Sick Puppy (11 page)

McGuinn was pacing behind the rental car. He whined and kept his head low, and every few steps he would glance apprehensively toward the trunk, as if expecting the dead Lab to spring out and attack. Twilly calmed McGuinn and put him in the front seat. As an extra precaution, Twilly tethered the leash to the steering wheel. Then he walked back to the rear of the car and snapped open his pocketknife, a splendid three-inch Al Mar from Japan. The blade was wicked enough to shave tinsel.

Twilly was glad the dead dog’s eyes were shut. He stroked its silky brow and said: “Better it’s me than the damn buzzards.” Afterward he tucked the severed ear in his back pocket and drove around Miami until he spotted a FedEx truck on the Don Shula Expressway. For a two-hundred-dollar tip the driver was pleased to pull over for an unscheduled pickup.

10

The king-sized hot tub was outdoors, on the scalloped balcony of Robert Clapley’s beachfront condominium. All four of them peeled off their clothes and slipped into the water—Clapley, Katya, Tish and Palmer Stoat, who needed three cognacs to relax. Stoat was self-conscious about his pudginess, and slightly creeped out by the two Barbies; he wished Clapley hadn’t told him the details.

“Twins!” Clapley had chortled.

“No kidding.”

“Identical twins—in time for next Christmas!”

“They speak English, Bob?”

“Damn little,” Clapley had replied, “and I intend to keep it that way.”

Now one of the Barbies was attempting to straddle Stoat in a balmy swirl beneath tropical stars, and Stoat caught himself peeking under her immense high-floating breasts for telltale surgical scars. Gradually the cognac began to soothe him.

“In Moscow,” Clapley was saying, “there’s a school where they go to become world-class fellatrixes.”

“A what?”

“Blow-job artists,” Clapley explained. “An actual school—you hear what I’m saying!”

“Oh, I hear you.” Stoat thinking: They can hear you all the way to St. Augustine, dipshit.

Robert Clapley got very loud when he was coked up and drunk. “I’d like to be there for final exams!” he said with a salacious grunt. “I’d like to personally grade
those
SATs—”

“Which one’s from Russia?” Stoat inquired.

Clapley pointed at the Barbie now laboring to wrap her legs around Stoat’s waist. “Yours!” he said. “You old horndog!”

“And she . . . went . . . to . . . this . . . ‘school’?”

“She’s the one who told me about it. Isn’t that right, Katya? Show Mr. Stoat what you learned.”

“Me, too!” exclaimed Tish. Her vast bosom pushed a wake like a shrimp trawler as she sloshed across the tub to join her future twin. They spread Palmer Stoat’s legs and, with merry jostling, squeezed between them.

He said, “Really, Bob.”

Robert Clapley laughed. “I should get the camcorder!”

“Not unless you want to see it in pieces.” Normally Stoat was more of a sport, but not tonight. Desie was heavy on his mind; also, the severed dog ear that had been delivered by the FedEx man.

Clapley said, “You need to relax, kiddo.”

“I just stopped by to talk some business, Bob. I didn’t mean to make an evening of it.”

“Hell, we can chat later. How often in a guy’s lifetime does he have a chance to get sucked off by two semi-identical six-foot dolls? I’m guessing this isn’t a weekly event for you, Palmer, so please shut the hell up and enjoy. I need to make a couple calls.”

Clapley climbed agilely out of the tub. Stoat could hear him talking on the phone but couldn’t see over the tops of the two Barbies, each of whose head was stacked with at least one linear foot of shiny bleached hair. The women tugged and stroked and prodded at Palmer Stoat until finally, not wishing to seem the ungrateful guest, he closed his eyes and submitted. He enjoyed the moment, but not so much that he forgot his reason for being there.

By the time Clapley finished his calls, the Barbies were done, out of the tub and in the shower. Stoat floated back with his legs extended, frog-like. He pretended to gaze at the stars.

Clapley said, “How’d you like that twin sandwich?”

Stoat whistled appreciatively. “Blond sugar, like the song says.”

“Yea, brother.” Clapley was too trashed to dispute the lyric. “Listen, I know why you’re here.”

Stoat slowly righted himself, tucking his pink knees beneath him. How could Robert Clapley know! Was it possible, Stoat wondered, that the maniacal ear-mutilating dognapper had contacted his client?

Clapley said, “I believe I still owe you some money.”

“Yeah, you do.” Stoat was much relieved.

They moved to the den, both wearing long towels and matching terry-cloth bath slippers. Clapley sat behind a glass-topped desk and opened his checkbook.

“It completely slipped my mind,” he said, “last time you were here.”

“That’s quite all right, Bob.”

“Now . . . how much was it?”

“Fifty thousand,” Stoat replied, thinking: Asshole. He knows damn well how much.

