Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

When Stoat heard the kidnapper's demand, he cackled.

"Palmer, the man is serious."

"Really."

"You'd better do what he wants."

"Or what," said Stoat. "He's going to kill my dog? My dog?"

"He says he will."

Again Stoat chuckled, and resumed cleaning the birds. "Come on, Des. The sickest bastard in the whole world isn't going to hurt a Labrador retriever. Especially Boodle – everybody falls head over heels for Boodle."

Exhausted though she was, Desie couldn't help but watch as her husband meticulously tugged out the gray feathers one by one and placed them in a soft velvety pile. Naked, the doves looked too scrawny to eat. The breasts were gaunt and the flesh was pocked unattractively with purple-tinged holes from the shotgun pellets.

He said, "Oh, I almost forgot – the package from Panama City?"

"On the porch," Desie said. "What is it, anyway?"

"Stationery."

"In Tupperware?"

"Oh ... well, yeah," her husband stammered.

"Keeps out the humidity. It's good stuff. Embossed."

"Cut the crap. Palmer. It's powder."

"You opened it!"

"Yeah. My husband the smack dealer. No wonder you didn't want it sent by regular mail."

Stoat threw back his head and laughed. "Heroin? Now you think I'm moving heroin! Oh, that's priceless."

"Then what is it?" Desie demanded angrily. "What's in the Tupperware? Tell me, Palmer."

So he did, adding: "But I wanted it to be a surprise."

She stared at him. "Rhino sex powder."

"Hon, they don't always shoot the animals to get the horns. That's a common myth."

"You're unbelievable," Desie said.

"I just thought it might liven things up for you and me. Hey, can it hurt to try?"

Wordlessly she stood up and went to the bedroom.

"Aren't you hungry?" Stoat called hopefully after her. "Marisa's firing up the barbecue."

It took another forty-five minutes to finish with the heads and the skins of the birds. Not wishing to stink up his garbage can with the innards, he wrapped them in butcher paper and carried it across the backyard, through the hedge, to the well-manicured property of his neighbors, the Clarks, where he dumped the whole mess in the goldfish pond. Ned and Susan Clark, Stoat happened to know, were on a gambling cruise to Nassau.

After Stoat returned to the house, he sent the cook home, stored the doves in the refrigerator, stood for a long time under a hot shower and pondered what to do about Desirata. He didn't believe the kidnap story but took it as proof that something was seriously amiss, something was unraveling inside her mind. Maybe she'd run off with some guy on a whim, then changed her mind. Or maybe she'd simply freaked out and bolted. Manic depression, multiple-personality syndrome – Stoat had heard of these illnesses but was unclear about the symptoms. This much was true: Given the hinky events of the past twenty-four hours, he had come to suspect that his own unhappy spouse had conspired in the defacing of his prize taxidermy, the trashing of the red BMW, and even the infesting of his luxury sport-utility vehicle with shit-eating insects.

A cry for help, Palmer Stoat figured. Obviously the kid's got some loose shingles.

But whatever weird was happening within Desie, it was the part of her yarn about the dog that Stoat couldn't sort out. What had she done with poor Boodle, and why?

He toweled off and crawled into bed. He felt her go tense when he slipped an arm around her waist.

"You OK?" he asked.

"Never felt better."

"You smell good."

"Compared to a sack of dead pigeons, I hope so."

"I know you're upset, sweetie. I think we should talk."

"Well, I think we should be calling the police." Desie knew he wouldn't do it, but she was ticked off that he hadn't raised the prospect. What concerned husband wouldn't at least consider notifying the authorities after an intruder breaks into his home and takes off with his wife! So maybe it hadn't been a real kidnapping (since it was Desie's idea to go), but Palmer didn't know that.

He said, "Sweetie, we can't possibly get the police involved."

"Why not? You said he'll never hurt the dog, so what've we got to lose?"

"Because it'll be all over the TV and the newspapers, that's why. My clients rely on me to be low-profile and discreet," he explained. "This would be a disaster, Desie. I'd be a laughingstock. 'Dognapper Targets Prominent Lobbyist.' Jesus Hubbard Christ, can you imagine the headlines?"

She squirmed out of his embrace.

Stoat said, "Honestly, how could I show my face in Tallahassee or Washington? A story like that, I'm telling you, it might turn up in a Letterman monologue. Try to understand what that could do to my business."

"Fine," she said curtly.

"Don't worry. We'll get our puppy back."

"Then you'll do what this maniac wants. It's the only way," she said.

With an exaggerated sigh, Palmer rolled on his back. "It's not the only way. Trust me."

Desie turned to face him. "Please just do what he says."

"You can't be serious."

She said, "It's just a bridge, Palmer. One lousy bridge to one lousy little island. They'll get by fine without it."

"You don't know what you're talking about. Besides, it's already done. I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to, which I don't."

"Don't lie to me. Not about this."

Stoat sucked in his breath, wondering: What the hell does she mean by that?

Desie said what she'd been told to say by the dognapper: "Your buddy Governor Dick – he hasn't signed the budget bill yet, has he? Tell him to veto the money for the bridge."

"OK, that's it." Stoat sat up and reached for the lamp. "Darling, you've obviously lost your goddamned mind."

She closed her eyes but kept her cheek to the pillow. "Otherwise we'll never see the dog again," she said. "The lunatic has already changed his name, Palmer. He calls him McGuinn."

"Yeah. Whatever." What a whacked-out imagination she has, Stoat thought. He'd had no idea.

Desie stiffened beside him. "So you think I'm out of my mind? Isn't that what you just said?"

Palmer bowed his head and gingerly massaged his tender temples. "Look, Des, let's please finish talking about this tomorrow. I'm having a tough day's night."

His wife groaned in exasperation and rolled over.

Robert Clapley celebrated in his own special style. He returned with his share of the dove kill to the oceanfront condominium his company owned in Palm Beach. There he cooked the birds in a light wine sauce and lovingly served them to Katya and Tish, whom Clapley half-whimsically referred to as Barbie One and Barbie Two. Katya was from Russia; Tish was from the Czech Republic. They were both five ten and weighed approximately 130 pounds. Clapley didn't know their last names, or their true ages, and didn't ask. He had met them six months earlier on South Beach, at an all-night party thrown by a bisexual German real estate tycoon. The women told Clapley they were models and had come to Miami for new career opportunities. Steady fashion work was hard to come by in Eastern Europe, and the pay was lousy compared with that in France or the States. Robert Clapley thought Katya and Tish looked a bit flashy for big-time modeling, but they were plenty attractive enough for him. The fellow who'd thrown the party had taken Clapley aside and confided that it was he who had purchased the transatlantic plane tickets for Katya and Tish, and half a dozen other women who were exceptionally eager to come to America. The man had chosen them from an array of more than one hundred who had appeared on an audition videotape mailed to him by a "talent agency" in Moscow.

"But don't get the wrong idea. Bob. These girls are not common prostitutes," the man had assured Clapley.