Sick Puppy (19 page)

“How’s your lovely bride?”

“Just fine,” the trooper replied.

“Still like your steaks scorched?” The ex-governor was bending over a crude fire pit, flames flicking perilously at the ringlets of his beard.

Jim Tile said, “What’s on the menu tonight?” It was a most necessary question; his friend’s dining habits were eclectic in the extreme.

“Prime filet of llama!”

“Llama,” said the trooper, pensively. “Should I even ask?”

“A circus came to town. I swear to God, up in Naranja, a genuine carny.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Not what you think,” Skink said. “Poor thing fell off a truck ramp and fractured both front legs. The girl who owned the critter, she didn’t have the heart to put it down herself.”

“I get the picture.”

“So I did it as a favor. Plus you know how I feel about wasting meat.”

Jim Tile said, “What in the world were you doing at a circus?”

Skink grinned; the same charming matinee-idol grin that had gotten him elected. “Romance, Lieutenant. It didn’t last long, but it was fairly wonderful for a while.”

“She do the beard?”

“Yessir. You like it?” Skink stroked his lush silvery braids. “The beaks were my touch. They’re fresh.”

“So I noticed.”

“Had a little run-in with these two birds. They took an unhealthy interest in my llama.”

Jim Tile shook his head. “But you know the law on buzzards. They’re protected.”

“Not too effectively, in my experience.” Skink flipped the steaks in the pan and stepped back from the sizzle. He used a corner of the kilt to wipe a spatter of hot grease off his glass eye. “You’re here about the Japanese, right?”

“No,” said the trooper, “but I am curious.”

“You know who they worked for? MatsibuCom, those greedy, forest-nuking, river-wrecking bastards. But they’re strong little buggers, one-on-one, even the ladies. Fiberglass canoes are heavier than you think, Jim. Two miles they hauled ’em on their shoulders, through some pretty thick cover.”

“What exactly did you do to those folks, Governor?”

“Nothing. We talked. We hiked. Went for a ride. Nibbled on some llama cutlets. I showed them a few sights, too. Immature bald eagle. Butterfly hatch. Baby crocs.” Skink shrugged. “I believe I broadened their horizons.”

“They didn’t have much to say when they got back.”

“I should hope not. I explained to them how seriously I value my privacy. Hey, all we got for refreshments is good old H-two-oh. That OK?”

“Perfect,” said Jim Tile. It had been a long time since he had seen the man so talkative. “It’s nice to find you in a civilized mood.”

“Afterglow, brother.” Skink spoke wistfully. “The Human Slinky—that was her circus name. Said she was limber in places other women don’t even have places. She made me laugh, Jim. I’ve gotten to where that counts more than . . . well, that other stuff. Which means I’m either getting real old or real smart. Brenda make you laugh?”

“All the time.”

“Fantastic. How about we shut up now and eat?”

Cooked well done, the llama tasted fine. After lunch Skink snatched up his assault rifle and led the trooper at a brisk pace down a sparse trail, past an abandoned cockfighting ring and across County 905 to his new base camp. He had set it up in the buggy shade of an ancient mangrove canopy, within earshot of the ocean. There was no tent but there was a genuine NASCAR Dodge, number 77, blue and gold and plastered bumper-to-bumper with colorful decals: Purolator, Delco, Firestone, Rain-X, Autolite, Bose, BellSouth, Outback Steak House, Sudafed and more. The governor caught Jim Tile staring and said: “From that obscene racetrack up in Homestead. Fifty million dollars of tax money they spent. The car came from there.”

“You swiped it.”

“Correct.”

“Because . . .”

“The godawful noise, Jim. You could hear it all the way across Card Sound. Gave me the worst migraine—you know how I get.”

Dumbstruck, the trooper walked a circle around the stolen stock car.

“It’s just the body,” Skink said. “No engine block or tranny.”

“Then how’d you manage?”

“It was on an eighteen-wheeler. The crew parked it behind the Mutineer after the race—the dopes, though I guess they were bright enough to win. They hung the checkered flag off the CB antenna, bless their little hillbilly hearts.” Skink paused to admire his new kilt. “Anyhow, the car is where I sleep these days.”

The auto theft was one more thing Jim Tile wished he didn’t know about. “Where’s the truck rig?” he asked uneasily.

