Sick Puppy (13 page)

“Mind if I look inside?” the policeman asked.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Twilly said.

“Whatcha got in there?”

“You’d never believe it.”

“I can call in a K-9 unit, Mr. Spree. If you want to do this the hard way.”

“K-9s in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea,” Twilly marveled. “What are they sniffing for, bootleg Metamucil?”

A second squad car brought a trained German shepherd named Spike. Twilly and McGuinn were ordered to stand back and observe. Twilly spied the Labrador looking up at him querulously. “You’re right,” Twilly muttered to the dog. “I’m an asshole.”

The young cop lowered the tailgate, and the trained German shepherd sprung into the bed of the pickup. One whiff at the steamer chest and Spike went white-eyed—yapping, snapping, scratching at the locks, turning circles.

“God Almighty,” said the K-9 cop.

“I got the trunk at a yard sale,” Twilly said. “They said it came over on the
Queen Mary.
” True enough.

“The hell you got in there, son?”

Twilly sighed. He approached the pickup and said, “May I?”

“Do it,” said the younger cop.

Twilly flipped the latches and opened the lid of the chest. When Spike the drug-sniffing shepherd saw what was inside, he vaulted off the tailgate and bounded, whimpering, into the cage of his master’s squad car. Both policemen trained their lights on the contents of the steamer trunk.

The K-9 cop, trying not to sound shocked: “What’s the story here?”

“It’s dead,” said Twilly.

“I’m listening.”

“That’s just ice, dry ice. It’s not dope.”

“What a helpful guy,” said the K-9 cop.

“There’s no law against possessing a dead dog,” Twilly asserted, although he wasn’t certain.

The officers stared at the roadkill Labrador. One of them said: “Happened to the ear?”

“Vulture,” replied Twilly.

“So, why are you driving around with this . . . this item in your truck?” the younger cop asked.

“Because he’s a deeply twisted fuckhead?” the K-9 officer suggested.

“I’m on my way to bury it,” Twilly explained.

“Where?”

“The beach.”

“Let me guess. Because Labs love the water?”

Twilly nodded. “Something like that.”

The younger cop said nothing as he wrote Twilly a ticket for improper lane changing. Nor did he reply when Twilly asked if he’d ever lost a beloved pet himself.

“Look, this is
not
what you think,” Twilly persisted. “He got hit by a car. He deserves a decent burial.”

“Whatever.” The young policeman handed him the ticket. “You can pay by mail.”

“I don’t blame you for being suspicious.”

The K-9 officer said, “On the off chance you’re telling the truth, don’t try to bury this damn thing on the public beach.”

“Why not? Is there a law against it?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. Understand?”

The younger cop bent to stroke McGuinn’s neck. “If I stop your truck again,” he said to Twilly, “and there’s
two
dead dogs inside, I’m going to shoot your ass. Law or no law.”

“Your candor is appreciated,” Twilly said.

After the policemen left, he drove south along A1A to Fort Lauderdale, where he parked across from Bahia Mar. He hoisted the steamer trunk out of his truck and, walking backward, dragged it along the sand. He stopped behind the Yankee Clipper Hotel and dug for more than an hour with his bare hands. No one stopped to ask what he was doing but around the steamer trunk a small crowd of curious tourists gathered, many of them Europeans. They acted as if they anticipated entertainment; a magic act, perhaps, or a busker! Twilly opened the lid to show them what was inside before he covered it up with sand. Afterward one of the tourists, a slight gray-bearded man, stepped up to the fresh grave and said a prayer in Danish. Soon he was joined by the others, each murmuring reverently in their native tongue. Twilly was deeply moved. He hugged the Dane, and then each of the other tourists one by one. Then he stripped off his clothes and dove into the ocean. When he got out of the water, he was alone on the beach.

He picked up Desie on Federal Highway, at the south end of the New River Tunnel.

“A really super idea,” she remarked when she got in the truck. “They think I’m a hooker, standing out here on the corner. I had a dozen guys stop and ask how much for a blow job.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Very funny.”

“Well,” said Twilly, “you don’t look like a hooker.”

“Aw, what a sweet thing to say.”

“Aren’t we the sarcastic one?”

“Sorry,” Desie said, “but I had a shitty day. And a fairly shitty night, too, come to think of it. Where’s my dog?”

“Someplace safe.”

“No more games, Twilly. Please.”

“I had to be sure you came alone.”

“Another vote of confidence. What’re you staring at?”

“Nothing.”

