Sick Puppy (20 page)

“Bob, that shit is extremely hard to come by.”

“I can imagine.”

“No, you can’t. You have no idea.”

“Problem is, they’re supposed to get their chins done next week,” Robert Clapley said. “I’ve got the top chin guy in the whole goddamn world flying in first-class from São Paulo. But the girls—get this—first thing this morning they announce: No more sex and no more surgery and no more Barbie wardrobe until we get rhino dust. That’s what they call it, rhino dust.”

“How adorable.” Palmer Stoat, stroking his own artificially sculpted chin. “My advice, Bob? Deport these ingrates straight back to the motherland, then get on with your life.”

Clapley looked pained. “You don’t understand. I had plans for these two. I had a timetable.”

“Bob, you can always find new Barbies to climb your little staircase to heaven. Florida’s crawling with ’em.”

“Not like these. Not twins.”

“But they’re
not
really twins, for Christ’s sake—”

Robert Clapley seized Stoat’s arm. “I have too much invested here. And not just time and money, Palmer. This is an important project to me.
They
”—jerking his head toward the hot tub—“are important to me.”

A project, Stoat mused. Like customizing Chevys.

“Christmas,” Clapley was saying. “We’re right on schedule to be finished by the Christmas holidays—everything, head to toe. That’s how close we are.”

“They’re hookers, Bob. They’ll do whatever you tell them.”

“Not anymore.” Clapley wheeled away from the window. “Not without the rhino dust.”

Palmer Stoat followed him into the living room. “I’ll make some calls. I can’t promise anything.”

“Thank you.” Clapley sagged into an overstuffed chair.

“But I’m not responsible for what might happen. They could croak smoking that stuff. They could fall down dead right before your eyes. Where’d they get such a damn fool idea?”

“TV probably. For some reason they decided to put the shit in a pipe. They were sucking it out of a glass pipe. Then they were sucking on me—”

“Enough. I get the picture,” Stoat said.

“Then Spa Boy showed up and they were sucking on him, and he was sucking on them. . . .” Robert Clapley clicked his teeth. “Oh, it was a regular tropical suckfest, Palmer. You should’ve been here.”

“No thanks. I had my own excitement.”

“Yeah?” Clapley gave a halfhearted leer.

“That’s what I need to talk to you about. The dognapper.”

“What now?”

“He sent me a paw,” Stoat said, “in a Cuban cigar box.”

Clapley grunted. “To go with the ear? Man, that’s cold.”

“Here’s what else, Bob. He’s got my wife.”

“Still? I thought—didn’t you tell me he let her go?”

“He did,” said Stoat. “But he got her again.”

“How, for God’s sake?”

“Who knows. Point is, he’s most definitely got her.”

“Plus the dog?” Clapley asked.

“That’s right.”

“Damn.” Clapley looked exasperated. “What a sick fucking world. Sick, sick, sick.”

“Speaking of which,” said Palmer Stoat, “your charming Mr. Gash—where might he be, Bob?”

“Shearwater Island, last I heard. Hunting for the sicko dognapper.”

Palmer Stoat said, “Call him off, please.”

“What for?”

“I don’t want him anywhere near my wife. Call him off until this puppy-slicing freak lets her go.”

“What if he doesn’t let her go?”

“He will,” Stoat said. “Governor Dick vetoed your twenty-eightmillion-dollar bridge. It was in the papers this morning.”

The veto was a very sore subject with Clapley. “You’re damn lucky to be alive,” he reminded Palmer Stoat.

“I know, I know. The point is, Bob, that’s all the dognapper guy asked for—the veto. So now he’ll think he won.”

Clapley fidgeted impatiently. “And you’re saying this twerp is as good as his word. Some demented fruitcake who’s mailing you chunks of your pet dog—him you trust. Is that about the size of it?”

“Look, I want him out of the picture as much as you do. Once Desie’s free, then Mr. Gash can go do his thing and you can get on with Shearwater. Just give it a couple days, that’s all I’m asking. Until she’s home safe and sound.”

“The dog, too?” Robert Clapley said. “Or should I say, what’s left of the dog.”

Stoat ignored the snideness. “When does Mr. Gash usually check in?”

“When there’s a result to report.”

“Next time he calls—”

“I’ll be sure to relay your concerns,” Clapley said, “and in the meantime, you’ll make inquiries about purchasing another rhinoceros horn.”

Stoat nodded. “If I find one, it won’t be cheap.”

“When did perfection ever come cheap?” Clapley smiled wearily. “Do your best, Palmer.”

