Sick Puppy (15 page)

And Dick Artemus told him the story, almost the whole story, about the young man who’d kidnapped Palmer Stoat’s dog and FedExed him one of the ears, in order to stop a new bridge from being built to a place called Toad Island.

“Or Shearwater, which is the developer’s Yuppie-ass name for it,” the governor added. “Point is, I didn’t call you here to talk about rescuing some jerkoff lobbyist’s dog—that’s been taken care of. The problem is this young man, who has the potential—and I’m no shrink—but I’d say he’s got the potential to hurt or even kill someone if we don’t find him fast.”

“And then what?” asked the black trooper.

“Get him some help, of course. Professional help, Lieutenant Tile. That’s what the young man needs.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Nope,” said the governor.

“What he looks like?”

“We can find out. He was seen in a bar called Swain’s, down in Lauderdale.”

“Where is he now? What’s the best guess?”

“No earthly idea, my friend.” Dick Artemus was amused by the trooper’s straight-faced questions, entertained by the charade.

Jim Tile said, “Then there’s not much I can do.”

“Is that so.” The governor, smiling now. Not the car-lot smile, either, or the campaign smile. This was the OK-let’s-cut-the-bullshit smile. “Look here, Jim, you know damn well what I need you to do.”

The trooper momentarily glanced away. Dick Artemus could see the cable-thick cords of his neck go tight.

“So, tell me. How is our former governor these days? And don’t say, ‘Which one?’ You
know
which one. The crazy one. Clinton Tyree.”

“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t spoken to him in at least a year, probably longer.”

“But you do know where to find him?”

“No, sir,” said Jim Tile. Technically it was the truth. He knew
how
to find the ex-governor, but not
where
.

Dick Artemus got up, stretched his arms and ambled to the window. “The old-timers still talk about him around here. He wasn’t even in office, what, two years, before he disappeared. And still he’s the one they always talk about. ‘Where is he?’ ‘What’s he done now?’ ‘Did they catch him yet?’ ‘You think he’s still alive?’ Man, it’s the crazy fuckers that always capture the public imagination, huh? What is old Clint calling himself these days?”

The black trooper said, “I don’t know. I call him Governor.”

He said it so deadpan that Dick Artemus whipped around. And what Dick Artemus saw in Jim Tile’s expression was worse than distrust, or even disliking. It was a bloodless and humiliating indifference.

“Look here, Jim, you were here when it happened. You were his bodyguard, for God’s sake.”

“And his friend.”

“You bet,” said the governor, “his friend, of course. When I say ‘crazy,’ you know what I mean. There’s good crazy and bad crazy. And this kid who’s hacking up Labrador retrievers to make a political statement, that’s the bad kind of crazy.”

“I’m sure you’ll find him, sir.” Jim Tile rose from the chair. He was several inches taller than Dick Artemus, big hair and all.

But the governor, selling hard, pressed on. “Skunk,” he said, “I believe that’s what he calls himself. Or is it Skink? See, Lieutenant, I’ve done my homework. Because I was as curious as anybody, hearing all this talk, all the rumors. You know he never even sat for a portrait? In the whole mansion there’s nothing, not a picture or a plaque—nothing—to show he ever lived here. So hell, yes, I was curious.”

Jim Tile said, “Sir, I’m sorry but I ought to be going. I teach a DUI school downtown that starts in twenty minutes.”

“This’ll take only five.” Dick Artemus casually sidled in front of the door. “This Toad Island bridge, it’s a twenty-eight-million-dollar item. The folks who want those contracts gave quite a bit of money to my campaign. So it’s gonna get done, this damn bridge, one way or another. You can bet the farm on that. Now—about this crazy boy, he’s got the potential to make some ugly headlines, and that I don’t need. Neither do my loyal friends at the future Shearwater Island resort.

“But even worse, I get the distinct feeling this boy’s whacko behavior has put his own welfare in jeopardy. This information goes no further than you and me, Lieutenant. All I’ll say is this: Some of the characters involved in this project aren’t so nice. Am I proud to be their choice for governor?” Dick Artemus snorted. “That’s a whole ’nother issue. But for now, I need to make sure nothing awful happens to this crazy dognapper, because, a, no young man deserves to die over something stupid like this and, b, that would be one ugly headline. A goddamn nightmare of a headline, can we all agree on that?”

The trooper said, “You really think they’d murder him?”

“Fucking A. And if he’s half as crazy as I think, he won’t go quietly. He’ll make a big splash, like all these nutty ecoterrorists. And then Shearwater gets on the front pages, and before long some prick reporter follows the trail of slime directly to yours truly. Who, by the way, is hoping to be reelected in a couple years.”

“Sir, I see your problem,” Jim Tile said.

“Good.”