“Farther down the shore, toward the abandoned marina. That’s where I keep all my books, except for the Graham Greene. Those, I’m traveling with.” Skink slid his butt up on the shiny hood of the NASCAR Dodge. Idly he twirled the buzzard beaks on the ends of his beard. “So let’s hear the bad news, Jim.”

The trooper eyed him squarely. “They want you to hunt down a man. Some wild young kid who’s hiding out in the boonies. Seems he reminds them of a junior Clinton Tyree.”

“They being . . .”

“Our current governor, the Honorable Dick Artemus.”

Skink snorted. “Never heard of him.”

“Well, he’s heard of you. Wants to meet you someday.”

At this, Skink hooted. The trooper went on: “This boy they want you to find, he’s been trying to stop a new bridge from getting built.”

“I expect he’s got a name.”

“Unknown.”

“Where are they putting this bridge?”

“Place called Toad Island, up on the Gulf. The boy’s kidnapped the pet dog of some important guy, some asshole buddy of the governor. And now the governor’s pal is receiving pooch parts via Federal Express.”

Skink’s eyebrows arched. “FedEx? That could run into some money, depending on the size of the animal.”

“It’s a Labrador, I’m told.” Jim Tile reached for his friend’s canteen and took a swig of water. “The point is, Governor Artemus is keen on getting this bridge built—”

“Like I care—”

“—and he wants this disturbed young fellow tracked down and apprehended at your earliest convenience. Please don’t look at me that way.”

Skink said, “I’m no damn bounty hunter.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And, furthermore, I wouldn’t know Dick Artemus from an elephant hemorrhoid. I don’t give two shits about him and I don’t give two shits about his bridge, though I do feel badly about the dismembered canine. Now”—Skink, boosting himself off the hood of the race car—“you may return to Tallahassee, my large Negro friend, and advise the governor to go fuck himself, repeatedly and without lubricants, at my behest.”

“Not so fast.” The trooper reached under his shirt for the brown envelope, damp with sweat. “He told me to give this to you. He thought it might change your mind. I’m afraid he’s right.”

“What the hell is it?”

“See for yourself.”

“You peeked?”

“Certainly,” said Jim Tile.

Inside the envelope was a single piece of paper, to which The Honorable Richard Artemus had been wise enough not to affix his name. The man known as Skink read the paper twice, silently. He looked up and said, “The bastard might be bluffing.”

“He might be.”

“On the other hand. . . .” Skink turned, and for several moments he gazed off through the mangroves, toward the sounds of the waves on the coral. “Goddammit, Jim.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t see another way but to do this thing.”

“Not one you could live with, I agree.”

“So now what?”

“Take me back to wherever the hell I parked that little boat. I’ll go up to Ocean Reef and make some calls. Then we’ll meet up tonight outside the Last Chance, say ten o’clock.”

“All right.” For once Skink sounded old and worn-out. He slung the AK-47 over his shoulder and adjusted his shower cap.

Jim Tile said, “I got a feeling you’ll get another uninvited guest today. A fat-assed Cracker rent-a-badge—Gale would be his name. He’ll be lost and thirsty and chewed up, and he’ll be screaming bloody murder about some crazy nigger cop ditching him on Steamboat Creek. Otherwise he’s mostly harmless.”

“I’ll show him the way to the road.”

“I’d appreciate that, Governor.”

On the trek out, the two men came across a full-grown crocodile with a blue heron clamped in its jaws. The beast lay in the reeds on the edge of a brackish pond, its massive corrugated tail blocking Skink’s footpath. He stopped to watch, motioning for the trooper to do the same. The idea of using their guns would not have occurred to either man. Respectfully they waited while the reptile, spraying feathers, gulped down the magnificent stilt-legged bird.

“A sad sight,” whispered Skink, “but also a beautiful one. Because you and I and the six billion other selfish members of our species didn’t interfere.”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jim Tile was relieved when the crocodile skidded off the muddy bank and into the lake. Twenty minutes later the two men reached the johnboat. Skink held it steady while the trooper climbed in. The motor was cold and didn’t crank until the fifth pull. Skink eased the bow away from the mangroves and gave a light push.

“See you tonight,” he said.

“Wait, there’s one more thing,” said Jim Tile. The engine coughed and stopped. The boat began to drift, slowly.

Skink said, “Tell me later, Jim.”

“No, I need to tell you now. Artemus says somebody else is out hunting for this boy. Somebody bad.”

“Imagine that.”

“Well, you need to know.” The trooper waved. “Ten o’clock sharp?”

