Sick Puppy (7 page)

“And he also plays a little golf,” Desie said, “when he’s not hunting.”

“You play golf, too?”

“Exactly twice in my life. We’re members at Otter Glen.”

“How nice for you,” Twilly said. “Ever see any otters out there?”

“Nope.”

“Ever wonder why?”

“Not really,” Desirata Stoat said.

Back in the motel room, McGuinn-Boodle was happy to see her. Twilly tried to play vet but the dog kept spitting out the pills. It turned into quite a comic scene. Finally Desie shooed Twilly aside and took over. She slipped one of the big white tablets under McGuinn’s tongue while she massaged his throat. Serenely the Labrador swallowed the pill. When Twilly tried to duplicate Desie’s technique, the pill came shooting out at him.

She said, “I’d say that clinches it.”

“No, you
cannot
come along.”

“But I’m the only one who can give him the medicine. Yesterday he nearly took off Palmer’s thumb.”

“I’ll get the hang of it,” Twilly said.

After Desie got the dog to gulp the second pill, she asked Twilly about the new name.

“After a musician I’m fond of. Roger McGuinn.”

She said, “You’re way too young to be fond of Roger McGuinn.”

“You know about him?” Twilly was thrilled.

“Sure. Maestro of the twelve-string. ‘Eight Miles High,’ ‘Mr. Spaceman,’ and so on.”

“Fantastic!” Twilly said. “And how old are
you
?”

“Old enough.” Desie gave him the knowing older-woman smile. She didn’t mention her summer stints at Sam Goody’s.

Twilly noticed she was stroking McGuinn with one hand and twisting the tail of her T-shirt with the other. Finally she got around to the big question.

“Tell me exactly what you want from my husband.”

“I want him to clean up his act.”

“Do what?”

“He’s a loathsome pig. Everywhere he goes he leaves a trail of litter.”

Desie said, “That’s it?”

“I want him to get the message, that’s all. I want to see shame in his eyes. Beyond that, hell, I don’t know.” Twilly tugged a thin blanket off the bed and tossed it to her. “Cover up, Desie. I can see your butt.”

She said, “You’re aiming low, Mr. Spaceman.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know who my husband is? You have any idea what he does for a living?”

“No,” Twilly said, “but the governor’s office was on his answer machine the other night.”

“Exactly, there you go—the governor himself. Probably calling about that ridiculous bridge.”

“What bridge?” asked Twilly.

Desie got cross-legged on the floor, with the blanket across her lap. “Let me tell you some stories,” she said, “about Palmer Stoat.”

“No, ma’am, I’m taking you home.”

But he didn’t.

6

Twilly drove all night with the woman and the dog. They arrived at Toad Island shortly before dawn. Twilly parked on the beach and rolled down the windows.

“What are we doing here?” Desie said.

Twilly closed his eyes. He didn’t open them again until he heard gulls piping and felt the sun on his neck. The Gulf was lead gray and slick. In the distance he saw Desie strolling the white ribbon of sand, the hulking black McGuinn at her side; above them were seabirds, carping. Twilly got out and stretched. He shed his clothes and plunged into the chilly water and swam out two hundred yards. From there he had a mariner’s perspective of the island, its modest breadth and altitude and scraggled green ripeness, as it might have appeared long ago. Of course Twilly understood the terrible significance of a new bridge. He could almost hear his father’s voice, rising giddily at the prospects. That this scrubby shoal had been targeted for development wasn’t at all shocking to Twilly. The only genuine surprise was that somebody hadn’t fucked it up sooner.

He breaststroked to shore. He stepped into his jeans and sat, dripping, on the hood of the rental car. When Desie returned, she said: “Boodle wanted to jump in and swim. That means he’s feeling better.”

Twilly gave her a reproachful look.

“McGuinn, I mean,” she said. “So, is this what you expected to find?”

“It’s nice.”

“You think Governor Dick owns this whole island?”

“If not him, then some of his pals.”

“How many people,” Desie said, “you figure they want to cram out here? All total.”