“But he won’t do it. Assuming I can even find him—in a million years I don’t think he’d ever agree to help.”

“And
I
think you’re wrong.” Dick Artemus walked to a maple credenza and picked up a brown office envelope. Both ends were taped shut. “Give this to the former governor, please. That’s all I’m asking, Jim. Just make sure it reaches him, and then you’re free of the whole mess. Whatever he decides, he decides. It’s all laid out for him in black and white.”

The governor handed the envelope to the trooper. “This is not a request, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir, I know. I’ll do what I can.” Jim Tile spoke with such a blazing lack of enthusiasm that Dick Artemus abandoned his plans for an inducement: A job offer is what he’d been prepared to offer. An opportunity for the trooper to get off the highway and rest his tired middle-aged butt. Step out of the hot polyester uniform and into a nice suit. Return to the governor’s mansion and ride security.

But Dick Artemus didn’t waste his time trolling the idea by Jim Tile. He knew a cold customer when he saw one. The lieutenant would do what he was asked, but he would act strictly out of duty. Nothing more. The man had no interest in hitching his future to the governor’s star, one-on-one.

“The truth is,” Dick Artemus said, “after all I’ve heard, I’d like to meet your legendary friend someday myself. Under different circumstances, of course.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

After the trooper was gone, the governor poured himself some fine bourbon and sat back to reflect on simpler times, when the worst thing he had to do was sell cherry-red pinstriping to helpless widows in two-door Corollas.

13

Estella was the name.

“Would you care for a drink?” asked Palmer Stoat. Then, to the bartender: “A vodka martini for my gorgeous guest.”

The prostitute smiled tolerantly. “I remember you, too.”

“I’m glad, Estella.”

“You were quite the chatty one.” She wore a violet cocktail dress and matching stockings. “You told me about a fishing trip with George Bush.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Stoat said. “And you said he was the most underrated president since Hoover.”

“He got a bum rap in the media, Bush did. Because he wasn’t a smoothy, some TV glamour boy with big teeth.” Estella’s lipstick was a shade or two darker than her cocktail dress. She had nice skin and wore little makeup. Her hair, however, was myriad shades of blond. “I would’ve done him for free,” she confided, “just to say thanks, Mr. Commander in Chief, for the Gulf War. He did a helluva number on those shitbird Iraqis.”

Stoat said, “Plus he’s a very nice guy. Very down-to-earth.” Estella slid closer to the bar. “I saw him lose a hundred-pound tarpon at the boat,” said Stoat. “The line snagged on the propeller and that’s all she wrote. And he was such a damn good sport about it.”

“Doesn’t surprise me one bit.” The prostitute plucked the cigar from Stoat’s mouth and took a couple of dainty puffs. “How about President Reagan?” she asked. “Ever meet him?”

Man oh man, thought Stoat. This is just what the doctor ordered. “Several times,” he said matter-of-factly to Estella. “Talk about impressive. Talk about charisma.”

She returned the cigar, slipping it between his lips. “Tell me some stories, Palmer.”

He felt a small hand settle confidently between his legs. To hell with Robert Clapley and Porcupine Head, Stoat thought. To hell with the dognapper and the Shearwater bridge. Even Desie—where the hell had
she
gone today? Well, to hell with her, too.

Because Stoat was at Swain’s now, buzzing sweetly in a familiar cloud of blue haze, alcohol and perfume. He leaned close to the call girl and said: “Ronnie once told me a dirty joke.”

Another self-aggrandizing lie. Reagan had never spoken so much as a word to him. “Wanna hear it?”

Estella was practically straddling Palmer Stoat now, the bar stool listing precariously. “Tell me!” She nudged him purposefully with a breast. “Come on, you, tell me!”

But as Stoat struggled to remember the punch line to the joke about the horny one-eyed parrot, the bartender (who’d told Stoat the joke in the first place) touched his sleeve and said: “Sorry to bother you, but this just came by courier.”

Which highly annoyed Stoat, as Estella’s hand was now tugging on a part of him that craved tugging. Stoat was ready to wave off the bartender when he noticed what the man was holding: a cigar box. Even through the smoke Stoat recognized the distinctively ornate label, the official seal of the Republic of Cuba, and of course could not suppress his excitement.

Pulling away from the call girl, even as her fingers worked on his zipper. Reaching across the bar for the cigar box, assuming it to be a gift from a grateful client. Thinking of how many years he’d been trying to get a line on this particular blend. Already imagining the best place to display the box in his bookcase, among his other treasures.

Stoat taking the box with both hands and noticing first that the seal had been broken, and, second, that the box seemed too light.

Setting it on the polished oak bar and opening the lid—Estella watching, her chin on his shoulder—to find no cigars inside the box, not a single one.

Only the paw of an animal; a black shorthaired dog paw, severed neatly at the bone.

