Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

Clapley scowled. "Whoa. That little prick is not getting my trophy cat,"

"That's the other thing I came to tell you.

"Durgess, my guide, he says they sent the ranch a bum cheetah. A stone gimp."

"That's good news?"

"No, Bob, the good news is, he's got a rhinoceros instead. A genuine killer rhino." Stoat paused suspensefully. "Stomped a man to death a few years back."

Robert Clapley's head snapped around. Tremulously he sat forward. "And the horn?"

"Huge," Stoat whispered. "Major stud dust."

"God. That's fantastic."

Clapley's hands dove under the table, into his pockets. Stoat pretended not to notice.

"When's the hunt?" Clapley was breathless.

"This weekend. Durgess said the sooner the better."

"Yes! They'll come back to me now, for sure. Katya and Tish, I know they will." Clapley was radiant. "They'll come running home for the good stuff – especially when they find out I'm going to shoot the big bastard myself. A killer rhino. Can you imagine? They'll dump that ganja turd in a heartbeat."

"In which case, you wouldn't have to kill him, right?" Stoat cringed whenever he thought of Porcupine Head amok.

Clapley shrugged. "Frankly, I'd rather spend my money on something else. Mr. Gash isn't cheap." Clapley snatched a cigar out of Stoat's pocket. "And neither are you, Palmer. How much is all this extra fun going to cost me? Remember, you owed me the cheetah and then some. So ... how much?"

"Not a dime, Bob. The hunt is on me."

"That's mighty kind."

"But the horn you've got to buy separately," Stoat said, "at the price we discussed. Rules of the house."

"Glad to do it," said Clapley. "Oh, by the way, these Cohibas of yours are counterfeit."

"What! Noway."

"You can tell by the labels, Palmer. See these tiny black dots? They're supposed to be raised up, so you can feel 'em with your fingertips. That's how they come from the factory in La Habana. But these you got" – Clapley, wagging one in front of Stoat's nose – "see, the dots are smooth to the touch. That means they're elfake-o."

"No way," Stoat huffed. "Three hundred dollars a box at the Marina Hemingway. No way they're knockoffs." He removed the cigar from his lips and set it, unaffectionately, on the table's edge. He hunched close to examine the label.

Robert Clapley stood to leave. He patted Stoat on the back and said, "Don't worry, buddy. I'll get us some real McCoys, for the big rhinoceros hunt."

At that moment, a Florida Highway Patrol car entered the black wrought-iron gate of the governor's mansion in Tallahassee. At the door, a plainclothes FDLE agent waved Lt. Jim Tile inside, but not before giving his two companions a hard skeptical look. One was a black dog. The other was a man who was not properly attired for lunch with the chief executive.

Lisa June Peterson was waiting for them.

"Nice to see you again," Skink said, kissing her cheek. "You look ever-lovely."

Lisa June's cheeks flushed. Jim Tile shot a laser glare at his friend, who beamed innocently.

"I got him to shower," the trooper said, "but that's all."

"He looks fine," said Lisa June Peterson.

Former Governor Clinton Tyree wore hiking boots, his blaze orange rain jacket with matching trousers, a new shower cap (with a daisy pattern) and a vest made from Chihuahua pelts.

"For special occasions," he explained.

"Dear Lord," Jim Tile said.

"It's truly one of a kind."

Lisa June said nothing; surely there was a story behind the vest, and just as surely she didn't want to hear it. She knelt to scratch McGuinn's chin. "Aw, what a handsome boy."

"An OK dog," Skink conceded, "but definitely not the brightest bulb in the chandelier."

Lisa June took the former governor's arm. "Come on. He's waiting for you."

"Oh, I'm tingling with excitement."

"Don't start," Jim Tile said. "You promised."

Skink told Lisa June: "Hon, don't mind Jim. He's just pissed because I lost his cell phone."

She led them to the dining room. Lunch was hearts-of-palm salad, conch chowder, medallions of venison and Key lime pie.

"An all-Florida menu," Lisa June announced with a whimsical curtsy, "in yore onna, sun!"

Skink parked himself at the head of the long table. The trooper said, without irony, "That's the governor's place, Governor."

"Yes, Jim, I remember."

"Don't do this."

"Do what?"

Lisa June said, "It's fine, Lieutenant. Governor Artemus has been fully briefed."

"With all due respect, I seriously doubt that."

Through a side door burst Dick Artemus; dapper, energized and primed to charm. His face was fresh-scrubbed and ruddy, his hair lustrous and ardently brushed, his green eyes clear and twinkling. When Clinton Tyree stood up, the governor bear-hugged him as if he were a long-lost twin.

"The one and only! I can't believe you're here!" Dick Artemus looked positively misty.

Dropping to one knee, he fondly grabbed McGuinn by the ruff and made coo-cheee-coo sounds. "Hey, boy, I'm glad to see you still got both ears. That bad man didn't hurt you after all!"

Skink glanced skeptically at Jim Tile.

"This is quite an honor," Dick Artemus said, rising.

"Why?" Skink asked.

"Because you're a legend, Governor."

"I'm a goddamned footnote in a history book. That's all."

"How about a glass of orange juice?" Lisa June Peterson suggested.

"Thanks. Heavy on the pulp," Skink said.

Dick Artemus exclaimed: "Me, too! The best OJ is the kind you gotta chew. What're those little beauties tied to the ends of your beard – may I ask?"

"Buzzard beaks."

"Ah! I was gonna guess eagles." Dick Artemus signaled to one of the stewards. "Sean, an orange juice for the governor and how about a screwdriver for me. And you folks?"

In unison, Jim Tile and Lisa June Peterson declined a beverage.

"So, tell me," Dick Artemus burbled to Skink, "how's the old place look? Seven hundred North Adams Street."

"About the same."

"Bring back memories?"

"More like hives."

The governor was undaunted. "Was the gym built when you were here? Would you like a tour?"

Skink looked at Lisa June. "Is he for real?" He threw back his head and cackled. "A tour!"

Lunch was more small talk; Dick Artemus was the world champion of small talkers. Lt. Jim Tile was strung drum-tight, and he finished his meal as rapidly as decent manners allowed. He had argued vigorously against such a meeting, as there was no telling how Clinton Tyree would react upon returning to the mansion after so many years. The trooper also held no expectation that the ex-governor would take a liking to the present governor, or for that matter show him even a trace of respect. Nothing good could come of the visit, Jim Tile had warned Lisa June Peterson, who had promised to warn the governor.

But Dick Artemus wasn't worried, for he believed he was the most irresistible sonofabitch in the whole world. He believed he could make anyone like him. And he had been flattered to learn that the legendary Clinton Tyree wanted to meet him.

"Tell me about your eye," he chirped.

"If you tell me about your hair."

Lisa June, helpfully: "Governor Tyree lost the eye many years ago, during a violent robbery."

"Actually, it was more of an old-fashioned assault," Skink said, inhaling a frothy sliver of pie. "I go through glass eyeballs like underwear. A friend of mine found this one in Belgrade." He tapped the crimson iris with a tine of his silver dessert fork. "Said she got it off a Gypsy king, and I choose to believe her. She had quite a circus background."

The governor nodded as if this were conversation he heard every day. His attention was broken by something poking him between his legs – the Labrador, lobbying for a handout. Dick Artemus genially slipped the dog a chunk of corn bread.