“Fifty? Boy, that’s a shitload of shotgun shells.”

Clapley, alluding to the bird-hunting trip. That and the kinky Barbie action was aimed at hustling a discount, Stoat concluded. Well, Bobby boy, you can bite me.

Robert Clapley waited a couple beats, but Stoat retained his anticipatory demeanor.

“Right. Fifty it is.” Clapley strained to sound gracious.

Palmer Stoat enjoyed watching the man write out the check. Clapley’s discomfiture was manifest, and Stoat didn’t mind prolonging it. An important principle was at stake; a matter of respect. Stoat considered himself a professional, and in the lobbyist trade a pro didn’t tolerate being jerked around for his fee, particularly by baby-faced ex-smugglers with Barbie fetishes. Stoat had come to Clapley’s condo intending to warn him of a temporary snag with the Toad Island bridge appropriation. Stoat had been prepared to let Clapley hold the balance of his fee until the situation with the extortionist dognapper got resolved. But Clapley had so annoyed Palmer Stoat with his coy cheapness—
“how much was it?”
—that Stoat changed his mind about the money. He’d pocket it and say nothing. Besides, if Desie left him—as she’d threatened to do if Stoat didn’t meet the dognapper’s demands—he would be needing the extra fifty grand (and more) for divorce lawyers.

“Here you go.” Clapley capped his Mont Blanc and slid the check toward Stoat.

“Thanks, Bob.” Stoat’s smile could have passed for sincere. He didn’t take the check immediately, but left it lying faceup on the glass desktop.

Clapley said, “Dick was right about you.”

“Dick has his moments.”

“So, when’s he supposed to sign the budget?”

“Week or two, I expect,” Stoat said.

“Fan-fucking-tastic. The sooner they can get started on the new bridge, the sooner I can slap together some model homes.”

One of the Barbies walked in carrying a tray with two cognacs and two large cigars. She was wearing a blood-red catalog-style teddy with lacy bra cups. Clapley whistled when she leaned over to set down the drinks.

“Thank you,
darling
,” he said in a leering tone. Then, to Palmer Stoat: “Hey, how’d you like that double-barreled hummer in the hot tub?”

“Great.” Stoat thinking: Christ, how many times do I have to say it? “One of the great blow jobs of all time, Bob.”

“And all because she buckled down and stayed in school. You know what they say, Palmer: A tongue is a terrible thing to waste.” Clapley winked at the departing Barbie, who responded with a perky four-fingered wave. After she closed the door, he said, “That was Katya. I dream of the day when I can’t tell ’em apart.”

“Shouldn’t be long now,” Stoat said, encouragingly.

They spent a few ceremonial moments clipping and lighting the cigars. Then Robert Clapley raised his glass in a toast.

“To Shearwater Island,” he said.

“Amen,” said Palmer Stoat.

“And good company.”

“The best, Bob.”

They sipped cognac and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. Clapley told a crude joke about a nearsighted rabbi. Stoat told one about a farsighted cheerleader. Again Clapley raised his drink.

“Here’s to doing business again one day, you and me.”

“Anytime,” Stoat said, thinking: It’ll be sooner than you think, dipshit.

As soon as Palmer had left for Palm Beach, Desie opened the freezer and removed the plastic Baggie containing the dog ear. She examined it with a mixture of revulsion and forensic curiosity. The ear didn’t seem large enough to be one of Boodle’s, but she couldn’t be certain. That it belonged to a big black dog was indisputable. If that dog turned out to be hers, then Twilly Spree was a savage monster and Desie had horribly misjudged him.

Equally mortifying was her own culpability in the crime. After all, it was she who’d told Twilly about what was happening at Toad Island; it was she who’d given him the crazy idea of saving the place. Why? Because she’d wanted to see the smugness wiped off her husband’s face, wanted to appraise Palmer’s reaction when one of his slick fixes went awry. But how could she have known that young Twilly Spree would carry things so far?

Desie returned the dog ear to the freezer—placing it out of sight, behind a half-gallon of rum raisin ice cream—and went to draw a hot bath. At noon the maid knocked on the door and said a “Mister Ezra Pound” was on the telephone. Desie asked the maid to hand her the portable.

It was Twilly’s voice on the other end. “Well, does he believe it now?”

Desie said, “I’d say so, judging by the way he hurled his dinner. Where are you?”

“Not far.”

“Please tell me it’s not Boodle’s ear.”

“The name’s McGuinn, remember?”

“But it’s not his ear, is it? God, please don’t say you sliced off that poor dog’s ear. Not over a bunch of dead toads.”

Twilly said, “I didn’t. I would never.”

“I
knew
it.”

