Sick Puppy (26 page)

From behind him, Mr. Gash heard Mrs. Stinson chortle: “Ha! You still wanna chat, smart-mouth?”

As soon as the police cruiser was out of sight, Mr. Gash stepped off the porch and began to walk. He had a story ready, just in case: The car wouldn’t start. He went to the bed-and-breakfast to use the phone. Next thing he knows, the old hag starts raving at him like some nut. . . .

On the road Mr. Gash saw no sign of the Highway Patrolman. He got to his car and kept walking; circled the block at an easygoing pace and returned. Better safe than sorry, he thought. It was probably nothing at all. Probably just some DUI that the state trooper was carting off to jail. That’s about all they were good for, Mr. Gash mused, busting drunks.

He pulled off his houndstooth jacket and laid it on the front seat. Then he stepped behind a pine tree to take a leak. He was zipping up when he heard movement—something on the edge of the trees, near the car. Mr. Gash took out his gun and peered around the trunk of the pine. He saw a bum crouched by the side of the road.

Mr. Gash stole out from behind the tree. The bum had his back to him; a big sonofabitch, too. When he stood up, he was nearly a foot taller than Mr. Gash. He appeared to be wearing a white-and-black checkered skirt over bare legs and hiking boots.

With confidence Mr. Gash returned the gun to his shoulder holster. He smiled to himself, thinking: This dolly would be a hit on Ocean Drive.

When the bum turned around, Mr. Gash reconsidered his assessment.

“Take it easy, pops.” Hoping the man took notice of the gun under his arm.

The bum said nothing. He wore a cheap shower cap on his head, and he had a jittery red eyeball that looked like a party gag. A silvery beard hung off his cheeks in two ropy braids, each decorated with a hooked beak. In one of his huge hands the bum held by its tail an opossum, its jaw slack and its fur crusty with blood. In the other hand was a paperback book.

Mr. Gash said, “Where’d you come from?”

The man smiled broadly, startling Mr. Gash. He had never seen a bum with such perfect teeth, much whiter than his own.

“Nice dress.” Mr. Gash, testing the guy.

“Actually it’s a kilt. Made it myself.”

“You got a name?”

“Not today,” said the bum.

“I hope you weren’t planning to steal my car.”

The bum grinned again. He shook his head no, in a manner suggesting that Mr. Gash’s car wasn’t worth stealing.

Mr. Gash pointed at the opossum and said, “Your little pal got a name?”

“Yeah: Lunch. He got hit by a dirt bike.”

Mr. Gash thought the bum seemed oddly at ease, being interrogated by a stranger with a handgun.

“You didn’t answer my question, pops. Where’d you come from?”

The bum held up the book. “You should read this.”

“What is it?” Mr. Gash said.

“
The Comedians.
By Graham Greene.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He would have enjoyed meeting you.”

“The hell’s
that
supposed to mean?” Mr. Gash took two steps toward the car. He was creeped out by the guy’s attitude, the nonchalant way he handled the dead opossum.

The bum said, “I’ll loan you my copy.”

Mr. Gash got in his car and started the engine. The bum came closer.

“Stop right there, pops.” Mr. Gash, whipping out the semiautomatic. The guy stopped. His weird red iris was aimed up toward the treetops, while his normal eye regarded Mr. Gash with a blank and unnerving indifference.

Mr. Gash waggled the gun barrel and said, “You never saw me, understand?”

“Sure.”

“Or the car.”

“Fine.”

“The fuck are you staring at?”

There it was again—that toothpaste-commercial smile.

“Nice hair,” the bum said to Mr. Gash.

“I ought to kill you, pops. Just for that I ought to shoot your sorry homeless ass. . . .”

But the bum in the homemade checkered skirt turned away. Toting his paperback book and his roadkill opossum, he slowly made his way into the pines, as if Mr. Gash wasn’t there; wasn’t pointing a loaded gun at his back, threatening to blow him away on the count of six.

Mr. Gash sped off, burning rubber. What a motherfreaking nutcase! he thought. I hate this place and I hate this job.

A whole goddamn island full of troublemakers!

Mr. Gash turned on the tape and punched the
REWIND
button.

Very soon, he reminded himself. Then I get to go home.