A commotion arose from outside, on the deck. Clapley hurried to the door, Stoat at his heels. The two Barbies were fighting in the Jacuzzi, throwing punches and shrieking in two thickly dissonant tongues. As Clapley waded haplessly into the hot tub, Palmer Stoat could not help but reflect once more on the seedy, disturbing downturn his own life had taken. Here he was, standing in the scorching sun like a eunuch servant, obediently holding a silk robe for a man—his own client!—who had filled both pockets with dolls. Not only dolls but a tiny hand mirror and makeup kits and a hairbrush, too!

Stoat held the miniature brush, no larger than a stick of Dentyne, in the palm of one hand. The bristles were exquisitely fine and the handle—my God, could it possibly be? Stoat squinted in amazement. Pearl!

Slowly he looked up, beyond the sordid tumble of yowling flesh in the Jacuzzi, toward the tranquil gem blue of the Atlantic. What’s happening to this country of ours? Stoat wondered ruefully. What’s happening to me?

16

No, Mr. Gash was not a patient man.

And Toad Island was a drag; no trace of the dick-faced boy he was supposed to murder.

After much searching, Mr. Gash located a tolerable motel on the mainland. He chose not to call Robert Clapley, as there was nothing to report except for the drunken biologist whom Mr. Gash had shot and buried with the backhoe. No bonus points there.

So Mr. Gash got in his car and returned to Toad Island. All morning he drove back and forth across the old bridge, with a favorite 911 compilation in the tape deck:
Snipers in the Workplace
, accompanied by an overdub of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony no. 3 in D Major.

CALLER:
It’s Tim! Tim from the ramp! He’s gone totally batshit! He’s shooting all the goddamned supervisors!

DISPATCHER:
What’s your last name, Tim?

CALLER:
I AM NOT TIM! Tim’s the shooter!!!

DISPATCHER:
You say he’s got a gun?

CALLER:
Hell yes. He’s got, like, FIVE guns! You better send some cops fast!

DISPATCHER:
Sir? Sir?

CALLER:
You hear that? Holy Christ.

DISPATCHER:
Was that gunfire?

CALLER:
Well, it ain’t the [bleeping] Fourth a July. Is somebody on the way yet?

DISPATCHER:
Yes, sir, we’ve got units en route. Could you give me a description of the suspect?

CALLER:
He’s about six two, two hundred forty pounds, dark curly hair.

DISPATCHER:
What’s his full name?

CALLER:
Hell, I got no idea. He doesn’t even work for me, OK? Tim is all I know—Tim, the day-shift loading-ramp guy.

DISPATCHER:
Does he have any—sir, you there? Sir?

CALLER:
Yeah, I’m still here. Can’t you hear all those shots? Don’t you understand what’s going on here? All [bleeping] hell is breaking loose. The man is runnin’ from office to office, poppin’ the supervisors—

DISPATCHER:
Does this Tim have any distinguishing features, any scars or tattoos?

CALLER:
No, lady, but he won’t be hard to pick out. He’ll be the only one with five smoking handguns. In fact, he’ll be the only one here with a pulse, if the cops don’t show up real soon. . . . Oh Jesus!

DISPATCHER:
Sir?

CALLER:
Hey there, Timmy boy! . . . Howzit goin’, bro? . . . Yeah, it’s me. . . . Oh, just catchin’ a few z’s here in the old broom closet. . . . So how’s it going? Man, you look really stressed—

DISPATCHER:
Sir, please don’t hang up. Sir?

Mr. Gash was buoyed by the panic that infused the tape recording; it connected him to a more familiar realm, and temporarily relieved his sense of dreary isolation on Toad Island. Back and forth across the bridge he went, reasoning that it was the best way to monitor who was coming and going. No cars or trucks could slip past, while small boats approaching from the mainland would be visible from the low span.

But even with his 911 emergency tapes in the car, Mr. Gash found himself battling boredom and impatience. Part of him wanted to bag the Clapley job and rush home to his comfortable apartment on South Beach, where he could change to a clean houndstooth suit and get some sushi on Lincoln Road and then head to the clubs, scouting for girls. One was never enough for Mr. Gash. Oh, he was way past one-on-one. Two was all right but three was even better. In his apartment Mr. Gash had a custom-made bed, double the width of a standard king. Bolted into the overhead ceiling beams was a pulley rig, to which was attached a harness made of the choicest green iguana hides. A furniture upholsterer on Washington Avenue had tailored the lizard-skin harness to fit Mr. Gash’s block-like torso; first-rate work, too, and reasonably priced.

That’s what Mr. Gash was daydreaming about doing—dangling from his ceiling above three writhing long-legged women, one of them wielding platinum ice tongs—when a station wagon carrying a large dog sped past going the other direction, across the bridge toward the island. Mr. Gash was sniggering as he wheeled around to follow. He could see the dog’s pitch-black head jutting from a window; Mr. Gash was almost certain it was a Labrador. And, from a quarter of a mile away, Mr. Gash counted only one black ear flapping in the wind.

