Sick Puppy (9 page)

Robert Clapley had been the youngest of five children, and the only boy. At some point in an otherwise unremarkable childhood, young Bob had developed a somewhat unnatural interest in Barbie dolls, which his sisters collected like marbles. In fact there were so many Barbies and Barbie playhouses and Barbie wardrobes in the Clapley household that Robert’s sisters never seemed to notice when one or two of the dolls went missing, and in any case wouldn’t have thought to accuse their meek little brother. Robert’s attraction to the Barbies was more than a fleeting puerile curiosity; three of the voluptuous eleven-and-a-half-inch icons—Wedding Day Barbie, Cinderella Barbie and Disco Barbie (plus assorted costumes)—covertly accompanied Clapley when he went off to college at age eighteen. Later, running dope twice monthly from Cartagena to South Bimini, Clapley was never without his favorite Live-Action Barbie, zipped snugly into the fur-lined pocket of his leather flight jacket.

What did he so adore about the plastic dolls? Their pneumatic and shapely flawlessness, to be sure. Each Barbie was dependably perfect to the eye and feel. That Clapley’s obsession had an eccentric sexual component, there was no doubt, but he would have argued on the side of harmless fantasy over perversion. And indeed he treated the toy Barbies with the utmost veneration and civility, undressing them only long enough to change (or iron) their exquisite miniature outfits. Innocent or not, Robert Clapley knew enough to guard his secret; who would have understood? Clapley himself was vexed by the doll fixation, and as he got older began to doubt he would ever outgrow it—until he met Katya and Tish. Instantaneously the future appeared to Clapley in dual thunderbolts of lust. The statuesque immigrants represented a luminous opportunity for a therapeutic breakthrough; the transcendence of appetites from toy to flesh, from Barbie worship to Barbie carnality. In other words: from boy to man.

So strong was their desire to remain in the United States (and retain twenty-four-hour spa privileges at Robert Clapley’s condominium tower), that Katya and Tish weren’t completely unreceptive to his ambitiously twisted proposal. Matching the hair was a cinch; the blond hue of Clapley’s choosing came in a brand-name bottle. The surgery, however—to begin with identically sized breast implants—was the cause of some trepidation for the two women.

There’s absolutely nothing to worry about! Clapley insisted. America has the best doctors in the world!

Ultimately, Katya and Tish were persuaded to go along, cajoled and flattered and spoiled as they were by their enthusiastic young host. And Clapley was enthralled to observe the concurrent transformations, each cosmetic refinement bringing him closer to his dream of living live-in Barbies. No, it wouldn’t be long now!

He sat at the head of the dinner table, sipping a chardonnay and beaming as Katya and Tish hungrily hacked at the scorched little bird carcasses. Palmer Stoat seems like a fellow who would appreciate this setup, Clapley thought cheerily. I can’t wait to see his face when I introduce him to the girls.

And Stoat, like every man who’d recently met Katya and Tish, undoubtedly would lean over to his host and whisper: Wow, Bob, are those really twins?

And Robert Clapley would smile and answer the way he always did.

No, but they will be soon.

Vecker Darby’s house blew up and burned down while Twilly Spree was asleep. Twilly would notice the photograph in the newspaper two days later, and sleep just as soundly that night. “Justice,” he’d mutter to McGuinn, whose chin rested on his knee. “Justice, boy. That’s all it is.” The dog would sleep fine, too.

They were parked in palmetto scrub off a dirt road near Zolfo Springs when Vecker Darby came into their lives. It was close to midnight. Presumably, Desirata Stoat was home in Fort Lauderdale with her worthless dickhead of a husband, and Twilly found himself thinking about her. He was sitting in the rental car with an empty pizza box on his lap. McGuinn already had downed supper, four heaping cups of premium dry dog food; Desie had strictly instructed Twilly on which brand to purchase. Vet’s orders, she’d said. Typically, McGuinn wolfed the whole pile in about fourteen seconds. Afterward Twilly would sneak out the antibiotic pills, each concealed in a square-folded slice of rare roast beef, which McGuinn eagerly inhaled.

Twilly had the radio turned up loud for Derek and the Dominoes, so at first he didn’t hear Vecker Darby’s flatbed truck. Certainly he didn’t see it, as Vecker Darby was driving without headlights. Twilly was drumming his fingertips on the pizza box and wondering if, in retrospect, he’d been too hasty in his decision to ditch Mrs. Stoat in Bronson. Not that she would run to the cops; he had a strong feeling she wouldn’t. No, what bothered Twilly was how he sort of missed her. She was good company; plus, she had a lovely laugh. The dog was terrific, a real champ, but he didn’t light up the car the way Desie Stoat did.