20

The first few times Twilly and Desie made love, McGuinn paid no attention; just curled up on the floor and snoozed. Then one night—the night they freed Palmer—the dog suddenly displayed a rambunctious interest in what was happening up on the mattress. Desie was on the verge of what promised to be a memorable moment when the bed frame heaved violently, and Twilly let out a groan that was notably devoid of rapture. All movement ceased, and the springs fell dolefully silent. Desie felt hot liver-biscuit breath on her cheeks and a crushing weight upon her chest. By the quavering glow of the motel-room television, she saw that the Labrador had leapt upon Twilly’s bare back and planted himself there, all 128 pounds. That alone would have distracted Twilly (who was nothing if not focused while in Desie’s embrace), but the dog had made himself impossible to ignore by clamping his jaws to the base of Twilly’s neck, as if snatching an unsuspecting jackrabbit.

“Bad boy,” Twilly scolded through clenched teeth.

McGuinn was not biting hard, and he didn’t seem angry or even agitated. He was, however, intent.

“Bad dog,” Twilly tried again.

Desie whispered, “I think he’s feeling left out.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Only my concentration,” Twilly said.

Desie released the headboard and slipped her arms around Twilly’s shoulders. She hooked her fingertips inside the Labrador’s cheeks and tugged gently. McGuinn compliantly let go. Ears pricked in curiosity, the huge dog stared down at Desie. She could hear his tail thwumping cheerfully against Twilly’s thighs.

“Good boy,” Twilly said, the words muffled by Desie’s right breast. “Wanna go for a w-a-l-k?”

McGuinn scrambled off the bed and bounded to the door. Desie used a corner of the top sheet to sop the dog slobber from Twilly’s neck, which also featured a detailed imprint of canine dentition.

“No bleeding,” Desie reported.

“How about hickeys?”

“Maybe he was having a bad dream.”

“Or a really good one.”

They tried again later, after McGuinn’s walk. They waited until they heard him snoring on the carpet near the television. This time it was Twilly whose promising climax got thwarted—the dog flew in out of nowhere, knocking the wind out of Twilly, and knocking Twilly out of Desie.

“Bad boy,” Twilly rasped. He was highly annoyed. “You’re a bad, bad boy. A rotten, miserable, worthless boy.”

“He’s biting your neck again!”

“He certainly is.”

“Maybe I’m making too much noise when we do it,” Desie said. “Maybe he thinks you’re hurting me.”

“No excuses. He’s not a puppy anymore.”

But the more strenuously Desie tried to prize open the dog’s jaws, the more intractable his grip became. To McGuinn it was a new game, and Labradors loved to play games.

“Well, I intend to get some rest,” Twilly said. “If the dumb bastard doesn’t let go of me by morning, I’m killing him.”

And to sleep Twilly went, a jumbo-sized Labrador retriever attached to his neck. Soon the dog was sleeping, too, as placidly as if he’d dozed off with his favorite rubber ball in his mouth. Desie lay rigid in the bed, listening to both of them enjoy a deep, restful slumber. She thought: So this is my status at age thirty-two and a half—alone with a kinky dog and my kidnapper-lover in a twenty-nine-dollar motel room in Fort Pierce, Florida. What interesting choices I’ve made! Roll the highlights, please, starting with untrustworthy Gorbak Didovlic, the not-so-gifted NBA rookie; brilliant Andrew Beck, the self-perforating producer of deceptive political commercials; slick-talking Palmer Stoat, the tiresomely devious husband whom we dumped only two hours earlier at a Cracker Barrel restaurant off Interstate 95.

And finally young Twilly Spree, who would probably love me faithfully and forever in his own charming adolescent way, but who has no ambition beyond wreaking havoc, and no imaginable future that doesn’t include felony prison time. The man of my dreams!

Fun? Big fun. Major adrenaline rush. Mysteriously wealthy, and other surprises galore. Then what? Desie wondered. Then he’ll be gone, of course.

Well, there was still Palmer. Deceitful asshole though he was, Desie nonetheless had felt a twinge of pity at the sight of him tied up and hooded in the rocking chair. And the expression on his pie-shaped face when Twilly removed the sweat-stained pillowcase and cut the ropes—a look of malignant contempt, manufactured for Desie’s benefit. See how serious I am!

But he’d take her back in a heartbeat, her husband would. Palmer required a sharp-looking wife, one who would put up with his conveniently ambiguous travel plans and his unsportsmanlike hunting trips and all that Polaroid weirdness in the bedroom. Palmer knew he had a good thing in Desie, and he also knew what divorces cost. So, sure, he’d take her back.

