up a conversation with the boyfriends about their nifty water bikes—how fast they went, how much they cost, what kind of mileage they got. The two guys loosened up quickly and started to brag about how their Jet Skis had been illegally modified to go much faster than the factory recommended. Twilly asked if he could have a close-up look. He told them he’d never ridden one before, but said it looked like a blast. And the boyfriends said sure, come on.

Twilly asked the girlfriends if they’d mind keeping an eye on the dog, and they said: Mind? We wanna take him home to Ocean City with us! What’s his name, anyway?

Beowulf, said Twilly.

Aw, thassadorable, said one of the girlfriends.

As Twilly followed the boyfriends across the parking lot toward the Cadillac with the tandem trailer, he asked if there was an extra beer in the cooler. And that was the last thing the girlfriends remembered overhearing until Twilly returned a few minutes later and took the dog by the leash. The college girls hugged “Beowulf” and crooned their smoochy good-byes. Then they wobbled to their feet and glanced around for their boyfriends, at which point Twilly Spree lowered his voice and said: “I saw what you dipshits did to that pelican.”

“Uh?” said one of the girlfriends.

The other grabbed her elbow and said, “Whadhesay?”

“Don’t ever come back here,” Twilly advised. “Not ever. Now go call the fire department. Hurry.”

The trunk of the Cadillac was open. So was the cooler inside. The boyfriends were stretched out on the ground, faceup at a forty-five-degree angle to each other; like the hands of a broken clock. One had a fractured cheekbone, denoted by a rising purple bruise. The other had a severely dislocated jaw, also festooned with an angry raw contusion. Nearby lay two misshapen Budweiser cans, fizzing beer bubbles on the pavement. The drunken girlfriends began to wail, and from the cooler they frantically scooped bare handfuls of ice cubes, which they attempted to affix on the lumpy wounds of their drunken boyfriends. The college girls were so absorbed in first aid that they didn’t notice the two water bikes smoldering ominously on the trailer, soon to burst into flames.

As much as he would’ve enjoyed it, Twilly Spree didn’t wait around for the fire. Later, when the flashing blue police lights appeared in his rearview mirror, he concluded that the two girlfriends hadn’t been quite as intoxicated as he thought. He figured they’d taken note of his pickup truck, perhaps even memorizing the license plate. It was a dispiriting turn of events, for Twilly couldn’t afford to go back to jail. Not now anyway; not with the Toad Island mission unresolved. The timing of his outburst against the young pelican molesters couldn’t have been worse, and he was mad at himself for losing control. Again.

The Lauderdale-by-the-Sea police officer was a polite young fellow not much older than Twilly. He stood back from the truck, peering into the cab and shining a powerful flashlight on McGuinn, who started barking theatrically. The officer seemed relieved that it was a dog and not a large dark-skinned person sharing the front seat with Twilly. He asked Twilly to step out and show his driver’s license. Twilly did as he was told. He easily could have disarmed and outrun the young cop, but he couldn’t abandon McGuinn. No, they were going down together, man and beast.

The policeman said: “Sir, I noticed you were driving erratically.”

Twilly was elated—a routine traffic stop! “Yes. Yes, I
was
driving erratically!”

“Is there a reason?”

“Yes, sir. I accidentally dropped a Liv-A-Snap on my lap, and the dog went for it.” This was the absolute truth. “At that moment,” Twilly said, “I’m sure I began driving erratically.”

“It’s a big dog you got there,” the officer allowed.

“And rambunctious,” added Twilly. “I’m sorry if we alarmed you.”

“Mind taking a Breathalyzer?”

“Not at all.”

“Because I definitely smell beer.”

“I didn’t drink it. It got spilled on me,” Twilly said, without elaboration.

He passed the breath test with flying colors. The young policeman got on the radio to check for outstanding warrants, but Twilly came up clean. The officer walked back to the truck and gave it a once-over with the flashlight, the beam of which settled upon an old steamer trunk in the cargo bed.