I wonder if I’ll ever see her again, Twilly thought.

When the song ended, he turned off the radio. That’s when he heard the truck nearby—specifically, the grinding hydraulics of the flatbed being tilted. McGuinn raised his huge black head and barked. Hush! Twilly whispered. He slipped from the car and circled back through the scrub until he gained a clear view of the truck and what the driver was doing. As the incline of the flatbed steepened, the truck’s unbound cargo began sliding off the back—assorted barrels, drums, tanks and cylinders, tumbling one after another down a gentle mossy embankment toward the banks of the Peace River, where Twilly Spree had hoped to spend a soothing, restful night.

The driver, whose name Twilly wouldn’t learn until he saw it in the paper, didn’t bother to watch his own handiwork. He leaned one hip against the fender and smoked a cigarette and waited until the whole load went down the slope. Then he lowered the flatbed, climbed in the cab and drove the five miles home. Vecker Darby was still in the shower when Twilly hot-wired the truck and raced back to the river to retrieve the barrels, drums, tanks and cylinders. Two hours later, when Twilly returned, Vecker Darby was sleeping in his favorite Naugahyde recliner with six empty Coors cans at his feet and the Playboy Channel blaring on the television.

He failed to awaken when one of the bedroom windows was pried open and the screen was cut, and therefore didn’t see the broken-off end of a plastic rain gutter being inserted into his house by a stranger clad in Vecker Darby’s own canary yellow hazmat moon suit (which Vecker Darby almost never wore but stored faithfully under the seat of his truck, in case of encountering an EPA inspector).

Nor did Vecker Darby awaken during the following ninety minutes, during which approximately 197 gallons of virulent and combustible fluids were funneled from barrels, drums, tanks and cylinders directly into the house. The resulting toxic soup contained the ingredients of xylene, benzyl phythlate, methanol, toluene, ethyl benzene, ethylene oxide and common formaldehyde, any of which would have caused a grave and lasting damage to the Peace River. The risk to an occupied home dwelling was equally dire but would prove far more spectacular, visually.

What finally aroused Vecker Darby from sleep were the caustic fumes. He arose, coughing violently and keenly aware that something was amiss. He fully intended to exit the premises, after first emptying his bloated bladder of beer. Conceivably, he would have survived a brief detour to the bathroom had he not (out of dull, brainless habit) lighted up a Marlboro on the way.

From the stark photograph in the Fort Myers
News Press,
it appeared that Vecker Darby’s house had burned all the way to the slab. He had lived alone in what was once a small orange grove, miles out of town, so that no one became aware of the inferno until it was spotted by the pilot of a commercial jetliner. By the time the fire engines arrived, even the victim’s flatbed truck had melted to a skeletal husk. The newspaper article identified Vecker Darby as the owner of a private waste-disposal firm, servicing industrial clients from Sarasota to Naples. Farther down the story, it was noted that the late Mr. Darby had once paid a $275 fine for illegally dumping used hypodermics, surgical dressings and other contaminated hospital waste in a public Dumpster behind a Cape Coral kindergarten.

Twilly Spree read the article about Vecker Darby while standing at a pay phone in the Seminole Indian service plaza on the cross-state expressway known as Alligator Alley. Twilly was waiting to call Desie Stoat at the prearranged hour. She picked up on the second ring.

“Twilly?”

It was the first time he’d heard her say his name, and it gave him an odd, though not uneasy, feeling.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Twilly said. “Can you talk?”

“Just for a minute.”

“Did you inform your husband of the threat?”

“I did, yes.”

“And?”

“He doesn’t believe it,” Desie said.

“Doesn’t believe what—that I’ll assassinate his dog?”

From Desie’s end came a perturbed sigh. “Palmer doesn’t believe you’ve got the dog, Twilly. He doesn’t believe there was a kidnapping. He doesn’t even believe there’s a
you.
He thinks I flipped my wig and made up the whole story.”

“Don’t tell me this.”

“We had a terrible fight. He wants me to see a shrink.”

Twilly said, “But his dog’s missing! What does he say about that?”

“He thinks I sent Boodle to my mother’s.”

“Jesus, what for?”

“All the way to Georgia.”