That would be the easiest road for Desie, too, but she couldn’t take it. She would not be able to look at her husband without thinking of tiny orange-striped toads, bulldozed into goop.

Her folks in Atlanta—they’d be glad to have her home for a while. Mom was busy with her medical practice, but Dad would be retiring soon from Delta. Maybe I could start back at GSU, Desie thought, finish up on my teaching degree.

Yeah, right. And afterward I’ll move to Appalachia and live in a tin shanty and do volunteer work with the learning disabled. Who the hell am I kidding?

Twilly stirred when Desie stroked his brow.

“You awake?”

“Am now,” he said.

“Dreaming?”

“I dunno. Is there a giant black dog on my back?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then I wasn’t dreaming,” Twilly said.

“I’ve been lying here wondering . . . what happens now?”

“The itinerary, you mean.”

“The agenda,” she said.

“Well, first, I intend to seriously fuck things up so Shearwater never gets built.”

Desie cupped his chin in her hands. “You can’t stop it.”

“I can try.”

“They’ll fix it so you can’t. Palmer and the governor. I’m sorry but that’s a fact,” said Desie. “If they say the bridge is a done deal, it’s done.”

“Just watch.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Twilly, short of killing somebody.”

“I agree.”

“My God.”

“What?”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Desie said. “Nothing like this is worth taking a human life.”

“No? What’s the life of an island worth? I’d be curious to know.” Twilly reached behind his head and flicked McGuinn smartly on the tip of the nose. The dog awoke with a startled yelp, releasing his hold on Twilly’s neck. He jumped to the floor and began to paw, optimistically, at the doorjamb.

Twilly rose on one arm to face Desie. “Ever been to Marco Island? You can’t imagine how they mauled that place.”

“I know, honey, but—”

“If you’d seen it when you were a kid and then now, you’d say it was a crime. You’d say somebody ought to have their nuts shot off for what they did. And you’d be right.”

Desie said, “If you’re trying to scare me off, you’re doing a fine job.”

“You asked me a question.”

Desie pulled him into her arms. “I’m sorry. We can talk about this in the morning.”

As if it could end differently.

“The whole damn island,” she heard him murmur. “I can’t let that happen again.”

Dick Artemus offered Lisa June Peterson a drink. He was on his third. She said no thanks.

“Still drivin’ that Taurus?” he asked her.

“Yes, sir.”

“You break my heart, Lisa June. I can put you in a brand-new Camry coupe, at cost.”

“I’m fine, Governor. Thanks, just the same.”

The phone on his desk rang and rang. Dick Artemus made no move to pick it up. “Is Dorothy gone home already? Jesus Christ.”

“It’s six-thirty. She’s got kids,” Lisa June Peterson said. She reached across the desk and punched a button on the telephone console. Instantly the ringer went mute.

The governor savored his bourbon. He winked and said: “Whaddya got for me?”

Lisa June thought: Great, he’s half-trashed. “Two things. About this special session—before we send out the press release, you should know that Willie Vasquez-Washington is pitching a conniption. He says he doesn’t want to fly back to Tallahassee next week, doesn’t want his vacation interrupted. He says he’s going to make himself a royal pain in the ass if you drag the House and Senate back into session—”

“Those his words?” Dick Artemus grimaced. “ ‘Royal pain in the ass.’ But you told him this was for schools, right? For the education budget.”

Lisa June Peterson patiently explained to the bleary governor that Willie Vasquez-Washington was no fool; that he’d quickly figured out the true purpose for the special legislative session, namely to revive the Toad Island bridge project on behalf of the governor’s buddies—

“Hell, they aren’t my buddies!” Dick Artemus spluttered. “They aren’t my pals, they aren’t my partners. They’re just some solid business folks who contributed to the campaign. Goddamn that Willie, he ain’t no saint himself. . . .”

Lisa June Peterson informed her boss that Willie Vasquez-Washington didn’t know (or care) why the governor had vetoed the bridge appropriation in the first place, but he promised to make the governor suffer dearly for screwing up his travel plans.

“He’s going skiing in Banff,” Lisa June reported. “Taking the whole family.”

Dick Artemus sniffed. “Who’s payin’ for
that
?”

“I can find out.”

