Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

What finally aroused Vecker Darby from sleep were the caustic fumes. He arose, coughing violently and keenly aware that something was amiss. He fully intended to exit the premises, after first emptying his bloated bladder of beer. Conceivably, he would have survived a brief detour to the bathroom had he not (out of dull, brainless habit) lighted up a Marlboro on the way.

From the stark photograph in the Fort Myers News Press, it appeared that Vecker Darby's house had burned all the way to the slab. He had lived alone in what was once a small orange grove, miles out of town, so that no one became aware of the inferno until it was spotted by the pilot of a commercial jetliner. By the time the fire engines arrived, even the victim's flatbed truck had melted to a skeletal husk. The newspaper article identified Vecker Darby as the owner of a private waste-disposal firm, servicing industrial clients from Sarasota to Naples. Farther down the story, it was noted that the late Mr. Darby had once paid a $275 fine for illegally dumping used hypodermics, surgical dressings and other contaminated hospital waste in a public Dumpster behind a Cape Coral kindergarten.

Twilly Spree read the article about Vecker Darby while standing at a pay phone in the Seminole Indian service plaza on the cross-state expressway known as Alligator Alley. Twilly was waiting to call Desie Stoat at the prearranged hour. She picked up on the second ring.

"Twilly?"

It was the first time he'd heard her say his name, and it gave him an odd, though not uneasy, feeling.

"Yeah, it's me," Twilly said. "Can you talk?"

"Just for a minute."

"Did you inform your husband of the threat?"

"I did, yes."

"And?"

"He doesn't believe it," Desie said.

"Doesn't believe what – that I'll assassinate his dog?"

From Desie's end came a perturbed sigh. "Palmer doesn't believe you've got the dog, Twilly. He doesn't believe there was a kidnapping. He doesn't even believe there's a you. He thinks I flipped my wig and made up the whole story."

"Don't tell me this."

"We had a terrible fight. He wants me to see a shrink."

Twilly said, "But his dog's missing! What does he say about that?"

"He thinks I sent Boodle to my mother's."

"Jesus, what for?"

"All the way to Georgia."

Twilly said, "You're married to a jackass."

Desie said, "I gotta go."

"I'll call back in two days. Meanwhile, tell your husband to watch for a FedEx delivery."

"Oh no. What're you going to do now?"

"Make him a believer," Twilly said.

Desirata Brock was born in Memphis and raised in Atlanta. Her mother was a pediatrician and her father was a mechanic for Delta Air Lines. Desie attended Georgia State University with the plan of becoming a school-teacher but was sidetracked in her senior year by her engagement to a professional basketball player named Gorbak Didovlic, who stood a shade over seven feet tall and spoke no English.

Dido, as he was known in the NBA, was a rookie backup center for the Atlanta Hawks. He had spotted Desie on a tennis court and sent one of the Hawks trainers to get her phone number. Dido was considerate enough to bring a Serbo-Croatian interpreter along on their first two dates, but the third time Dido arrived alone at Desie's apartment. They went to dinner and then to a club. Dido was surprisingly garrulous, and although Desie could understand nothing he said, she sensed in his impenetrably consonanted monologues a quaint sort of immigrant innocence. It wouldn't be the last time she misread a man.

Shortly after one in the morning, Desie tapped on the face of her wristwatch to show Dido it was time to leave. He took her home, walked her to the doorstep and kissed her tenderly on the crown of her head, the only part of her body that he could reach with his lips, without dropping to one knee. Then he placed his enormous slender hands on her shoulders and began speaking in a hushed, ardent tone. Desie, who was exhausted, nodded and smiled warmly and murmured all-purpose responses like "That's so sweet," or "I know what you mean." But in fact she hadn't a clue what Dido meant, for the next morning a large diamond engagement ring was delivered to her door. It arrived with a note; two notes actually – Dido's original, scribbled in pencil on notepaper bearing the Reebok logo, and the laborious translation, which said: "I am so very happy you are to be my wife. Our life together will be full of many funs and pleasures. Thank you plenty for saying yes. Your truest love, Gorbak."

Desie was stunned to learn that Dido had proposed marriage, and even more stunned to find out she had accepted. But that's what Dido insisted had happened, and Desie took the man at his word; it seemed romantic, in a quirky sitcom way. She dropped out of college with the idea of accompanying her new fiance on the NBA tour. She imagined that traveling with Dido would be an exciting way to see the country's greatest cities; in particular, she was looking forward to New York, Boston and Chicago. But through his Serbian interpreter (whom the Hawks provided to Dido on a full-time basis). Dido explained to Desie that wives and girlfriends weren't allowed to accompany basketball players on the road. He would, however, be "plenty much happy" if she attended all the home games in Atlanta. "Is better that way," the interpreter added. "Also, you can stay in school and get smartened." Desie wasn't entirely sure it was Dido talking, but she told the interpreter she'd think about it.

The first basketball game she attended was a kick. January something, 1988. For a while Desie saved the ticket stub in her antique sewing box. The Hawks beat the Chicago Bulls 107-103. Dido played most of the third quarter and blocked four shots. Desie got to sit close to courtside, in a section with the other wives and girlfriends. Most of them, like her, were young and exceptionally attractive. At halftime the women laughed and gossiped. Desie didn't follow professional basketball, and so was unaware how huge the sport was becoming. One of the Hawks wives pointed out a prematurely bald Chicago player, practicing jump shots, and said he was paid more than $5 million a year, not including endorsement fees. Desie was astounded. She wondered aloud how much Dido was making, and one of the Hawks wives (who memorized all the team stats) was pleased to inform her. It was a truly boggling sum of money for a twenty-two-year-old man, or for anybody. Desie did the arithmetic in her head: Dido's salary worked out to $10,500 per game.

"See that ring on your finger?" the Hawks wife said, lifting Desie's left hand. "One night's work. And that's if he got it retail."

Desie didn't return to college. Dido set her up in a bigger apartment in the Buckhead area, bought her a Firebird convertible (two night's work, at least) and arranged for private tennis lessons at a nearby country club. Reebok supplied free shoes.

The engagement lasted a day shy of three months. It ended when Desie decided on a whim to fly to Detroit, of all places, to surprise Dido on the road for his birthday. When she knocked on his door at the Ritz-Carlton, she was met by a raven-haired woman wearing chrome hoop earrings and latex bicycle pants, and no top. Tattooed on the woman's left breast was a grinning skull with a cowboy hat.

The topless visitor turned out to be a local exotic dancer who spoke fluent Serbo-Croatian, in addition to English. One of the Pistons players had introduced her to Dido at a bachelor party. Desie chatted politely with the woman until Dido returned from the basketball game. Unfortunately, he had sent his interpreter home early – reasoning there'd be no need, with a bilingual stripper – so Dido found himself mostly lost during Desie's agitated discourse. Certainly her mood needed no translation; Dido had picked up on the anger even before she'd flushed her diamond engagement ring down the toilet.