Twilly said, “You’re married to a jackass.”

Desie said, “I gotta go.”

“I’ll call back in two days. Meanwhile, tell your husband to watch for a FedEx delivery.”

“Oh no. What’re you going to do now?”

“Make him a believer,” Twilly said.

8

Desirata Brock was born in Memphis and raised in Atlanta. Her mother was a pediatrician and her father was a mechanic for Delta Air Lines. Desie attended Georgia State University with the plan of becoming a schoolteacher but was sidetracked in her senior year by her engagement to a professional basketball player named Gorbak Didovlic, who stood a shade over seven feet tall and spoke no English.

Dido, as he was known in the NBA, was a rookie backup center for the Atlanta Hawks. He had spotted Desie on a tennis court and sent one of the Hawks trainers to get her phone number. Dido was considerate enough to bring a Serbo-Croatian interpreter along on their first two dates, but the third time Dido arrived alone at Desie’s apartment. They went to dinner and then to a club. Dido was surprisingly garrulous, and although Desie could understand nothing he said, she sensed in his impenetrably consonanted monologues a quaint sort of immigrant innocence. It wouldn’t be the last time she misread a man.

Shortly after one in the morning, Desie tapped on the face of her wristwatch to show Dido it was time to leave. He took her home, walked her to the doorstep and kissed her tenderly on the crown of her head, the only part of her body that he could reach with his lips, without dropping to one knee. Then he placed his enormous slender hands on her shoulders and began speaking in a hushed, ardent tone. Desie, who was exhausted, nodded and smiled warmly and murmured all-purpose responses like “That’s so sweet,” or “I know what you mean.” But in fact she hadn’t a clue what Dido meant, for the next morning a large diamond engagement ring was delivered to her door. It arrived with a note; two notes actually—Dido’s original, scribbled in pencil on notepaper bearing the Reebok logo, and the laborious translation, which said: “I am so very happy you are to be my wife. Our life together will be full of many funs and pleasures. Thank you plenty for saying yes. Your truest love, Gorbak.”

Desie was stunned to learn that Dido had proposed marriage, and even more stunned to find out she had accepted. But that’s what Dido insisted had happened, and Desie took the man at his word; it seemed romantic, in a quirky sitcom way. She dropped out of college with the idea of accompanying her new fiancé on the NBA tour. She imagined that traveling with Dido would be an exciting way to see the country’s greatest cities; in particular, she was looking forward to New York, Boston and Chicago. But through his Serbian interpreter (whom the Hawks provided to Dido on a full-time basis), Dido explained to Desie that wives and girlfriends weren’t allowed to accompany basketball players on the road. He would, however, be “plenty much happy” if she attended all the home games in Atlanta. “Is better that way,” the interpreter added. “Also, you can stay in school and get smartened.” Desie wasn’t entirely sure it was Dido talking, but she told the interpreter she’d think about it.

The first basketball game she attended was a kick. January something, 1988. For a while Desie saved the ticket stub in her antique sewing box. The Hawks beat the Chicago Bulls 107–103. Dido played most of the third quarter and blocked four shots. Desie got to sit close to courtside, in a section with the other wives and girlfriends. Most of them, like her, were young and exceptionally attractive. At halftime the women laughed and gossiped. Desie didn’t follow professional basketball, and so was unaware how huge the sport was becoming. One of the Hawks wives pointed out a prematurely bald Chicago player, practicing jump shots, and said he was paid more than $5 million a year, not including endorsement fees. Desie was astounded. She wondered aloud how much Dido was making, and one of the Hawks wives (who memorized all the team stats) was pleased to inform her. It was a truly boggling sum of money for a twenty-two-year-old man, or for anybody. Desie did the arithmetic in her head: Dido’s salary worked out to $10,500
per game.

“See that ring on your finger?” the Hawks wife said, lifting Desie’s left hand. “One night’s work. And that’s if he got it retail.”

Desie didn’t return to college. Dido set her up in a bigger apartment in the Buckhead area, bought her a Firebird convertible (two night’s work, at least) and arranged for private tennis lessons at a nearby country club. Reebok supplied free shoes.

The engagement lasted a day shy of three months. It ended when Desie decided on a whim to fly to Detroit, of all places, to surprise Dido on the road for his birthday. When she knocked on his door at the Ritz-Carlton, she was met by a raven-haired woman wearing chrome hoop earrings and latex bicycle pants, and no top. Tattooed on the woman’s left breast was a grinning skull with a cowboy hat.