Skink nodded heavily. “With bells on.” He bent over and plucked the Schweppes can out of the roots. He tossed it into the johnboat, where it clattered against the others.

The trooper chuckled. “Nice shot.” He jerked the starter cord and the outboard motor hiccuped to life.

Skink stood on the shore, twirling his twin buzzard beaks. “Jim, I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“For what, Governor?”

“For whatever’s coming,” he said. “I’m sorry in advance.” Then he turned and splashed into the trees.

15

As agreed, Governor Dick Artemus vetoed from the state budget all $27.7 million set aside for “the Toad Island–Shearwater bridge and highway-improvement project.” Other funds blocked by the governor included $17.5 million for the construction and promotion of a Southern Bowler’s Hall of Fame in Zolfo Springs; $14.2 million for the “agronomic testing” of a technique to genetically remove the navel-like aperture from navel oranges; $2.6 million to rebuild Aqua Quake, a simulated tidal-wave attraction owned by the uncle of a state senator, and destroyed in a fire of dubious origin; and $375,000 to commence a captive breeding program for the endangered rose-bellied salamander, of which only seven specimens (all males) were known to survive.

In all, Dick Artemus used a line-item veto to eliminate more than $75 million in boondoggles. Except for the Toad Island bridge, all had been proposed by Democrats. Among the items
not
vetoed by the governor were numerous frivolities initiated by his fellow Republicans, including: $24.2 million to redesign a private golf course in Sarasota, ostensibly to attract a PGA tournament but in truth to spruce up the back nine for the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee, who owned three prime lots along the fourteenth fairway; $8.4 million for the purchase of an abandoned South Dade tomato farm liberally appraised at $561,000, purportedly to expand the crucial buffer around Everglades National Park, but actually to enrich the absentee owners of the property, who had contributed magnanimously to the state Republican Committee; $19.1 million to pave and widen to six lanes a gravel road leading to a 312-acre cow pasture in Collier County, said pasture being the as-yet-unannounced future site of a mammoth outlet mall, its silent developer partners including the wife, sister-in-law and niece of the Republican Speaker of the House.

None of the pet projects overlooked by Governor Dick Artemus made the newspapers, but the vetos did. Desie found the list in the Fort Lauderdale
Sun-Sentinel
, beneath the following headline:

GOVERNOR AXES $75 MILLION FROM BUDGET

DECLARES WAR ON POLITICAL “ PORK”

Desie read the story aloud to Twilly Spree in the truck.

“Be happy,” she told him. “You did it. The bridge is history.”

Twilly said, “We’ll see.” He held one hand on the steering wheel and one hand out the window of the pickup, cupping air. He nodded when Desie asked if he was still thinking about the dream.

She said, “You know what a psychologist would say? A psychologist would say you had a breakthrough.”

“Anything’s possible.” Twilly didn’t seem unhappy or upset; only absorbed.

Desie said, “Do you remember asking me to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I was scared.”

“Of what—more dreams?”

Twilly smiled. “No, not dreams.” He adjusted the rearview to check on McGuinn, riding in the bed of the truck. “You think he’s OK back there?”

“Oh, he’s loving life,” Desie said.

“I think he ought to be riding with us.”

“Twilly, he’s in heaven.”

“But what if it starts to rain—”

“He’s a Labrador!”

“But he’s been sick. He shouldn’t be out in the weather.”

Twilly parked on the shoulder and brought McGuinn into the cab, between him and Desie. It proved to be a cramped arrangement, made worse by an onset of canine flatulence.

“From the dog food,” Desie explained. “Liver-flavored is the worst.”

Twilly grimaced. He got off at the next exit and stopped at a Buick dealership, where he traded in the pickup truck on a 1992 Roadmaster station wagon. The entire transaction took twenty-one minutes, Twilly making up the difference in cash that he peeled from a wad in his denim jacket. Desie watched, intrigued.

“This is the largest domestic passenger vehicle ever manufactured in the United States,” Twilly announced, loading McGuinn into the cavernous rear compartment. “Now you can fart all you want.”

And off they went again.

Desie almost asked where Twilly had gotten the money, but it didn’t matter. He could’ve robbed a church and still she wouldn’t have wanted to go home. She understood him no better than she understood herself, but she felt unaccountably comfortable at his side. Sometimes she caught him glancing sideways at her—it was a look no other man had ever given her, a combination of naked desire, penetrating curiosity and also sadness. Finally she said: “What in the world is going through your head?”

