Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

"Course, that was downhill."

"Well, hell," Durgess said impatiently. "He must move around enough to eat. Lookit the size of the bastard."

Asa Lando cleared his throat. "See, they, uh, brought all his food to him – branches and shrubs and such. He pretty much just stood in the same spot all day long, eatin' whatever they dumped in front of his face. Give him a big shady tree, they told me, and he won't go nowheres."

Durgess said, "I'm sure."

"Which is how I figure we'll set up the kill shot. Under one a them giant live oaks."

"Oaks we got," Durgess sighed.

He thought: Maybe we can get us two birds with one stone. Maybe Mr. Stoat's big-shot hunter would go for a jenna-wine African rhinoceros over a cheetah; even a sleepy rhino was an impressive sight. And El Jefe's front horn was primo – fifty grand is what Stoat said he could get for a decent one. Durgess idly wondered if the mysterious Mr. Yee might be enticed into a bidding war ...

"I gotta make a phone call," Durgess said to Asa Lando.

"One more thing. It might could help."

"What?"

"He stomped a man to death, Durge."

"No shit!"

"Six, seven years ago. Some superdumb tourist," Asa Lando said, "hopped on his back so the wife could take a picture. Like he was ridin' a bronco. Old El Jeffy went nuts is what them Argentines told me. Threw the tourist fellow to the ground and mushed his head like a tangelo. Made all the papers in South America."

Durgess smiled crookedly. "So it ain't just any rhino we got here, Asa. It's a killer rhino. A world-famous killer rhino."

"Exactly right. That help?"

"You bet your ass," Durgess said. "Call me when he wakes up."

Mr. Gash couldn't believe that the bum with the crimson eye and the weird checkered skirt had showed up in the dead of night, in the middle of the woods. And packing a pistol!

"I said, the boy is mine."

Mr. Gash leered. "You're into that, huh, pops? A rump ranger."

"I'll take the woman, too." The bum motioned with the gun toward the station wagon containing Desirata Stoat.

"Pops, you can have the 'boy.' He's dying anyway. But the lady," said Mr. Gash, waving with his own gun, "she stays with me. Now get the fuck outta here. I'm counting to six."

The bum flashed his teeth. The braids of his beard were dripping after his jog through the rain; tiny perfect globes, rolling off the bleached buzzard beaks. Mr. Gash was unnerved by the sight, as he was by the man's eerie calm. Being cold and unclothed had put Mr. Gash at a psychological disadvantage in the standoff. By rights he should have felt cocksure, a single-action Smith being no match for his trusty semiautomatic. Yet all it would take would be one lucky shot in the dark – and even a bum could get lucky.

Mr. Gash elected to proceed carefully, lest his pecker be blown off.

He said to the burn: "You can have the dog, too."

"I was hungry enough, Mr. Gash, I just might."

"What kinda sick kink you into, pops?" Mr. Gash levered himself to one knee. His foot made a sucking sound when he tugged it out of the mud. He was somewhat flattered that the bum knew his name.

"The governor sent me, Mr. Gash. I'll take over from here."

"Hooo! The governor!"

"Yessir. To fetch that young man."

"Well, Mr. Robert Clapley sent me," said Mr. Gash, "to do the exact same thing. And my guess is Mr. Clapley pays a whole lot handsomer than the governor. So we got a conflict, don't we?"

A jingling came from the pines, and McGuinn's shadow appeared at the edge of the clearing. The second gunshot had launched the dog on another fruitless search for falling ducks, and he had returned only to encounter yet another human with a gun; an uncommonly large human who smelled of fried opossum and wood smoke. McGuinn's mouth began to water. Unspooling his tongue, he trotted forward to greet the stranger in the customary Labrador manner.

Mr. Gash saw what was coming and steadied his arm, preparing to fire. Here was the opportunity he'd been awaiting: The bum wouldn't be able to ignore the dog. Nobody could ignore that loony pain-in-the-ass mutt. And the moment the bum got distracted, Mr. Gash would shoot him in the heart.

From the car, Desie called out: "McGuinn! Come, boy!"

Naturally the dog paid no attention. On his way to meet the stranger, he stepped blithely over Twilly Spree, sprawled bleeding on the ground.

"Bad boy! Come!" Desie shouted, to no avail.

McGuinn sensed that the extra-large human with the gun presented no menace, but rather the promise of an opossum snack. It was imperative to make friends ...

As the dog's nose disappeared beneath the hem of the bum's checkered kilt, Mr. Gash's forefinger tightened on the trigger. He was waiting for the bum to react – to recoil in surprise, yell in protest, shove the dog away. Something. Anything.

But the bum didn't even flinch; wouldn't take his good eye (or the .357) off Mr. Gash. He merely stood there smiling, a smile so luminous as to be visible on a moonless night.

Smiling, while a filthy 128-pound hairball sniffed at his privates! Mr. Gash was disgusted.

"You're one sick bastard," he spat at the bum.

A voice from behind Mr. Gash: "Look who's talking."

He turned to see Desie at the car door, modeling his snakeskin corset. Assuming that the perverted bum would be transfixed by Mrs. Stoat, Mr. Gash decided to seize his chance.

"You're all sick!" he snarled.

In the moment between uttering those words and pulling the trigger, something unexpected happened to Mr. Gash. The bum shot him twice. The first slug clipped off his right kneecap, toppling him sideways. The second slug, striking him on the way down, went through one cheek and out the other.

Flopping about, Mr. Gash felt a large boot descend firmly on his throat, and the semiautomatic being pried from his fingers. He began to choke violently on a gob of mud, and he was slipping into blackness when a huge fist snatched him by the hair and jerked him upright to a sitting position. There he coughed volcanically until he was able to expel the gob.

But it wasn't mud. It was an important segment of Mr. Gash's tongue, raggedly severed by the bum's second bullet. Only when he endeavored to speak did Mr. Gash comprehend the debilitating nature of his wound.

"Zhhooo zhhaa off mah fugghy ung!"

The bum tweaked Mr. Gash's chin. "Not bad, sport. You could've been a rap star."

"Zhoooo zhhuuhh of a bizhhh!"

The bum hoisted Mr. Gash by the armpits and heaved him headfirst into the leering grille of the Buick. Mr. Gash crumpled into a grimy naked heap on the ground, and he would have preferred to remain there indefinitely until his multitude of fiery pains abated. The bum, however, had other plans.

Twilly was no longer floating down a river. He was lying flat on a tailgate. The good news was, his vision had returned, more or less. Two silhouettes hovered over him: Mrs. Desirata Stoat and a tall hoary stranger with silvery twines growing from each side of his face. The stranger was using a finger to probe the gurgling hole in Twilly's thorax.

"Hold still, son," the man advised.

"Who are you?"

"You call me captain, but for now shut up."

Desie said, "Honey, you lost some blood."

Twilly nodded dully. It wouldn't have surprised him to learn he'd lost every drop. He could barely hoist his eyelids. "You OK?" he asked Desie. "He hurt you?"

"Nothing that three or four months in a scalding bath won't cure. But no, he didn't get what he was after," she said, "thanks to you and McGuinn and this gentleman."

Twilly swallowed a deep breath. "Somebody's been shooting a gun. I smell it."

"Son, I told you to hush," the captain said. Then to Desie: "You got something clean I can use on him?"