The topless visitor turned out to be a local exotic dancer who spoke fluent Serbo-Croatian, in addition to English. One of the Pistons players had introduced her to Dido at a bachelor party. Desie chatted politely with the woman until Dido returned from the basketball game. Unfortunately, he had sent his interpreter home early—reasoning there’d be no need, with a bilingual stripper—so Dido found himself mostly lost during Desie’s agitated discourse. Certainly her mood needed no translation; Dido had picked up on the anger even before she’d flushed her diamond engagement ring down the toilet.

He tried to make up after the team returned to Atlanta, but Desie refused to see him. She moved out of the Buckhead apartment and went to stay with her parents. One day, when Dido showed up at the house, Desie turned the garden hose on him. Being rejected sent him into a glum frame of mind that deleteriously affected his already marginal performance on the basketball court. One wretched night, filling in for a flu-bound Moses Malone, Dido scored only three points, snagged precisely one rebound, turned the ball over five times and fouled out by the middle of the third quarter. The following morning he was traded to the Golden State Warriors, and Desie never saw him again, not even on television.

Oh, you’ll find somebody new, her mother assured her. You just got off on the wrong foot.

But Desie couldn’t seem to find the right one. In her twenties she was engaged three other times but never married. Twice she returned the rings without rancor, but one she kept. It had been given to her by a fiancé named Andrew Beck, with whom Desie was nearly in love. Andrew Beck produced and directed campaign commercials for political candidates, but his background was as an artist. For years he had seriously painted and sculpted and nearly starved. Then he got into television and became wealthy, as were all of Desie’s fiancés. She told herself this was coincidence but knew better. In any case, she felt strongly about Andrew, who had a dreamily creative and distant side. Desie was captivated, as she’d never before been with a man who was even slightly enigmatic. Andrew couldn’t stand politics and generally detested the senators and congressmen who paid so exorbitantly for his image-shaping skills. Desie came to admire Andrew for hating his own work—only a highly principled man would stand up and admit to wasting his God-given talent on something so shallow, manipulative and deceptive as a thirty-second campaign commercial.

The downside of Andrew Beck’s commendable candor was that he often went around brooding and depressed. Desie blamed herself for what happened next. She had persuaded Andrew to see a psychologist, who urged him to seek an outlet for releasing his inner fountain of angst. Andrew chose body piercing and embarked on a zealous program of self-mutilation. He began with three small holes in each earlobe and advanced quickly to the eyebrows, one cheek and both nostrils. And he didn’t stop there. He wore studs and pegs made only of the finest silver, and before long he bristled from so many man-made orifices that commercial air travel became impractical, due to delays caused by the metal detectors. With each new attachment Andrew’s visage became more grotesque, although it didn’t seem to bother his politician clients; Andrew’s professional services were in greater demand than ever. Desie, on the other hand, could hardly bear to look at him. She held out hope that it was just a phase, even after Andrew got his tongue pierced to accommodate a size 4/0 tarpon hook. Desie appreciated the symbolism but not the tactile effect. In fact, sex with Andrew had already become too much of an obstacle course, body ornaments snagging and jabbing her at the most inopportune moments.

But she cared for him so she kept trying, until the evening he showed up with a tiny fourteen-karat Cupid’s arrow pinned through the folds of his scrotum. It was then Desie realized there was no saving the relationship, and she moved home with her folks. She hung on to the engagement ring not for sentimental reasons, but because she feared Andrew Beck might otherwise put it to some perversely self-decorative use.

Less than a week later, Desie got a phone call from Palmer Stoat. She had met him only once, during an editing session at Andrew’s studio. Andrew had been videotaping trial campaign spots for a man named Dick Artemus, who was planning to run for the governorship of Florida. Palmer Stoat had accompanied Artemus to Atlanta, and sat beside him while the “Vote for Dick” commercials were screened. Desie was there to prevent Andrew from offending Artemus (whom he abhorred) and thereby pissing away a $175,000 production contract.