“How beautiful you are.”

“Please.”

“OK. How much I want to sleep with you?”

“No, Twilly. There’s more.”

“You’re right. I keep forgetting how complicated I am.” He took a slow breath and interlocked both hands at the top of the steering wheel. “What I’m thinking,” he said, “is how much I
want
to need you.”

“That’s a better answer,” Desie said. “Not as flattering as the others, but a little more original.”

“What if it’s the truth?”

“And what if I feel the same way?”

Twilly let out a soft whistle.

“Exactly,” she said.

“So we’re both off the rails.”

“A case could be made, yes.”

He was silent for several miles. Then he said: “Just for the record, I
do
want to sleep with you.”

“Oh, I know.” Desie tried not to look pleased.

“What are your views on that?”

“We’ll discuss it later,” she said, “when you-know-who is asleep.” She cut her eyes toward the rear of the station wagon.

“The dog?” Twilly said.

“My
husband’s
dog. I’d feel weird doing it in front of him—cheating on his master.”

“He licks his butt in front of
us
.”

“This isn’t about modesty, it’s about guilt. And let’s talk about something else,” Desie said, “such as: Where the heck are we going?”

“I don’t know. I’m just following this car.”

“Why?” Desie said. It was a cobalt four-door Lexus with a Michigan license plate. “May I ask why?”

“Because I can’t help myself,” said Twilly. “About twenty miles back she tossed a cigarette, a lit cigarette. With piney woods on both sides of the road!”

“So she’s an idiot. So what?”

“Luckily it landed in a puddle. Otherwise there could’ve been a fire.”

Swell, Desie thought, I’m riding with Smokey the Bear.

“All right, Twilly, she threw a cigarette,” Desie said, “and the point of following her is. . . .”

Inside the blue Lexus was only one person, the driver, a woman with an alarming electric mane of curly hair. She appeared to be yakking on a cellular phone.

Desie said: “You do this often—stalk total strangers?”

“The woods look dry.”

“Twilly, there’s lots of dumb people in this world and you can’t be mad at all of ’em.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Please don’t tailgate.”

Twilly pointed. “Did you see that?”

Desie had seen it: the woman in the Lexus, tossing another smoldering butt. Twilly’s fists were clamped on the steering wheel, and the cords of his neck stood out like cables, yet no trace of anger was visible in his face. What frightened Desie was the gelid calm in his eyes.

She heard him say, “I bet that car’s got a huge gas tank.”

“Twilly, you can’t possibly go through life like this.”

She was digging her fingernails into the armrest. They were inches from the bumper of the Lexus. If the idiot woman touched the brakes, they’d all be dead.

Desie said, “You think you can
fix
these people? You think you can actually teach ’em something?”

“Call me an optimist.”

“Look at her, for God’s sake. She’s in a whole different world. Another universe.”

Gradually Twilly slid back a couple of car lengths.

Desie said, “I’m an expert, remember? I’m married to one of them.”

“And it never makes you mad?”

“Twilly, it made me nuts. That’s why I’m here with you,” she said. “But now you’ve got me so scared I’m about to wet my pants, so please back off. Forget about her.”

Twilly shifted restlessly. The driver of the Lexus had no clue; her tangly head, wreathed in smoke, bobbed and twitched as she chattered into the phone.

“Please.” Desie touched his wrist.

“OK.”

He eased off the gas. The cobalt Lexus began to pull away, and as it did a can of Sprite flew out the window and bounced into the scrub. Desie sighed defeatedly. Twilly stomped the accelerator and the station wagon shot forward. He got tight on the bumper again, this time punching the horn.

“Jesus,” Desie gasped. “I can practically see her dandruff.”

“Well, I believe she finally knows we’re here.”

The woman in the Lexus anxiously fumbled with the rearview mirror, which had been angled downward for makeup application instead of traffic visibility.

“Moment of truth,” Twilly announced.

“I’m begging you,” Desie said. Ahead of them, the idiot driver was now frantically jerking the Lexus all over the road.

Twilly wore a wistful expression. “Admit it,” he said to Desie. “It would be a glorious sight, that car going up in flames—and her hopping around like a cricket in the firelight, screeching into that damn phone. . . .”

“Don’t do this,” Desie said.

“But you can see it, can’t you? How such an idea might take hold—after what she’s done?”

“Yes, I understand. I’m angry, too.” Which was true. And the scene Twilly described would not have been completely unsatisfying, Desie had to admit. But, God, it was nuts. . . .

