Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

Master Palmer, though, was something else.

He got fooled. He went back the next night, arriving at the same moment Stoat was driving away, the silhouette of a woman visible beside him in the Range Rover. Twilly assumed it was the wife, assumed the two of them were going to a late dinner.

But it turned out to be one of the maids riding off with the litterbug; he was giving her a lift home. And so Twilly made a mistake that changed everything.

Ever since his previous incursion, the Stoats had been more scrupulous about setting the house alarm. But Twilly decided to hell with it – he'd bust in and grab the dog's pills and run. He'd be in and out and on the road in a minute flat.

The kitchen door was a breeze; a screwdriver did the job and, surprisingly, no alarm sounded. Twilly flipped on the lights and began searching. The kitchen was spacious, newly refurbished in a desert-Southwest motif with earth-tone cabinets and all-stainless appliances. This is what guys like Palmer Stoat do for their new young wives, Twilly thought; kitchens and jewelry are pretty much the upper reach of their imaginations.

He found the dog's medicines on the counter next to the coffee machine: two small prescription bottles and a tube of ointment, all antibiotics, which Twilly put in his pocket. The Lab's leash hung from a hook near the door, so Twilly grabbed that, too. For the daring raid he awarded himself a cold Sam Adams from the refrigerator. When he turned around, there stood Desirata Stoat with the chrome-plated .38 from the bedroom.

"You're the one who stole our dog," she said.

"That's correct."

"Where is he?"

"Safe and sound."

"I said where.'"' She cocked the hammer.

"Shoot me, you'll never see McGuinn again."

"Who?"

"That's his new name."

Twilly told Mrs. Stoat he hadn't known about the dog's surgery – not an apology but an explanation for why he was there. "I came back for his medicine. By the way, what happened to him?"

The litterbug's wife said, "You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Put your hands on top of your head."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Stoat, but that's not how it goes in real life." Twilly took a minute to polish off the beer. "You recycle?" he asked.

Desie motioned toward a closet. Inside was a plastic crate, where Twilly deposited the empty bottle. Then he turned around and calmly snatched the revolver away from the litterbug's wife. He shook out the bullets and put them in the same pocket as the dog's medicine. The gun he placed in a silverware drawer.

Mrs. Stoat lowered her chin and muttered something inaudible. She wore no shoes and a long white T-shirt and pearl earrings, and that was about it. Her arms were as tanned as her legs.

"You're the sicko who put the bugs in my husband's truck?"

"Beetles. Yes."

"And left those nasty notes? And pulled the eyes out of all the animal heads?"

"Correct." Twilly saw no point in mentioning the attack on her red Beemer.

Desie said, "Those were terrible things to do."

"Pretty childish," Twilly conceded.

"What's the matter with you anyway?"

"Evidently I'm working through some anger. How's Palmer holding up?"

"Just fine. He took the maid home and went over to Swain's for a cocktail."

"Ah, the cigar bar." That had been Twilly Spree's original target for the insect infestation, until he'd hit a technical snag in the ventilation system. Also, he had received conflicting scientific opinions about whether dung beetles would actually eat a cured leaf of Cuban tobacco.

"What's your name?" Desie asked.

Twilly laughed and rolled his eyes.

"OK," she said, "you're kidnapping our dog?"

"Your husband's dog."

"I want to come."

Of course Twilly chuckled. She couldn't be serious.

"I need to know what this is all about," she said, "because I don't believe it's money."

"Please."

"I believe it's about Palmer."

"Nice meeting you, Mrs. Stoat."

"It's Desie." She followed Twilly out to the rental car and hopped in. He told her to get out but she refused, pulling her knees to her chin and wrapping both arms around her legs.

"I'll scream bloody murder. Worse than bloody murder," she warned.

Twilly sat down heavily behind the wheel. What a twist of rancid luck that Stoat's wife would turn out to be a head case. A light flicked on in the house across the street. Desie saw it, too, and Twilly expected her to start hollering.

Instead she said: "Here's the situation. Lately I've been having doubts about everything. I need to get away."

"Take a cruise."

"You don't understand."

"The dog'll be fine. You've got my word."

"I'm talking about Palmer," she said. "Me and Palmer."

Twilly was stumped. He couldn't think of anything else to do but drive.

"I'm not very proud of myself," she was saying, "but I married the man, basically, for security. Which is a nice way of saying I married him for the dough. Maybe I didn't realize that at the time, or maybe I did."

"Desie?"

"What."

"Do I look like Montel Williams?"

"I'm sorry – God, you're right. Listen to me go on."

Twilly found his way to the interstate. He was worried about McGuinn. He wondered how often the dog needed the pills, wondering if it was time for a walk.

"I'll let you see the dog, Mrs. Stoat, just so you know he's all right. Then I'm taking you back home."

"Don't," Desie said. "Please."

"And here's what I want you to tell your husband – "

"There's a cop."

"Yes, I see him."

"You're doing seventy."

"Sixty-six. Now here's what you tell Palmer: 'A dangerous drug-crazed outlaw has kidnapped your beloved pet, and he won't give him back until you do exactly what he says.' Can you handle that?"

Desie stared in a distracted way out the window.

Twilly said: "Are you listening? I want you to tell your husband I'm a violent bipolar sociopathic lunatic. Tell him I'm capable of anything."

"But you're not."

He was tempted to recite a complete list of personal felonies, but he thought it might freak her into jumping from the car. "I blew up my uncle's bank," he volunteered.

"What for?"

"Does it matter? A bombing is a bombing."

Desie said, "You'll have to do better than that. I still don't believe you're nuts."

Twilly sighed. "What do you and Palmer talk about – politics? Television? Repression in Tibet?"

"Shopping." Desie spoke with no trace of shame or irony. "He's got a keen interest in automobiles and fine clothes. Though I suppose that doesn't count for much in your social circle."

"I have no social circle."

"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."