In the studio Stoat began flirting with Desie, until she made it plain she was spoken for. Stoat apologized convincingly and didn’t say another word, although he hardly took his eyes off her all afternoon. Desie never did figure out how he learned so quickly of her breakup with Andrew Beck, but Palmer wasted no time with phone calls, flowers and first-class plane tickets. Initially Desie put him off but in the end he wore her down with his slick enthusiasm—she had always been a sucker for pampering and flattery, and Palmer was a virtuoso. Desie’s parents seemed to adore him (which should have been a warning signal) and urged her to give the nice young gentleman a fair chance. Only later, when she’d married Palmer and moved away to Fort Lauderdale, did it occur to Desie that her folks had been trying to nudge her out of the house. (Two days after the wedding, her father brought in a team of carpenters to convert her bedroom into a gym.)

She couldn’t deny that Stoat treated her well: the Beemer, the canalfront house off Las Olas, all the shopping she could stand. And while the physical relationship between Desie and her husband wasn’t acrobatic or fiery, it was mostly pleasurable. Morphologically, Palmer was a bit doughy for Desie’s taste, but at least he didn’t look like a damn Christmas tree when he took off his clothes. Not one of Palmer’s pallid body parts was pierced, pinned or spangled, which was a treat for his new bride. It was nice, if not exactly rapturous, to make love without fear of puncture or abrasion.

Desie felt so liberated that on their honeymoon night in Tortola she was able to remain aroused—and not dissolve into giggles—when Palmer panted into her ear: “Come on, baby, light my candle.”

“Fire,” she whispered gently.

“What?”

“It’s ‘fire,’ honey. The song goes, ‘Come on, baby, light my fire.’ ”

“No way. I saw that fella do a show down at Dinner Key before he croaked—”

“Palmer,” Desie said, changing the subject, “can I get on top now?”

It was three months before he brought the Polaroid camera into bed. Desie went along but she didn’t approve—the flash was annoying, as were Palmer’s stage directions. Moreover, the snapshots came out so blurry and shabbily composed that she couldn’t understand how her husband found them titillating. Did that make him a weirdo? After being with Andrew Beck, nothing short of a medieval mace and chain-mail suit would have seemed kinky to Desie.

She did, however, draw the line at cigars. Palmer wanted her to try one in the bedroom, before and possibly during sex.

“No chance,” Desie said.

“It’s that goddamn Bill Clinton, isn’t it? Him and his twisted bimbos, they’ve given the whole cigar scene a bad name. Honest, Des, all I want you to do is
smoke
one.”

“The answer is no, and it’s got nothing to do with the president.”

“Then what?” Palmer Stoat rattled off the names of several cigarpuffing movie starlets. “Come on,” he pleaded, “it’s a very erotic look.”

“It’s a very stupid look. Not to mention the nausea that goes with it.”

“Oh, Desie,
please.
”

“They cause cancer, you know,” she said. “Tumors in the soft palate. You find
that
erotic, Palmer?”

He never again mentioned cigar sex. But now: rhinoceros horns. Desie was appalled. Killing one was bad enough, but this!

Admittedly, she and Palmer hadn’t been making love so often. Desie knew why she wasn’t feeling amorous—she wasn’t happy with herself or the marriage; wasn’t even certain she still
liked
her husband all that much. And she was aware he seemed to have lost interest, as well. Maybe he kept girlfriends in Tallahassee and Washington, or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was being truthful when he said that the only reason he’d purchased the black-market rhino powder was to rekindle their romance.

Desie didn’t know what to do. Materially she had secured a good comfortable life; she was scared to think of starting over. But the emptiness in her heart was scary, too; scarier by the day. She didn’t view herself as one of those wives who could accept a marital chill as inevitable; pretend it wasn’t there, distract themselves with spas and overseas travel and home-improvement projects.

Or perhaps she could. To Desie, being alone sounded less appealing than being in a not-so-torrid marriage. Some of her friends had it worse; they had husbands who didn’t give a shit. At least Palmer was trying, or appearing to try. His hope for a two-day erection was either endearing or idiotic, depending on his true motives.

In any case, Desie was so infuriated by the way he ridiculed her kidnap story that she ordered him to sleep in one of the guest rooms.

“I’ll find you a shrink. The best in town,” Palmer Stoat told her. “Please, Des. You’re just a little confused.”

“I prefer to stay confused,” she said, “for now.” Firmly she closed the bedroom door in his face.

.  .  .

All of a sudden McGuinn quit eating and became lethargic. At first Twilly didn’t know why. Then he found the lint-covered cluster of antibiotic pills on the car floor, beneath the backseat. All this time the dog had been pretending to swallow—scarfing down the roast beef envelopes while somehow concealing the chalky tablets under his tongue. Then, when Twilly wasn’t looking, he’d spit them out.