“What’s that?” The prostitute craned to see.

Stoat was dumbstruck with disgust, the lunatic once again violating his sanctum.

“Lemme look,” Estella said, releasing the tab on Stoat’s zipper and extending the same inquisitive hand—she was a nimble one, Stoat had to admit—for the cigar box.

“Don’t,” he warned, too late.

Now she had the ghastly curio out of the box, turning it first one way and then another; tracing her painted fingernails around the velvety paw pads, playfully flicking at the sharp dewclaw.

“Palmer, is this some sorta joke? This can’t be real.”

Stoat clutched lugubriously at his drink. “I gotta go.”

“Wow.” Now Estella the prostitute was stroking the severed paw gently, as if it were alive. “Sure
feels
real,” she remarked.

“Put it back, please. Back in the box.”

“Holy Christ, Palmer!” In newfound revulsion she dropped the furry thing. It fell with a sploosh, stump-first into his brandy; lifeless doggy toenails hooking on the rim of the glass. Palmer Stoat snatched up the Cuban cigar box and made for the door.

Desie asked to see where he had buried the dead Labrador.

Twilly said, “You don’t believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“No, you don’t.”

So they drove all the way back to Lauderdale. McGuinn rode in the bed of the pickup. The rush of seventy-mile-per-hour wind on the interstate made his ears stand out like bat wings. Desie said she wished she had a camera. Every time she spun around to look at the dog, Twilly got an amber glimpse of her neckline in the sodium streetlights. He liked the fact she wanted to see for herself about the other dog. Of course she would—after all, she was married to a compulsive bullshit artist. Why would she believe anything said to her by any man?

The beach behind the Yankee Clipper was nearly deserted, cast in a pinkish all-night dusk by the lights of the old hotel. The breeze had stiffened, and with it the splash and hiss of the surf. Twilly led Desie to the grave.

He said, “I suppose you want me to dig it up.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

McGuinn sniffed intently at the fresh-turned sand.

“Ten bucks says he pees on it,” Twilly said.

McGuinn cocked his head, as if he understood, and began circling a target zone.

“No!” Desie snatched up the leash and tugged the dog away from the grave. “This is so sad,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t it creep you out? Cutting off the ear and the paw—”

“It’s getting late, Mrs. Stoat. Time for you to go home.”

“I left my purse at the Delano.”

“We’ll mail it to you,” Twilly said.

“With my car keys and my house keys.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. My birth-control pills.”

And I had to ask, Twilly thought. He nearly dozed off on the drive back to Miami Beach. Up in the hotel room he decided on a scalding shower, to rouse himself for more driving. From the bathroom he called to Desie: “Phone your husband and tell him you’re on the way.”

When Twilly came out, he found her in the white bed with the white covers pulled up to her throat. She said, “I’m afraid I got sand in your sheets. What time is it?”

“One-fifteen.”

“I think I want to stay.”

“I think I want you to stay.”

“You’re in no shape to drive.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“That’s what I’m telling myself, yes.”

“All right, stay. Because I’m in no shape to drive.”

“Thank you,” Desie said. “But no sex.”

“Furthest thing from my mind.”

Then McGuinn jumped on the bed and began licking her chin. Twilly said, “I could demand equal time.”

“He’s just a dog,” said Desie. “You’re a crazed felon.”

“Move over.”

That’s how they spent the night, the three of them under a blanket at the Delano; Desie sandwiched in the middle. She awoke at dawn to husky dog breath, McGuinn’s bullish head on the pillow beside her. Desie tried to turn over but she couldn’t—Twilly’s face was buried in the crook of her neck, his lips pressed softly against her skin. She didn’t know it but he was dreaming.

For the first time ever.

.  .  .

Mr. Gash had spent the day listening to 911 tapes. He couldn’t get enough of them. Off late-night television he had mail-ordered
The World’s Most Bloodcurdling Emergency Calls
, Volumes 1–3. The recordings had been tape-recorded by police departments all over the country, and somebody had gotten the slick idea to compile them into a Best of 911 series and sell them on cassettes and CDs. Only the
F
word was edited out, to protect children who might be listening.

CALLER
: 911? 911?

DISPATCHER
: This is the police department. Do you have an emergency?

CALLER
: Yeah, my one brother, he’s stabbing the shit out of my other brother.

DISPATCHER
: A stabbing, did you say?

CALLER
: Yeah, you better send somebody out here fast. There’s [bleeping] blood all over the drapes. He’s gone crazy, you got to send somebody fast, fore he goes and kills us all.

DISPATCHER
: Could you describe the weapon, ma’am?

CALLER
: It’s a knife, for Christ’s sake. A huge [bleeping] butcher knife. It’s got a wood handle and at the other end it’s real pointy. Get the picture?

