Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

Fun? Big fun. Major adrenaline rush. Mysteriously wealthy, and other surprises galore. Then what? Desie wondered. Then he'll be gone, of course.

Well, there was still Palmer. Deceitful asshole though he was, Desie nonetheless had felt a twinge of pity at the sight of him tied up and hooded in the rocking chair. And the expression on his pie-shaped face when Twilly removed the sweat-stained pillowcase and cut the ropes – a look of malignant contempt, manufactured for Desie's benefit. See how serious I am!

But he'd take her back in a heartbeat, her husband would. Palmer required a sharp-looking wife, one who would put up with his conveniently ambiguous travel plans and his unsportsmanlike hunting trips and all that Polaroid weirdness in the bedroom. Palmer knew he had a good thing in Desie, and he also knew what divorces cost. So, sure, he'd take her back.

That would be the easiest road for Desie, too, but she couldn't take it. She would not be able to look at her husband without thinking of tiny orange-striped toads, bulldozed into goop.

Her folks in Atlanta – they'd be glad to have her home for a while. Mom was busy with her medical practice, but Dad would be retiring soon from Delta. Maybe I could start back at GSU, Desie thought, finish up on my teaching degree.

Yeah, right. And afterward I'll move to Appalachia and live in a tin shanty and do volunteer work with the learning disabled. Who the hell am I kidding?

Twilly stirred when Desie stroked his brow.

"You awake?"

"Am now," he said.

"Dreaming?"

"I dunno. Is there a giant black dog on my back?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Then I wasn't dreaming," Twilly said.

"I've been lying here wondering ... what happens now?"

"The itinerary, you mean."

"The agenda," she said.

"Well, first, I intend to seriously fuck things up so Shearwater never gets built."

Desie cupped his chin in her hands. "You can't stop it."

"I can try."

"They'll fix it so you can't. Palmer and the governor. I'm sorry but that's a fact," said Desie.

"If they say the bridge is a done deal, it's done."

"Just watch."

"There's nothing you can do, Twilly, short of killing somebody."

"I agree."

"My God."

"What?"

"Don't even joke about that," Desie said. "Nothing like this is worth taking a human life."

"No? What's the life of an island worth? I'd be curious to know." Twilly reached behind his head and flicked McGuinn smartly on the tip of the nose. The dog awoke with a startled yelp, releasing his hold on Twilly's neck. He jumped to the floor and began to paw, optimistically, at the doorjamb.

Twilly rose on one arm to face Desie. "Ever been to Marco Island? You can't imagine how they mauled that place."

"I know, honey, but – "

"If you'd seen it when you were a kid and then now, you'd say it was a crime. You'd say somebody ought to have their nuts shot off for what they did. And you'd be right."

Desie said, "If you're trying to scare me off, you're doing a fine job."

"You asked me a question."

Desie pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. We can talk about this in the morning."

As if it could end differently.

"The whole damn island," she heard him murmur. "I can't let that happen again."

Dick Artemus offered Lisa June Peterson a drink. He was on his third. She said no thanks.

"Still drivin' that Taurus?" he asked her.

"Yes, sir."

"You break my heart, Lisa June. I can put you in a brand-new Camry coupe, at cost."

"I'm fine, Governor. Thanks, just the same."

The phone on his desk rang and rang. Dick Artemus made no move to pick it up. "Is Dorothy gone home already? Jesus Christ."

"It's six-thirty. She's got kids," Lisa June Peterson said. She reached across the desk and punched a button on the telephone console. Instantly the ringer went mute.

The governor savored his bourbon. He winked and said: "Whaddya got for me?"

Lisa June thought: Great, he's half-trashed. "Two things. About this special session – before we send out the press release, you should know that Willie Vasquez-Washington is pitching a conniption. He says he doesn't want to fly back to Tallahassee next week, doesn't want his vacation interrupted. He says he's going to make himself a royal pain in the ass if you drag the House and Senate back into session – "

"Those his words?" Dick Artemus grimaced. " 'Royal pain in the ass.' But you told him this was for schools, right? For the education budget."

Lisa June Peterson patiently explained to the bleary governor that Willie Vasquez-Washington was no fool; that he'd quickly figured out the true purpose for the special legislative session., namely to revive the Toad Island bridge project on behalf of the governor's buddies –

"Hell, they aren't my buddies!" Dick Artemus spluttered. "They aren't my pals, they aren't my partners. They're just some solid business folks who contributed to the campaign. Goddamn that Willie, he ain't no saint himself ... "

Lisa June Peterson informed her boss that Willie Vasquez-Washington didn't know (or care) why the governor had vetoed the bridge appropriation in the first place, but he promised to make the governor suffer dearly for screwing up his travel plans.

"He's going skiing in Banff," Lisa June reported. "Taking the whole family."

Dick Artemus sniffed. "Who's payin' for that ?"

"I can find out."

"Naw. Hell." The governor puffed his cheeks in disgust. "Y'know, I never had to deal with shit like this in Toyota Land. What else, Lisa June? Let's have it."

"Clinton Tyree came to see you the other night, when you were in Orlando."

Dick Artemus straightened in the chair. "Damn. What'd he want? What'd he say?"

"He said he'll do what you asked him to – "

"Fannnnn-tastic!"

" – but he'll come back to Tallahassee and murder you if anything happens to his brother Doyle. Murder you slowly, he asked me to emphasize."

"Oh, for God's sake." The governor forced out a chuckle.

Lisa June said, "He mentioned the following items: a pitchfork, handcuffs, a fifty-five-gallon drum of lye and a coral snake."

"He's a nut," the governor said.

"He's also serious."

"Well, don't worry, 'cause nuthin's gonna happen to brother Doyle. For God's sake." Dick Artemus groped distractedly for the bourbon bottle. "Poor Lisa June, you're probably wonderin' what the hell you got yourself into with this crazy job. You can't figger out what the heck's goin' on."

Lisa June Peterson said, "I know what's going on. He showed me the letter you wrote."

"What letter!" Dick Artemus protested. Then, sheepishly: "Ok, scratch that. Yeah, I wrote it. See, sometimes ... "

He gazed with a drowsy bemusement into his glass.

Lisa June said, "Sometimes what?"

"Sometimes in this world you gotta do things that aren't so nice."

"For the sake of a golf course."

"Don't get me started, darling. It's a lot more complicated than that." The governor raised his face to offer a paternal smile. "There's a natural order to consider. A certain way things work. You know that, Lisa June. That's how it's always been. You can't change it and I can't change it and some crazy old homicidal hermit – Skink, isn't that what he calls himself? – well, he damn sure can't change it, neither."

Lisa June Peterson stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Thanks for the pep talk, Governor."

"Aw, don't get sulky on me. Sit down, now. Tell me what he looked like. Tell me what happened, I'm dyin' to hear."

But even if Dick Artemus had been sober, Lisa June couldn't have brought herself to share what had happened at the campfire – that the ex-governor had kept her up all night with a fevered monologue; that he had told her true stories of old Florida, that he had ranted and incanted and bellowed at the stars, stomping back and forth, weeping from one eye while the other smoldered as red as a coal; that he had painted teardrops on his bare scalp with fox blood; that he had torn his queer checkered kilt while scrambling up a tree, and that she'd put it back together with three safety pins that she'd found in a corner of her purse; that he'd kissed her, and she'd kissed him back.