“I don’t know. Couple thousand at least.”

“That explains why they need a bigger bridge.”

“Oh yes. Trucks, bulldozers, backhoes, cement mixers, cranes, gasoline tankers, cars and bingo buses.” Twilly blinked up at the clouds. “I’m just guessing, Mrs. Stoat. I’m just going by history.”

Desie said, “McGuinn found a man passed out on the beach. He didn’t look too good.”

“The unconscious seldom do.”

“Not a bum. A regular-looking guy.”

Twilly said, “I guess you want me to go have a look. Is that the idea?”

He slid off the car and headed down the shore. Desie whistled for the dog, and off they went. The passed-out man was in the same position in which she’d found him—flat on his back, pale hands interlocked in funereal calm across his chest. The man’s mouth hung open and he was snorting like a broken diesel. A gleaming stellate dollop of seagull shit decorated his forehead; one eye was nearly swollen shut, and on the same cheek was a nasty sand-crusted laceration. Nearby lay a shoe and an empty vodka bottle.

Tail swishing, McGuinn inspected the passed-out man while Twilly Spree shook him by the shoulder. The man woke up hacking. He whispered “No” when Twilly asked if he needed an ambulance.

When Desie knelt beside him, he said, “I got drunk and fell off a bulldozer.”

“That’s a good one.”

“I wish it weren’t true.” The man wiped his sleeve across the poop on his forehead. He grimaced when McGuinn wet-nosed the swollen side of his face.

“What’s your name?” Desie asked.

“Brinkman.” With Twilly’s assistance, the man sat up. “Dr. Steven Brinkman,” he said.

“What kind of doctor?”

Brinkman finally noticed what Desie was wearing—the long T-shirt and pearl earrings and nothing else—and became visibly flustered. The big Labrador retriever was also making him jumpy, snuffling in his most personal crevices.

“Are you an M.D.?” Desie said.

“Uh, no. What I am—I’m a field biologist.”

Twilly stiffened. “What’re you doing out here on the island?”

“This is where I work.”

“For who?” Twilly demanded. “The Army Corps? Fish and Wildlife?”

Brinkman said, “Not exactly.”

Twilly took him by the arm, hauled him to his feet and marched him up a grassy dune. “You and I need to talk.”

Dr. Brinkman was not the only one who’d had a rough night. Palmer Stoat had relaxed to sloppy excess at Swain’s bar, then wound up at a small party in the owner’s private salon with two bottles of Dom, a box of H. Upmann’s straight off a boat from Varadero, and a call girl who made Stoat show his voter’s card, because she only did registered Republicans. Stoat was so bewitched by the woman’s ideological fervency that he couldn’t properly concentrate on the sex. Eventually the halting encounter dissolved into a philosophical colloquy that lasted into the wee hours and left Stoat more exhausted than a routine night of illicit intercourse. He crept home with a monstrous headache and collapsed in one of the guest rooms, so as not to alert Desirata, whom he presumed to be slumbering alone in the marital bed.

Stoat slept past noon and woke up to a grim hangover and a silent house. Spears of sunlight slanted harshly through the Bahamas shutters. Stoat buried his face in a pillow and thought again of the voluble prostitute at Swain’s. To meet someone with genuine political ideals was a rarity in Stoat’s line of work; as a lobbyist he had long ago concluded there was no difference in how Democrats and Republicans conducted the business of government. The game stayed the same: It was always about favors and friends, and who controlled the dough. Party labels were merely a way to keep track of the teams; issues were mostly smoke and vaudeville. Nobody believed in anything except hanging on to power, whatever it took. So, at election time, Palmer Stoat always advised his clients to hedge generously by donating large sums to all sides. The strategy was as immensely pragmatic as it was cynical. Stoat himself was registered independent, but he hadn’t stepped inside a voting booth in fourteen years. He couldn’t take the concept seriously; he knew too much.