DISPATCHER
: OK, OK, settle down. Where’s your brother at now?

CALLER
: On the floor. Where the hell do you think he’s at? He’s on the floor bleeding to death. He looks like a piece of [bleeping] Swiss cheese, except with catsup.

DISPATCHER
: No, the brother with the butcher knife. Where’s he at?

CALLER
: In the kitchen. Probably getting another goddamn beer. Are you guys coming? ’Cause if you’re not, just let me know so I can go ahead and slit my throat. To save my drunken crazy-ass brother the trouble.

DISPATCHER
: Easy now, we’ve got units on the way. Can you stay on the phone? Are you in a safe place?

CALLER
: Safe? Oh Christ, yeah. I’m locked in the [bleeping] bathroom of a double-wide house trailer, it’s like Fort [bleeping] Knox in here. I’m snug as a bug in a goddamned rug—what’s the matter with you people! Hell no, I’m not safe. A cat fart could knock down this whole damn place. . . .

DISPATCHER
: Ma’am, try to stay calm.

CALLER
: Oh Jesus, that’s him! I hear him outside!! Clete, you back off from here! You leave me be, else I’m tellin’ Mama what you did to Lippy, I swear to God! Don’t you . . . now don’t you dare open this door! Clete . . . goddammit, I got the cops on the phone—no! I told you no—

DISPATCHER
: Ma’am, is that him? Is that your brother you’re talking to?

CALLER
: No, it’s Garth [bleeping] Brooks. What’s the matter with you morons—hey, Clete, stop that shit right now! No, no . . . put that thing down, you hear? Put it away!!!!

DISPATCHER
: Ma’am? Hello? Are you all right?

Mr. Gash was exhilarated by the sound of fear in human voices. Fury, panic, despair—it was all there on the 911 calls, the full cycle of primal desperation.

Daddy’s on a rampage.

Baby’s in the swimming pool.

Momma took some pills.

There’s a stranger at the bedroom window.

And yet, somehow, somebody makes it to a telephone and phones for help.

To Mr. Gash, this was better than theater, better than literature, better than music. True life is what it was; true life unspooling. He never tired of the 911 tapes. He even redubbed his favorites and set them to classical music—Mahler for domestic disputes, Tchaikovsky for cardiac arrests, and so on.

The emergency tapes kept his mind off the grinding traffic, and he listened to them all the way to Toad Island, the morning after he’d roughed up Palmer Stoat. For the long drive north, Mr. Gash had selected the
Best-of-House-Fire Calls
, with background accompaniment by Shostakovich.

DISPATCHER
: Is there an emergency?

CALLER
: Hurry! My house is on fire! It’s on fire!

DISPATCHER
: Where are you, sir?

CALLER
: Inside! Inside the house!

DISPATCHER
: Where inside the house?

CALLER
: The bedroom, I’m pretty sure! Hurry, man, it’s all on fire! Everything!

DISPATCHER
: The trucks are on the way—

CALLER
: I was basing under the Christmas tree, see—

DISPATCHER
: Sir, you need to exit the dwelling immediately.

CALLER
: Freebasing, see? And somehow, man, I don’t know what happened but all of a sudden there’s a flash and the tree’s lit up, I mean big-time. Next thing, all the Christmas presents, they’re on fire, too, and before long the whole scene is smoke. . . .

DISPATCHER
: Sir, you need to get out of the house immediately. Right now.

CALLER
: You hurry, that’s the main thing. Hurry! ’Cause I don’t have a goddamn clue where “out” is. You understand what I’m saying. I am one lost mother[bleeper], OK?

The tapes were aural tapestry to Mr. Gash. From a lone scream he could fully visualize the interior of a house, its bare halls and cluttered bedrooms; the faded carpets and the functional furniture, the oversized paintings and tense-looking family photographs. And of course he could see the orange flames licking at the walls.

“Ouch,” he said aloud as he drove.

Toad Island was the logical place to start hunting for the man he was supposed to murder. Possibly the fellow lived there, or at least must have visited the place. Why else would he give two shits about Robert Clapley’s bridge?

Mr. Gash’s first stop was the home of Nils Fishback, the island’s self-crowned “mayor” and Clapley’s onetime political adversary. Clapley had told Mr. Gash it was Fishback who’d know the inside dope on any malcontents among the residents.

“Get off my damn property!” was Nils Fishback’s intemperate greeting to Mr. Gash.

“Mr. Clapley sent me.”

“What for?” Fishback demanded. “What’s with the hair, jocko—you from England or somethin’?”

The old man was stationed on the front lawn. He was shoeless and shirtless, a bandanna knotted around his neck. The bandanna was milky yellow, as was Fishback’s long beard and also his toenails. He appeared not to have bathed for some time.