Bingo! he thought, and eagerly stepped on the gas.

The dog, it turned out, was a black Labrador retriever. Both ears, however, were intact—the one invisible to Mr. Gash had merely been turned inside out. The dog’s name was Howard and he belonged to Ann and Larry Dooling of Reston, Virginia. They did not resemble the young couple described to Mr. Gash by the fatally dweebish Dr. Brinkman. The Doolings were in their mid-sixties; she was retired from the Smithsonian, he from the U.S. Commerce Department. They had come to Florida for the sunshine, and to Toad Island in particular for the beach, where Mr. Gash had approached them on the pretense of seeking directions. Once he determined they were tourist goobs, not ecoterrorists or dognapping extortionists, he endeavored to terminate the conversation and clear out.

But Larry Dooling slapped a cold sweaty Budweiser in his hand and said: “We been all over this damn state, looking for a decent beach. By ‘decent,’ I mean peaceful and quiet.”

“The brochures,” chimed Ann Dooling, “are
very
misleading.”

Howard the dog sniffed the tops of Mr. Gash’s shoes while Larry Dooling recounted the many beaches in Florida that had disappointed them on their travels. “Fort Lauderdale, of course—just try to find a parking space there, I dare ya’. Miami we steered clear of. Vero was OK but they had a shark warning posted, so we couldn’t swim. Palm Beach, it was poison jellyfish. And what possessed us to take a chance on Daytona, I’ll never know.”

“Don’t forget Clearwater,” interjected Ann Dooling. “What a zoo—all those college kids!”

The couple’s voices bore like titanium augers into Mr. Gash’s skull. When the woman remarked for the third time upon his “modern hairstyle,” Mr. Gash enthusiastically immersed himself in another daydream. He imagined the Doolings writhing from toxic jellyfish stings; imagined he was listening to them not on a sunny beach but in the cool dark privacy of his own apartment, in 5.1 Dolby Surround sound.

He imagined the Doolings on a 911 emergency tape.

“Aren’t you warm in that suit?” Ann Dooling asked.

Oh, part of him wanted to peel off the houndstooth coat and let the Doolings eyeball his gun; wanted to watch their jaws drop as he snatched it from the holster and leveled it to their shiny cocoa-buttered foreheads—the yappy goobs rendered speechless at last. . . .

But it was broad daylight and nearby on the sand were children playing Frisbee. So Mr. Gash tossed his beer can, turned away and tromped disgustedly to the car.

He made it halfway across the old bridge when he spotted another station wagon coming fast the other way; a Buick Roadmaster woody, the mother of all wagons, carrying another couple, another black dog with its head out the window.

Mr. Gash reflexively braked. Then he thought: Fuck
that
. I’m all tapped out on tourists today. What he needed now was a stack of porny magazines and a bottle of Meyer’s. So he kept driving, away from Toad Island.

Tomorrow, Mr. Gash told himself. Tomorrow I’ll come back to check out the Roadmaster.

In the spring of 1966, two brothers went to Vietnam. One came back a hero, the other came back a casualty. Doyle Tyree was riding in an army Jeep when it turned over, ten miles outside of Nha Trang. The driver, a sergeant, died instantly. Doyle Tyree suffered a broken leg and grave head injuries, and he was airlifted stateside to spend six weeks in a VA hospital. To his everlasting torment, the Jeep accident had not been caused by hostile fire but by recklessness. He and his sergeant had polished off a case of Hong Kong ale and decided to go carp fishing in a flooded rice paddy—carp fishing after dark in a combat zone! All because Doyle Tyree was homesick for Florida and worried out of his mind about his little brother, Clint, who was playing sniper somewhere out in the steamy highland fog, among the Cong and the leeches and the cobras.

They had grown up on a fine little bass lake, all the Tyree boys, but it was Doyle and Clint who could never get enough of the place—after school and Saturday mornings, and Sundays, too, when church let out. And it wasn’t the fishing so much as the good hours together and the unbroken peace—the breeze bending the cattails, the sunlight shimmering the slick-flat water, the turtles on the logs and the gators in the lilies and the querulous calls of the meadowlarks drifting down from the pastures. Doyle Tyree was wretched with longing and loneliness when he suggested to his sergeant that they go carp fishing that evening, not even knowing if there
were
carp or any other damn fish in the flooded-out rice paddy; knowing only that in the twilight it reminded him of the lake back home. So they’d cut down bamboo shoots for poles and bowed sewing needles into hooks and for bait swiped a bread loaf from the mess, then grabbed up their remaining bottles of ale—bitter and piss-warm, but who cared?—and set off to catch some major motherfucking carps. The dirt road was unlit and potholed but ultimately it was the damn goat that did the job, some sleepy peasant’s runaway goat. When the sergeant swerved to avoid it, the Jeep flipped (as those army Jeeps would do) and kept on flipping until an ox-drawn wagon stopped it as conclusively as a concrete wall.