Yet it was refreshing to hear the call girl go on so earnestly about the failure of affirmative action and the merit of prayer in public schools and the dangerous liberal assault on the Second Amendment. None of those subjects affected Palmer Stoat’s life to the point that he’d formed actual opinions, but it was entertaining to meet someone who had, someone with no covert political agenda.

If only he’d been able to screw her, Erika the call girl. Or was it Estelle? Brightly Stoat thought: Now there’s a candidate for an evening of fine wine and rhino powder. He reminded himself to reach out once more to the mysterious Mr. Yee in Panama City.

The ring of the telephone cleaved Stoat’s cranium like a cutlass, and he lunged for the receiver. The sound of his wife’s voice befuddled him. Maybe he was in the wrong house! If so, how had Desie found him?

“I didn’t want you to worry,” she was saying on the other end.

“Right.” Stoat bolted upright and looked around the room, which he was relieved to recognize.

“I can explain,” Desie was saying, an odd jittery edge in her tone.

“OK.”

“But not right now,” she said.

“Fine.”

“Aren’t you going to ask if I’m all right?”

“Yes, sweetie. I’ve been, huh, out of my mind wondering where you went.”

An unreadable pause on the other end. Then, too sweetly, Desie saying, “Palmer?”

“Yes, hon.”

“You didn’t even know I was gone, did you?”

“Sure I did. It’s just . . . see, I got home late and crashed in one of the guest bedrooms—”

“Sixteen hours.”

“—so I wouldn’t wake you up.”

“Sixteen bloody hours!”

Stoat said, “What?”

“That’s how long it’s been.”

“Christ. Where? Tell me what happened.”

“You just got up, didn’t you? Unbelievable.” Now Desie sounded disgusted. “You were so smashed, you never bothered to check in the bedroom.”

“Desie, I’ll come get you right now. Tell me where.”

But when she told him, he thought she was joking.

“An Amoco station in Bronson? Where the hell’s Bronson?”

“Not far from Gainesville,” Desie said. “That’s where you should send the plane to pick me up.”

“Now hold on—”

“It doesn’t need to be, like, a jet. I’m sure one of your rich big-shot clients has something they can loan out. Did I mention I was kidnapped?”

Stoat felt bilious and fevered. Bobbling the phone, he sagged back on the pillows.

“It
was
a kidnapping, sort of,” Desie was saying. “It’s a long freaky story, Palmer.”

“OK.”

“But I did find Boodle.”

“Hey, that’s great.” Stoat had almost forgotten about the missing dog. “How’s the big guy doin’?”

“Fine. But there’s a slight problem.”

Stoat grunted. “Why am I not surprised.”

Desie said, “I’ll tell you everything when I see you.”

“In Bronson,” Stoat said weakly.

“No, Gainesville. Remember?”

“Right. Where I send the private plane.”

Once they got some black coffee into Dr. Brinkman, he was able to pull himself together for a short tour of soon-to-be Shearwater Island.

Here’s where the yacht harbor will be dredged. There’s where the golf courses go. That’s being cleared for the airstrip. And, everywhere else: homesites.

“Houses?” Desie asked.

“Very expensive houses,” Brinkman said. “But also condominiums and town homes and even some year-round rentals. Duplexes and triplexes.”

Twilly pulled off the road into the shade of some pine trees. “What’s the tallest building they’ve got in the plans?” he asked Brinkman.

“Sixteen stories. There’ll be one at each end of the island.”

“Assholes,” Twilly muttered.

Desie remarked on the multitude of peeling, bleached-out signs advertising other past projects. Brinkman said they’d all gone bust.

“But these new fellows have serious capital and serious financing,” he added. “This time I think it’s a done deal.”

“Provided they get their bridge,” said Twilly.

“Obviously.”

“And your job here,” Desie said to the biologist, “is what exactly?”

Brinkman told them about the field survey. “Basically a complete inventory,” he explained, “of every living plant, animal and insect species on the island.”

“Wow,” said Desie.

Twilly snickered contemptuously. “Fuck ‘wow.’ Dr. Steve, please tell Mrs. Stoat why she shouldn’t be so impressed.”