“Naw. Hell.” The governor puffed his cheeks in disgust. “Y’know, I never had to deal with shit like this in Toyota Land. What else, Lisa June? Let’s have it.”

“Clinton Tyree came to see you the other night, when you were in Orlando.”

Dick Artemus straightened in the chair. “Damn. What’d he want? What’d he say?”

“He said he’ll do what you asked him to—”

“Fannnnn-tastic!”

“—but he’ll come back to Tallahassee and murder you if anything happens to his brother Doyle. Murder you slowly, he asked me to emphasize.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” The governor forced out a chuckle.

Lisa June said, “He mentioned the following items: a pitchfork, handcuffs, a fifty-five-gallon drum of lye and a coral snake.”

“He’s a nut,” the governor said.

“He’s also serious.”

“Well, don’t worry, ’cause nuthin’s gonna happen to brother Doyle. For God’s sake.” Dick Artemus groped distractedly for the bourbon bottle. “Poor Lisa June, you’re probably wonderin’ what the hell you got yourself into with this crazy job. You can’t figger out what the heck’s goin’ on.”

Lisa June Peterson said, “I know what’s going on. He showed me the letter you wrote.”

“What letter!” Dick Artemus protested. Then, sheepishly: “Ok, scratch that. Yeah, I wrote it. See, sometimes. . . .”

He gazed with a drowsy bemusement into his glass.

Lisa June said, “Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes in this world you gotta do things that aren’t so nice.”

“For the sake of a golf course.”

“Don’t get me started, darling. It’s a lot more complicated than that.” The governor raised his face to offer a paternal smile. “There’s a natural order to consider. A certain way things work. You know that, Lisa June. That’s how it’s always been. You can’t change it and I can’t change it and some crazy old homicidal hermit—Skink, isn’t that what he calls himself?—well, he damn sure can’t change it, neither.”

Lisa June Peterson stood up, smoothing her skirt. “Thanks for the pep talk, Governor.”

“Aw, don’t get sulky on me. Sit down, now. Tell me what he looked like. Tell me what happened, I’m dyin’ to hear.”

But even if Dick Artemus had been sober, Lisa June couldn’t have brought herself to share what had happened at the campfire—that the ex-governor had kept her up all night with a fevered monologue; that he had told her true stories of old Florida, that he had ranted and incanted and bellowed at the stars, stomping back and forth, weeping from one eye while the other smoldered as red as a coal; that he had painted teardrops on his bare scalp with fox blood; that he had torn his queer checkered kilt while scrambling up a tree, and that she’d put it back together with three safety pins that she’d found in a corner of her purse; that he’d kissed her, and she’d kissed him back.

Lisa June Peterson couldn’t have brought herself to tell her boss that she’d left Clinton Tyree snoring naked and sweaty in the woods a mere ten miles from the capitol, or that she’d rushed home with the intention of putting it all down on paper—everything he’d said and done, and
said
he’d done—saving it for the book she planned to write. Because when she got home to her apartment, showered, fixed a cup of hot tea and sat down with a legal pad, she could not put down a word. Not one.

“Nothing much happened,” Lisa June Peterson told the governor.

Dick Artemus rocked forward and planted his elbows on his desk. “Well, what does he look like? He’s a big fucker, according to the files.”

“He’s big,” Lisa June confirmed.

“Taller’n me?”

“He looks old,” Lisa June said.

“He
is
old. What else?”

“And sad.”

“But he’s still freaky, I bet.”

“I’ve seen freakier,” said Lisa June.

“Aw, you’re pissed at me. Don’t be like this.” Dick Artemus held out his arms imploringly. “I wasn’t really gonna evict the man’s brother from that lighthouse, Lisa June. You honestly think I’d do something as shitty as that?”

“The letter was enough.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” The governor grabbed his bourbon and leaned back, balancing the glass on his lap. “All I want him to do is find that crazy kid with the dog. That’s all.”

“Oh, he’ll find him,” Lisa June Peterson said. “Now, how do you want to deal with the Honorable Representative Vasquez-Washington?”

“That fucking Willie.” Dick Artemus hacked out a bitter laugh. “You know what to do, Lisa June. Call Palmer Stoat. Get him to make things right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hey. What happened to your knee?” The governor, craning his neck for a better angle.

“Just a scrape.” Lisa June thinking: I knew I should’ve worn hose today, Dick Artemus being an incorrigible ogler of legs.