And Doyle Tyree awoke in a chilly white room in Atlanta, Georgia, with steel pins in his femur and a plate in his head and more guilt and shame on his twenty-five-year-old soul than seemed bearable. He asked to return to duty in Vietnam, which was not unusual for soldiers injured under such circumstances, but the request was turned down and he was handed an honorable discharge. So back to Florida he went, to wait for his heroic little brother. Only after Clint returned safely from the jungle, only after they’d hugged and laughed and spent a misty morning on the family lake, only then did Doyle Tyree allow the breakdown to begin. Within a week he was gone, and nobody knew where.

It was many years before his brother found him. By then Clinton Tyree was governor and had at his disposal the entire state law-enforcement infrastructure, which on occasion displayed bursts of efficiency. The governor’s brother, who had been using the name of his dead sergeant from Vietnam, was unmasked by a sharp-eyed clerk during a routine fingerprint screen. The fingerprint data located Doyle Tyree in an Orlando jail cell, where he was doing thirty days for trespassing. He had been arrested after pitching his sleeping bag and firing up a Sterno camp stove inside the tower of Cinderella’s Castle at Walt Disney World—the thirty-sixth time it had happened during a two-year stretch. Disney police figured Doyle Tyree for a wino, but in fact he had not swallowed a drop of alcohol since that night outside of Nha Trang. He was bailed out of the Orlando jail, bathed, shaved, dressed up and brought to Tallahassee on a government plane.

For Clinton Tyree, the reunion was agony. Doyle grasped his hand and for a moment the dead-looking eyes seemed to spark, but he uttered not one word for the full hour they were together at the governor’s mansion; sat ramrod-straight on the edge of the leather sofa and stared blankly at the sprig of mint floating in his iced tea. Eventually Clinton Tyree said, “Doyle, for God’s sake, what can I do to help?”

Doyle Tyree took from his brother’s breast pocket a ballpoint pen—a cheap give-away souvenir, imprinted with the state seal—and wrote something in tiny block letters on the skin of his own bare arm. Doyle Tyree pressed so forcefully that each new letter drew from his flesh a drop of dark blood. What he wrote was:
PUT ME SOMEWHERE SAFE
.

A week later, he began work as the keeper of a small lighthouse at Peregrine Bay, not far from Hobe Sound. The red-striped tower, a feature tourist attraction of the Peregrine Bay State Park, had not been functional for almost four decades, and it had no more need of a live-in keeper than would a mausoleum. But it was indeed a safe place for the governor’s unraveled brother, whose hiring at a modest $17,300 a year was the one and only act of nepotism committed by Clinton Tyree.

Who scrupulously made note of it in his personal files, to which he attached a copy of Doyle Tyree’s military and medical records. Also attached was the letter Clinton himself had written to the division of parks, politely requesting a position for his brother.

The letter was one of the documents that Lisa June Peterson had dutifully shown to her boss, Dick Artemus, the current governor of Florida, upon delivering the boxes of background material about Clinton Tyree. Lisa June Peterson had also reported that the name Doyle Tyree continued to appear on the state payroll—at his original salary—suggesting that he was still encamped at the top of the Peregrine Bay lighthouse.

Which Dick Artemus was now threatening to condemn and demolish if Clinton Tyree turned him down and refused to go after the deranged young extortionist who was cutting up dogs in protest of the Shearwater project.

That was the ball-grabbing gist of the unsigned demand delivered by Lt. Jim Tile to the man now known as Skink: “Your poor, derelict, mentally unhinged brother will be tossed out on the street unless you do as I say. Sorry, Governor Tyree, but these are lean times in government,” the letter had said. “What with cutbacks in the Park Service—there’s simply no slack in the budget, no extra money to pay for a seldom-seen keeper of a defunct lighthouse.

“Unless you agree to help.”

So he did.

Lisa June Peterson had become uncharacteristically intrigued by the subject of her research, the only man ever to quit the governorship of Florida. She’d devoured the old newspaper clippings that charted Clinton Tyree’s rise and fall—from charismatic star athlete and decorated-veteran candidate to baleful subversive and party outcast. If half the quotes attributed to the man were accurate, Lisa June mused, then quitting had probably saved his life. Somebody surely would’ve assassinated him otherwise. It was one thing to recite the standard gospel of environmentalism—for heaven’s sake, even the Republicans had learned to rhapsodize about the Everglades!—but to rail so vituperatively against growth in a state owned and operated by banks, builders and real-estate developers. . . .