“Well, because. . . .” Brinkman looked uncomfortable. “Because it’s fairly routine, a survey like this. More bureaucracy than science, if you want the truth. Sure, it makes us appear responsible and concerned, but the purpose isn’t to figure out what trees and animals to save. The purpose is to make sure the developers don’t run into a snail-darter type of crisis.”

Desie looked to Twilly for elaboration.

“Endangered species,” he told her. “That would be a showstopper, am I right, Dr. Steve? Shut down the whole works.”

Brinkman nodded emphatically.

“And I’m guessing,” Twilly continued, “that you finished your field study this week, and didn’t come across anything like a snail darter or a spotted owl on this entire island. Nothing so rare that it would get in the way of the building permits. And I’m also guessing that’s why you went out and got plastered last night, because you’d secretly been hoping to come across something, anything, to block this project—even an endangered gnat. Because you’re probably a decent human being at heart, and you know exactly what’s going to happen out here once these bastards get rolling.”

In a voice raw with sadness, Brinkman said, “It’s already started.”

Then he took them into the upland woods to see what had become of the oak toads. Right away McGuinn started digging.

“Make him stop,” Brinkman implored.

Desie hooked the dog to his leash and tugged him along. Twilly Spree walked ahead, kicking at the fresh-churned dirt, following the checkerboard tread marks of a large earth-moving machine. When they reached the area where the bulldozers were parked, Brinkman pointed and said: “That’s the one I fell from. I was trying to get the darn thing started.”

“What for?” Desie asked.

“I was drunk.”

“That, we’ve established.”

“I had a notion to destroy Mr. Clapley’s billboard.”

Twilly said, “He’s the main guy?”

“Mr. Shearwater Island himself,” said Brinkman. “Robert Clapley. I’ve never met the man, but he put up a huge sales sign. You must’ve seen it when you came across the old bridge. I suppose I was wondering what it might look like, that goddamn billboard, all busted to splinters.”

Twilly said, “I could be persuaded to wonder the same thing.”

“What about the frogs?” Desie asked. McGuinn was on the prowl again, jerking her around like a puppet.

“Toads.” Steven Brinkman made a sweeping notion with one arm. “They buried them.”

“Nice,” said Twilly.

“Because Clapley’s people got it into their heads that they might be a problem later on, when the crews started clearing the island. They were afraid somebody like the Sierra Club would make a stink with the newspapers, because the toads were so small and there were so many. So Clapley’s people decided to bulldoze ’em in advance, to play it safe.”

Desie was watching Twilly closely. She said: “He’s making this up, right?”

“I wish.”

She said, “No, it’s too awful.”

“Well,” said Brinkman, “you didn’t hear it from me. We never spoke, OK?” He turned his back on them and slowly made his way into the pines. He walked with his head down, pausing every few steps as if he was searching for something.

Twilly said to Desie: “I’ve seen enough.”

“You think he was on the level? I say he’s still drunk.”

“Turn the dog loose.”

“I will not.”

He pried the leash from her fist and unclipped it from McGuinn’s collar. The Lab bounded to a hillock of freshly turned soil and began digging exuberantly, his shiny black rump waggling high. After a minute or so, Twilly told Desie to call him back. Twilly went over to the place where McGuinn had been digging and, with the toe of a shoe, finished the hole. Then he reached down and picked up a pearly gelatinous clot of mushed toads.

“Come here, Mrs. Stoat.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You wanted proof, didn’t you?”

But she was already running, McGuinn at her heels.

Later, in the car, Twilly told Desie it was time for her to go home. She wasn’t prepared to argue. He dropped her at a gas station in Bronson and gave her two fifties for breakfast and clothes and a cab ride to Gainesville. So she wouldn’t be walking around half-naked, Twilly purchased a plastic raincoat from a vending machine. The raincoat was bright yellow and folded into a kit no larger than a pack of Camels. Desie unwrapped it and, without a word, slipped it on.