“Blue jeans, sandals and a Donna Karan pullover—is that what streetwalkers are wearing these days?”

Twilly said, “You look great. That’s what I’m staring at.”

“Well, don’t.” Self-consciously she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, tucking it into a blue elastic band. This gave Twilly quite a lovely angle on her neck.

“What’s in the shopping bag, Mrs. Stoat?”

When she showed him, he broke into a grin. It was a paperback edition of
The Dreadful Lemon Sky,
a box of Tic Tacs, a jumbo bag of Liv-A-Snaps and a compact disc called
Back From Rio,
a solo album by Roger McGuinn, the dog’s namesake.

Twilly slipped the CD into his dashboard stereo. “This is an extremely nice surprise. Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Desie sniffled. “Everything.” She was biting her lower lip.

“I’ll shut up now,” said Twilly. But they weren’t even halfway to Miami Beach when he noticed her left foot tapping in time to the music. Twilly thought: She’ll be all right. And it was nice with her sitting beside him again.

He’d reserved two ocean-view rooms at the Delano. Desie was incredulous. “The dog gets his own?” she asked in the elevator.

“The dog snores,” Twilly explained, “and also farts.”

“How’d you sneak him past the front desk?”

“Kate Moss is staying here.”

“Go on,” Desie said.

“She and her actor boyfriend. What’s his name—Johnny Damon?”

“Johnny Depp.”

“Right,” Twilly said. “This is Johnny’s dog. Johnny doesn’t go anywhere without him. Johnny and the dog are inseparable.”

“And they went for that?”

“Seemed to.”

“Lord,” said Desie.

The elevator was lit in red but the rooms were done entirely in white, top to bottom. McGuinn was so excited to see Desie that he dribbled pee on the alabaster tile. She took a white towel from the white bathroom and got on her knees to wipe up McGuinn’s piddle. The dog thought she wanted to play—he flattened to a half crouch and began to bark uproariously.

“Hush!” Desie said, but she was soon laughing and rolling around on the floor with the dog. She noticed that the surgical staples had been removed from his belly.

“He’s doing fine,” said Twilly.

“Is he taking his pills?”

“No problemo.”

“Roast beef?”

“No, he got hip to that. Now we’re doing pork chops.”

Desie went to the minibar, which was also white. She was reaching for a Diet Coke when she noticed it—a plastic Baggie. She picked it up, recognized what was inside and hastily put it back, between the table wafers and the Toblerone chocolate bar. With a gasp she said, “My God, Twilly.”

He plopped down helplessly on the corner of the bed. McGuinn trotted to the other side of the room and tentatively positioned himself by the door.

“Where did it come from?” Desie asked.

“Same place as the ear.”

Desie closed the door of the minibar.

“Don’t worry,” Twilly said, “I didn’t kill anything. He was dead when I found him.”

“On the road?” Desie spoke so softly that Twilly could barely hear her. “Did you find him on the road?”

“Yep.”

Her eyes cut back toward the minibar. “What a weird coincidence, huh? Another black Lab.”

“No coincidence. I was looking for one. I drove all over creation.”

Desie sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Well, what the hell was I supposed to do?” Twilly rose from the bed and began to pace. “And it worked, didn’t it? The Great White Hunter fell for it.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Right, so don’t give me that what-a-poor-sick-soul-you-are look. The animal was already dead, OK? He didn’t need the ear anymore!”

Desie motioned him to sit down. She joined him on the bed and said, “Calm down, for heaven’s sake. I’m surprised is all. I’m not being judgmental.”

“Good.”

“It’s just . . . I thought the ear was enough. I mean, I thought it worked like a charm. Governor Dick did what you wanted, didn’t he? He vetoed the Shearwater bridge.”

“Well, speaking from experience, it never hurts”—Twilly shooting to his feet again—“it never hurts to add an exclamation point.”

“All right.”

“So there’s no ambiguity, no confusion whatsoever.”

Desie said, “I understand.”

“Excellent. Now, we’ll need a cigar box.”

“OK.”

“A special cigar box,” Twilly said. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Would you please chill out? Of course I’ll help. But first—”

“What?”

“First, I think I know somebody,” Desie said, turning toward the door, “who needs a nice long w-a-l-k. . . .”

McGuinn’s ebony ears shot up and his tail began flogging the tile.

12

“I spoke to the governor.”

Jesus, that wasn’t what Palmer Stoat wanted to hear from Robert Clapley; not while Stoat was tied to a bar stool, trussed up with an electrical cord in his own kitchen, the maid off for the day and a blond stranger with a stubby-barreled gun standing over him.

