Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

"Why the hell not! What're you doing!" "

Gotta go," the bum informed the quaking Krimmler. "Bath time."

The man in the zippered shoes said, "I've killed my share of dogs."

"I don't doubt it," said Twilly.

"Kitty cats, too."

"Oh, I believe you."

"And one time, some jerkwad's pet monkey. Bernardo was his name. Bernardo the baboon. Came right out of his halter and went for my scalp," the man said. "They say monkeys are so smart? Bullshit. Dogs're smarter."

"Yeah," said Twilly.

"But I'll shoot this one, you try and get cute."

"Well, he's not mine."

"What're you saying?" The rain was flattening the spikes in the man's hair. He held his right arm straight, the gun trained on the Labrador's brow. "You don't care if I pop this mutt?"

Twilly said, "I didn't say that. I said he doesn't belong to me. He belongs to the guy who sent you here."

"Wrong!" The man made a noise like the buzzer on a TV game show. "He belongs to a major asshole named Palmer Stoat."

"Didn't he hire you?"

The man cackled and made the sarcastic buzzer noise again. "Would I work for a fuck-head like that? Ha!"

"What was I thinking," Twilly said.

"Mr. Clapley's the one that hired me."

"Ah."

"To clean out the troublemakers. Now, how about you get a move on. Call the damn dog and let's go," the man said, "before we get soaked. Where's your car?"

"That way." Twilly nodded down the beach.

"Your lady friend?"

"Gone." Twilly thinking: God, I hope so. "We had a fight. She split."

"Too bad. I had some plans."

Twilly changed the subject. "Can I ask you something?"

"My name is Mr. Gash."

That's when Twilly became aware that the man in the brown zippered shoes intended to kill him. The man would not have offered his name unless he knew Twilly wouldn't be alive to repeat it.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Long as your feet keep moving," said the man.

They were walking along the windswept shoreline, Twilly with McGuinn at his heels. Mr. Gash followed a few feet behind. He was taking care not to get his shoes wet in the surf.

"Why are you pointing the gun at the dog," Twilly said, "and not at me?"

"Because I saw how you hauled ass up here when you thought Fido was in trouble. You care more about that dumb hound than you do about yourself," Mr. Gash said. "So I figure you won't try any crazy shit long as I keep the piece aimed at Fido's brain, which I'm sure is no bigger than a stick of Dentyne."

Twilly reached down and scratched the crown of McGuinn's head. The Lab wagged his tail appreciatively. He seemed to have lost interest in the strange-smelling human with the gun.

"Also," said Mr. Gash, "it'll be cool to watch you watch the dog die. Because that's what has to happen. I gotta do Fido first."

"How come?"

"Think about it, man. I shoot you first, the dog goes batshit. I shoot the dog first, what the hell're you going to do – bite me in the balls? I seriously doubt it."

Twilly said, "Good point."

His legs felt leaden and his arms were cold; the temperature was dropping rapidly ahead of the weather front. The salt spray stung, so Twilly kept his eyes lowered as he walked. He could see Desie's footprints in the sand, pointing in the same direction.

Mr. Gash was saying: "I got tape of a hellacious dog attack. Chow named Brutus. The owner's on the phone yelling for help and Brutus gets him by the nuts and will not let go. The 911 operator tells the guy to, quick, try and distract the dog. So the poor fucker, he dumps a pot of Folger's decaf on Brutus and the last thing on the tape is this scream that goes on forever. Damn dog took everything! I mean the whole package."

"Ouch," said Twilly.

"You should hear it."

"How'd you get a tape of something like that?" Twilly thinking: The more pertinent question is: Why?

Mr. Gash said, "I got my sources. Where's your goddamned car, anyway? I'm getting drenched."

"Not far."

Twilly was crestfallen to spy the Road-master behind a scrub-covered sand dune, where he had parked it. He had hoped Desie would see the keys in the ignition and drive back to the bed-and-breakfast, to sulk or pack her bag or whatever.

Maybe she decided to walk, thought Twilly. The important thing was that she was somewhere else, somewhere safe ...

But she wasn't. She was lying down in the backseat. Mr. Gash tapped the gun barrel against the rain-streaked window. Desie sat up quizzically and put her face near the glass. Mr. Gash showed her the semiautomatic and told her to unlock the door. When she hesitated, he grabbed McGuinn's collar, jerked the dog off the ground and jammed the gun to its neck.

The door flew open.

Mr. Gash beamed. "Lookie there, Fido. She loves you, too."

The trooper got to the old bridge before he changed his mind. He whipped the cruiser around and drove back to look for his friend. Thirty minutes later he found him, naked on a dune. The governor stood with his face upturned, his arms outstretched – letting the rain and wind beat him clean.

Jim Tile honked and flashed his headlights. The man who called himself Skink peered indignantly through the slashing downpour. When he saw the Highway Patrol car, he stalked across the sand and heaved himself, dripping luxuriantly, into the front seat.

"I thought we said our good-byes," he growled, wringing out his beard.

"I forgot to give you something."

The man nodded absently. "FYI: Governor Dickhead was right. They sent someone after this boy. The boy with the dog."

Jim Tile said, "He's twenty-six years old."

"Still a boy," Skink said. "And he's here on the island, like we figured. I believe I met the man they sent to kill him."

"Then I'm glad I came back."

"You can't stay."

"I know," said the trooper.

"You've got Brenda to consider. Pensions and medical benefits and such. You can't be mixed up in shit like this."

"Nothing says I can't take off the uniform, Governor, at least for a few minutes."

"Nothing except for common sense."

"Where's your damn clothes?"

"Hung in a tree," said Skink. "What'd you bring me, Jim?"

The trooper jerked a thumb toward the trunk of the cruiser.

"Pop it open for me, would you?" Skink got out in the rain and went to the rear of the car. He returned with the package, which Jim Tile had wrapped in butcher's paper.

Skink smiled, hefting the item up and down in one hand. "You old rascal! I'm guessing Smith & Wesson."

The trooper told him the gun was clean; no serial numbers. "One of my men took it off a coke mule in Okaloosa County. Very slick operation, too – eighteen-year-old Cuban kid driving a yellow Land Rover thirty-seven miles per hour at three in the morning on Interstate 10. It's a wonder we noticed him."

Skink borrowed a handkerchief to swipe the condensation off his glass eye. "I don't get it. You're the one told me not to bring the AK-47."

"Guess I'm getting nervous in my old age," the trooper said. "There's something else in the glove compartment. You go ahead and take it."

Skink opened the latch and scowled. "No, Jim, I hate these damn things." It was a cellular phone.

"Please. As a favor," the trooper said. "It will significantly improve my response time."

Skink closed his palm around the phone.

"You better hit the road," he said grumpily. "This damn car stands out like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl."

"And you don't?"

"I'll be getting dressed momentarily."

"Oh, then you'll really blend in," Jim Tile said.

Skink got out of the police cruiser and tucked the heavy brown package under one arm. Before closing the door, he leaned in and said, "My love to your bride."

"Governor, I don't hear from you in twenty-four hours," the trooper said, "I'm coming back to this damn island."