“But this isn’t about toads, it’s about pillage. We’re dealing with an immoral, unforgivable crime.” Twilly sighed in frustration. “Don’t you read the papers, Mrs. Stoat? Can’t you see who’s running the show?”

Desie said, “Take it easy.” The last thing she wanted to do was set him off.

“Now I’ve got a question for you,” Twilly said. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about your dog?”

“Uh-oh,” said Desie.

Twilly recounted the visit to the veterinarian, and the unsavory retrieval of the glass buffalo eye.

“It wasn’t your fault. He’ll eat anything,” Desie said.

“It most certainly
was
my fault.”

“How’s he doing now? That’s the important thing.”

“He seems OK,” Twilly said, “but he misses you.”

“I miss him, too.”

“How much?” asked Twilly. “What I mean is, do you want to see him?”

“Yes!”

“That way, you can count his ears. See for yourself that I’m no puppy slasher.”

“Of course I want to see him.” Desie climbed out of the water and put on a robe, switching hands with the phone. “Where are you now?” she asked Twilly again.

“But you can’t tell your dickhead husband, OK? He’s got to believe it’s McGuinn’s ear, or the whole plan goes bust. Can you promise me? Because if Palmer finds out the truth, neither of you will ever see this animal again. I won’t hurt him, Mrs. Stoat, I’m sure you already figured that out. But I swear to God you’ll never lay eyes on him again.”

Desie knew he wasn’t bluffing. She knew he was angry enough to punish her husband, and that he wouldn’t stop with snatching the family pet. She said, “Twilly, I won’t tell him about the ear. Look, I’ve trusted you. Now it’s your turn to trust me.”

Still dripping from the bath, she padded to the kitchen and got a notepad. Twilly made her read back his directions after she’d jotted them down.

“Can I bring you anything?” she said.

There was a pause on the line. “Yes, I’d like a book.”

“Poetry?” Desie, thinking of his Ezra Pound approach.

“I’m not in the mood. But anything by John D. MacDonald would be terrific. And also some Tic Tacs. Spearmint, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Desie caught herself smiling. “No trouble,” she said. Something brushed her bare toes and she jumped—it was only the maid, diligently mopping the drops on the kitchen tile.

“How do you know McGuinn misses me?”

“Sometimes he gets mopey,” Twilly said.

“Maybe it’s Palmer he misses.”

“Be serious. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait. About this ear—what do I do with it?”

“Whatever you want,” said Twilly. “Hang it on the Christmas tree, for all I care. Or nail it to the wall, with the rest of your husband’s dead animal parts.”

Desie thought: Boy, he
is
in a shitty mood.

She said, “I’m just curious. If it’s not Boodle’s—”

“McGuinn!”

“Sorry. If it’s not
McGuinn’s
ear—”

“And it’s not. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Right, you did,” Desie said. “And that’s why I can’t help being curious. Anybody would—a gross item like this arrives on your doorstep. But now I’m thinking: Do I really want to know where it came from?”

“You do not,” said Twilly Spree. “Definitely not.”

Dick Artemus had known Palmer Stoat three years. They’d first met on a quail-hunting plantation in Thomasville, Georgia, across the state line from Tallahassee. At the time, Dick Artemus was the mayor of Jacksonville, and also the multimillionaire owner of seven Toyota dealerships, all prosperous. For the usual reasons he decided he needed to be governor of Florida, and methodically began ingratiating himself with all the major players in state politics. One was Palmer Stoat, the well-known lobbyist, problem fixer and deal broker.

Stoat had been ambivalent about meeting Dick Artemus, as he’d recently purchased a Toyota Land Cruiser that had given him nothing but grief. One of the electric windows shorted out, the CD player got jammed on Cat Stevens, and the four-wheel drive functioned only in reverse. These annoyances were brought to Dick Artemus’s attention by a mutual acquaintance of Palmer Stoat, and two days later a flatbed hauling a brand-new Land Cruiser pulled into Stoat’s driveway. The next morning, Stoat chartered a plane for Thomasville.

The quails were so quick that he actually managed to hit a few. Another pleasant surprise was Dick Artemus, who turned out to be glib, sufficiently charming and presentable, with the obligatory flawless dentition and mane of silver-gray hair. The man could actually win this thing, Palmer Stoat thought—Artemus was three inches taller and ten times better-looking than any of the Democrats.

In Stoat’s occupation it was unwise to take sides (because one never knew when the political tides might change), but he discreetly arranged introductions between Dick Artemus and Florida’s heaviest campaign donors, most of whom happened to be Stoat’s clients from industry, real estate and agriculture. They were favorably impressed by the handsome automobile tycoon. By midsummer, two months before the Republican primary, Dick Artemus had collected more than $4 million in contributions, much of it traceable and even legitimate. He went on to capture the general election by a breezy margin of 200,000 votes.