And Robert Clapley pacing back and forth, saying things such as: “Palmer, you are a fuckweasel of the lowest order. Is that not true?”

This, less than two hours after Stoat had phoned Clapley to break the news about the governor’s intention to veto the Shearwater Island bridge appropriation. Stoat, laying it off on Willie Vasquez-Washington—that sneaky spade/spic/redskin!—Stoat claiming it was Willie backing out of the deal, busting the governor’s balls to make him sign some bullshit budget rider guaranteeing minority contractors for the new Miami baseball stadium. Haitian plasterers, Cuban drywallers, Miccosukee plumbers—God only knows what all Willie was demanding! Stoat telling Clapley: It’s race politics, Bob. Amateur hour. Has nothing to do with you or me.

And Clapley, going ballistic (as Stoat had anticipated), hollering into the phone about betrayal, low-life double cross, revenge. And Stoat meanwhile working to soothe his young client, saying he had a plan to save the bridge. Wouldn’t be easy, Stoat had confided, but he was pretty sure he could pull it off. Then telling Clapley about the special session of the legislature that Dick Artemus had planned—for beefing up the education budget, Stoat had explained. There’d be tons of dough to go around, too, plenty for Clapley’s bridge. All he had to do was build an elementary school on Shearwater Island.

“Name it after yourself!” Stoat had enthused.

On the other end of the line there was a long silence that should have given Stoat the jitters, but it didn’t. Then Robert Clapley saying, in a tone that was far too level: “A school.”

You bet, Stoat had said. Don’t you see, Bob? A school needs school buses, and a school bus cannot possibly cross that creaky old wooden bridge to the island. So they’ll just have to build you a new one. They can’t possibly say no!

More silence on Clapley’s end, then what sounded like a grunt—and Stoat still not picking up on the inclemency of the situation.

“I think this is perfectly doable, Bob. I believe I can set this up.”

And Clapley, still in a monotone: “For how much?”

“Another fifty ought to do it.”

“Another fifty.”

“Plus expenses. There’ll be some travel,” Stoat had added. “And some dinners, I expect.”

“Let me get back to you, Palmer.”

Which were Robert Clapley’s last words on the matter, until he showed up unannounced at Stoat’s house. Him and the freak in the houndstooth checked suit. The man was short and broadly constructed, with incongruously moussed-up hair—dyed, too, because the ends were egg white and spiky, giving the effect of quills. Clapley’s man looked like he had a blond porcupine stapled to his skull.

Stoat had opened the front door and in they came. Before greetings could be exchanged, the spiky blond man had whipped out a stubby pistol, bound Stoat to the bar stool and dragged the bar stool into the kitchen. There Robert Clapley paced in front of the bay window, his diamond ear stud glinting when he spun on his heels.

He began by addressing Stoat as follows: “Palmer, you are a world-class turd fondler.”

And so on, ending with: “I spoke to the governor.”

“Oh.” Stoat experienced a liquid flutter far, far down in his colon. He went icy at the prospect of being shot point-blank, which now seemed likely. Bitterly he thought of the Glock in the Range Rover’s glove compartment, and of the .38 in his bedroom, both useless in his singular moment of dire peril.

“Dick told me everything,” Clapley was saying. “Told me this was entirely your idea, the veto, on account of your fucking dog got kidnapped by some mystery maniac. Can this possibly be true? Of course not. There’s no earthly way.”

Stoat said, “The guy sent me an ear.”

“Do tell.” Robert Clapley put his tan face close to Stoat’s. He wore a mocking smile. Palmer Stoat was struck—no, overwhelmed—by Clapley’s cologne, which smelled like a fruit salad gone bad.

“The dog’s ear, Bob. The guy cut it off and sent it to me.”

Clapley chuckled harshly and moved away. “Yeah, Dick told me all about that, the FedEx delivery. I say it’s bullshit.
Creative
bullshit, Palmer, but bullshit nonetheless. I say you’re nothing but a world-class turd fondler who’s making up stories in order to shake me down for an extra fifty large. Please give me one good reason not to trust my instincts.”

Then, as if on impulse, Blond Porcupine Man seized a handful of Stoat’s hair, jerked back his head, pried open his mouth, inserted something warm and soft, closed his mouth and then continued to hold his jaws shut. This was achieved, with viselike effect, by placing a thumb beneath Palmer Stoat’s surgically resculpted chin, and a stiff finger inside each nostril.