The Lexus began to slow down, and so did Twilly. The curly-haired woman clumsily veered onto the shoulder, gravel flying. Desie’s pulse pounded at her temples, and her mouth felt like dry clay. She could feel the car shudder when Twilly pumped the brakes. Groggily, McGuinn sat up, anticipating a walk.

The Roadmaster eased up alongside the Lexus. The driver cowered behind the wheel. She wore enormous rectangular sunglasses, which spared Desie from seeing the dread in her eyes.

Twilly glowered at the woman but abruptly turned away. Desie watched him draw a deep breath. She was holding hers.

Then, to her surprise, the station wagon began to roll. “Maybe some other time,” Twilly said quietly.

Desie leaned across and kissed him. “It’s all right.”

“Honey, where’s the Tom Petty CD?”

“Right here.”

She felt a rush as Twilly gunned the big car toward the interstate. He cranked up the music.

“ ‘One foot in the grave,’ ” he sang.

“ ‘And one foot on the pedal,’ ” sang Desirata Stoat. She was glad to be with a man who got the words right.

“This is all your fault,” said Robert Clapley.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You’re the one who gave me that shit.”

“In the first place,” said Palmer Stoat, “it was for
you
to use, not the girls. That’s my understanding of powdered rhinoceros horn, Bob. It’s a male stimulant. In the second place, only a certifiable moron would smoke the stuff—you mix it in your drink. You know, like NutraSweet?”

They were in the doorway of the master bedroom at Clapley’s Palm Beach condominium, which reeked of garlic and hashish and stale sweat. The place was a wreck. The mirror hung crooked and cracked, and the king-sized mattress lay half on the floor; the silk bedsheets were knotted in a sticky-looking heap. Above the headboard, the walls were marked with greasy partial imprints of hands and feet and buttocks.

“Fucking olive oil,” Robert Clapley growled. “And I mean
fucking
olive oil.”

“What else they were taking,” Stoat asked, “besides the rhino powder?”

“Hash, ecstasy, God knows what—trust me, you’d need a moon suit to go in their bathroom.” Clapley laughed mirthlessly. “Some asshole they met at the spa sent up some Quaaludes. When’s the last time you ever
saw
an actual Quaalude, Palmer? You can’t find that shit in a pharmaceutical museum.”

The men moved to the bay window that overlooked the sundeck, where Katya and Tish floated toe-to-toe in the Jacuzzi, with their eyes closed. Today they did not look much like Barbie dolls. They looked like whored-up junkies. In fact they were so blotched and bloated and unappetizing that Palmer Stoat almost felt sorry for Robert Clapley—almost, but not quite. This was, after all, the same prick who’d called him a turd fondler; the same prick who’d threatened him and brought that psycho Porcupine Head into his home. Therefore it was impossible for Stoat to be wholly sympathetic to Clapley’s predicament.

“Where does it stand now, Bob? Between you and the twins.”

“Limp is how it stands,” Clapley said. Nervously he tightened the sash on his bathrobe. Stoat noticed a fresh scab on one earlobe, where once there had been a diamond stud.

“Here’s the thing. The last couple days were wild, real carny stuff,” said Clapley. “Truth is, the rhino horn didn’t do a damn thing for me except ruin a perfectly good bourbon. But the girls, Palmer, they think it’s some kind of supercharged jingle crack. . . .”

“But they were stoned, anyway.”

“The point is,” Clapley said, raising a hand, “the point is, they think it was the rhinoceros powder that gave ’em the big wet high. They
believe
, Palmer, and that’s ninety percent of what dope is about: believing in it. And these are not—let me remind you, pardner—these are not the most sophisticated ladies you’ll ever meet. They escape from a dull, cold, miserable place and end up in beautiful sunny South Florida, a.k.a. paradise. Everything’s supposed to be new and exciting here. Everything’s supposed to be better. Not just the weather but the drugs and the cock and the parties. The whole nine yards.”

Through the tinted glass Stoat studied the two nude women in the tub, their impossibly round implants poking out of the water like shiny harbor buoys. The bright sun was brutally harsh on their facial features; puffy eyelids, puffy lips. Their sodden, matted hair looked like clumps of blond sargassum—Stoat could see by the dark roots it was time for refresher dye jobs. He heard Clapley say: “They want more.”

“They used it all up?”

Clapley nodded grimly. “And now they want more.”