Robert Clapley saying: “Before I became a real estate developer, I was engaged in another line of work—not exporting VCRs, either, as you’ve probably figured out. Mr. Gash here was on my payroll, Palmer. I’m sure even you can figure out what he did for me, job description–wise. Nod if you understand.”

It wasn’t easy, with Mr. Gash clamping his face, but Stoat managed to nod. He was also desperately trying not to throw up, as he would likely choke to death on his own trapped vomit. The gag reflex had been triggered when the small soft object Mr. Gash had dropped into Stoat’s mouth began to squirm; when Stoat finally identified the odd tickling sensation as movement—ambulation, it felt like, something crawling across his tongue, moistly nosing into the pouch of his right cheek. Stoat’s doll-sized blue eyes puckered into a squint, and with a violent moan he began shaking his head.

Robert Clapley said to Mr. Gash: “Aw, let him go.”

And Mr. Gash released Stoat’s face, allowing him to unhinge his jaws and expel (in addition to the tuna casserole he’d eaten for lunch) a live baby rat. The rat was dappled pink and nearly hairless, no bigger than a Vienna sausage. It landed unharmed on the kitchen counter, next to a bottle of Tabasco sauce, and began to creep away.

Later, after Stoat finished hacking and splurting, Clapley placed a hand on the back of his neck. “That’s a little something from the old days, the rat-in-the-mouth number. Worked then, works now.”

“Lets you know we’re serious.” The first utterance by Mr. Gash. He had a deceptive voice, as mild as a chaplain’s, and it sent a frigid bolt up Stoat’s spine.

Clapley said, “Palmer, I assume you’ve now got something to say. Help me fill in the missing pieces.”

And Stoat, who had never before faced torture or death, willed himself to swallow. He grimaced at the taste of his own bile, spit copiously on the tile and croaked: “The freezer. Look in the goddamn freezer.” Jerking his chin toward the huge custom Sub-Zero that Desie had picked out for the kitchen.

Mr. Gash opened the door, peeked inside, turned to Clapley and shrugged.

Stoat blurted: “Behind the ice cream!” Praying that Desie hadn’t moved the damn thing, or thrown it in the trash.

Mr. Gash, reaching into the freezer compartment and moving things around, taking things out—a pair of steaks, a box of frozen peas, a do-it-yourself pizza, a carton of rum raisin—dropping them on the floor. Then giving a barely audible “Hmmmm,” and withdrawing from the freezer the clear Baggie containing the dog ear.

“See!” cried Stoat.

Mr. Gash tapped the frosty ear into the palm of his hand. He examined it closely, holding it to the light as if it were an autumn leaf, or a shred of rare parchment.

Then he turned and said: “Yeah, it’s real. But so fucking what?”

But Robert Clapley knew what the severed ear in the freezer meant. It meant that Palmer Stoat (turd fondler though he was) was telling the truth about the dognapping. Stoat was capable of many tawdry things, Clapley knew, but hacking off a dog’s ear wasn’t one of them. A fellow like Mr. Gash, he might do it on a friendly bet. But not Stoat; not for fifty grand, or five hundred grand. He couldn’t hurt a puppy dog, his or anybody else’s.

So Robert Clapley told Mr. Gash to untie Stoat, then allowed the sweaty wretch a few moments to freshen up and get dressed. When Stoat finally emerged from the bathroom—his face puffy and damp—Clapley motioned him to take a seat. Mr. Gash was gone.

“Now, Palmer,” Clapley said. “Why don’t you start at chapter one.”

So Stoat told him the whole story. Afterward, Clapley rocked back and folded his arms. “See, this is exactly why I’ll never have kids. Never! Because the world’s such a diseased and perverted place. This is one of the sickest goddamn things I ever heard of, this business with the ear.”

“Yeah,” said Stoat without much fervor. In his cheeks he could still feel the tickle of Clapley’s rat.

And Clapley ranted on: “Stealing and mutilating a man’s dog, Jesus Christ, this must be one diseased cocksucker. And you’ve got no idea who he is?”

“No, Bob.”

“Or where he is?”

“Nope.”

“What about your wife?”

“She’s met him. He grabbed her, too,” Stoat said, “but he let her go.”

Robert Clapley frowned. “I wonder why he did that. Let her go, I mean.”

“Beats me.” Stoat was exhausted. He wanted this creep out of his house.

“Would you mind if I spoke to Mrs. Stoat?”

“She’s not here now.”

“Then whenever.”

Stoat said, “Why?”

“To find out as much as possible about your sicko dognapper. So I’ll know what I’m up against.”

“Up against,
when
?”

“When I send Mr. Gash after him, Palmer. Don’t be such a chowderhead.” Clapley smiled matter-of-factly and tapped his knuckles on the kitchen table. “When I send Mr. Gash to go find this deranged bastard and kill him.”

Stoat nodded as if the plan was not only logical but routine—anything to please Clapley and hasten his departure, leaving Stoat free to go get drunk. He was so shaken and wrung-out that he could barely restrain himself from fleeing the house at a dead run. And, Christ, now the man was talking about
murder.

“One thing I’ve learned about the world,” Clapley was saying, “is that shitheads like this won’t go away. They say they will but they never do. Suppose Dick vetoes my bridge, and this pervo puppy-slasher actually frees your dog, or what’s left of your dog. What d’you think happens as soon as he finds out we’re getting the bridge anyway?”

Stoat said, “OK, I see your point.”

“He’ll pull some other crazy stunt.”

“Probably.”

“Not only inconvenient to me but very expensive.”

“Not to mention vicious,” said Stoat.

“So the only sensible thing to do, Palmer, is waste the fucker. As we used to say in the old days.”

“Did you tell that to the governor?”

“Oh sure. He said he’d loan me his MAC-10.” Robert Clapley drummed the table impatiently. “What the hell’s the matter with you?
No,
I didn’t tell the governor.”

Clapley informed Stoat that he, too, was a dog lover at heart. He would go along with the veto scam so that Stoat’s Labrador retriever might be saved, and also to buy Mr. Gash some time to get a bead on this lunatic kidnapper.

“But I’m not building any elementary schools on Shearwater Island, not with my hard-laundered money. I made this crystal clear to our friend Governor Dick, and he said not to worry. He said it’s all for show, the school item, and nobody’ll remember to check on it later, after the bridge is up.”

Stoat said, “The governor’s right. They’ll forget about it.”

“So we’ll get this little problem straightened out. I’m not concerned about that,” said Clapley, “but I am disappointed in you, Palmer. After all I’ve done for you, the dove hunt and the free pussy and so forth. . . .”

“You’re right, Bob. I should’ve told you as soon as it happened.”

“Oh, not telling me was disappointing enough. But on top of it all you try to rip me off . . . that takes kryptonite balls! Not just blaming Rainbow Willie for the veto but exploiting the dog situation for your own gain—I mean, that’s about the lowest thing imaginable.”

Stoat said, miserably, “I’m sorry.” He should have had a backup plan; should have guessed that the hotheaded Clapley might contact the governor directly; should have known that Dick Artemus would’ve ignored Stoat’s instructions and taken Clapley’s phone call, Clapley being a platinum-plated campaign donor and Dick being an obsequious glad-handing maggot.

“I thought it was all bullshit, until I saw the ear.” Clapley pointed solemnly toward the freezer. “I thought, Hell, Palmer’s gotta be making it up, that weirdness about the dog ear. A fifty-thousand-dollar line of bullshit is what I figured. But you weren’t making it up.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Which makes it worse. Which makes
you
worse,” Clapley said. “Worse than the worst of turd fondlers, is this not true?”

Stoat, dull-eyed and slump-shouldered: “What do you want from me, Bob?”

“Fifty thousand bucks’ worth of fun,” Clapley replied without hesitation. “Let’s start with a cheetah for the wall. I remember you told me about a place where I could shoot one. A place right here in Florida, so I wouldn’t have to fly to Bumfuck, Africa, or wherever.”

“Yes. It’s called the Wilderness Veldt Plantation.”

“Where you got your black rhino!”

“Right,” Stoat said.

“So how about let’s go there on a cheetah hunt. All expenses paid by you.”

“No problem, Bob.” Stoat thinking: Easy enough. One phone call to Durgess. “It’ll take a little time to set up,” he told Clapley, “in case they don’t have a cat on the property. Then they’ll have to order one.”

“All the way from Africa? That could be months.”

“No, no. They get ’em from zoos, circuses, private collectors. Two-day air freight. Three tops.”

Robert Clapley said, “I want a goody.”

“Of course.”

“A prime pelt.”

“Guaranteed.” Stoat was dying for a drink and a cigar at Swain’s. Something to kill the reek of fear, and also the aftertaste of rodent. Maybe Estelle the Republican prostitute would be there to listen to his tale of terror.