Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

Outside the window, Toad Island mocked him.

Krimmler plugged his ears and thought: I might never sleep again.

He squeezed his eyelids together and spun a plot. At dawn he would commandeer one of the bulldozers and start mowing down trees, purely for therapy. Jump into a D6 and plow a wide dusty trench through some quiet, piney thicket. Fuck you, squirrels. Welcome to your future.

Krimmler smirked at the idea.

After a while he sat up and listened. The Winnebago had fallen silent except for a steady dripping on the roof from wet branches overhead. Hurriedly Krimmler snatched up the .357 and went to put in another CD.

That's when he heard the cry, unlike anything he'd heard before. It began as a low guttural moan and built to a winding, slow-waning Scream. The hair rose on Krimmler's forearms and his tongue turned to chalk. The scream was mighty enough to be that of a large cat, such as a panther, but nerdy Dr. Brinkman had said all panthers had long ago been shot or driven out of northwest Florida. In fact (Krimmler recalled), Roger Roothaus had explicitly inquired about the possibility of panthers on Toad Island, because the animals were listed as a protected species. One measly lump of scat and Uncle Sam could padlock the whole Shearwater operation, possibly forever.

Again the unearthly cry arose. Krimmler shuddered. What else could it possibly be but a panther? That goddamn Brinkman! He lied to us, Krimmler thought – a closet bunny-hugger, as I always suspected! That would explain why he disappeared all of a sudden; probably ran off to squeal to the feds.

Krimmler jerked open the door of the Winnebago and glared into the blue fog and drizzle. The cat scream seemed to be coming from the same upland grove where he had ordered the oak toads buried. The quavering yowl sounded almost human, like a man slowly dying.

Heppppppppppppppmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Well, sort of human, Krimmler mused. If you let your imagination run wild.

He stepped into a pair of canvas work trousers and pulled on a windbreaker. Grabbing the pistol and a flashlight, he stalked into the mist. To hell with that drunken snitch Brinkman, wherever he is, Krimmler seethed. This bugshit island will be tamed; cleared dredged, drained, graded, platted, paved, stuccoed, painted and reborn as something of tangible, enduring human value – a world-class golf and leisure resort.

To Krimmler, the screaming in the night was a call to arms. He would not cower and he would not retreat, and he would not allow Shearwater to be thwarted by some smelly, spavined, tick-infested feline. Not after so much work and so much money and so much bullshit politics.

I'll kill the damn thing myself, Krimmler vowed.

Again the night was cleaved by wailing, and Krimmler struck out toward it in a defiant rage. This panther is beyond endangered, he thought. This fucker is doomed.

His charge was halted momentarily when he slipped on a log, the fall shattering his flashlight. Quickly he gathered himself and marched on, slashing with his gun arm to clear a path through the silhouetted trees. The feral cry drew him to the clearing where the toad-mulching bulldozers were parked, and in a frenzy Krimmler started firing the moment he burst from the woods.

"Here, kitty, kitty!" he exulted with a mad leer.

Heppppppppppppppmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Besides the money, what Robert Clapley missed most about the drug business was the respect. If you were known to be a smuggler of serious weight, the average low-life schmuck wouldn't dream of screwing with you.

A schmuck such as Avalon Brown, for instance – making Clapley stew for forty-five minutes in the lobby of the Marlin Hotel while he attended to "important business" upstairs with the two Barbies.

Although Avalon Brown obviously found it amusing to be rude to a wealthy American real-estate developer, he would never (Clapley was certain) treat a major importer of cocaine with such reckless disrespect. The longer Clapley had to wait, the more his thoughts turned to Mr. Gash – now, there was a fellow who could teach Avalon Brown some manners, and would be pleased to do so.

Clapley wondered why Mr. Gash had not phoned from Toad Island. Shootings, even if not fatal to the target, customarily resulted in a first-person report from the field. Maybe Mr. Gash was sulking, Clapley speculated, because the dognapper had survived. Mr. Gash took a great deal of pride in his work.

Still, he ought to call soon, Clapley thought. Wait'll I tell him about Avalon Brown – a turd fondler like that would be just the thing to brighten Mr. Gash's spirits; the sort of assignment he'd been known to do for free.

"Bobby?"

In the lobby stood Katya and Tish, aloof but not outwardly sullen. There was no sign of Jamaica's answer to Stanley Kubrick.

"Bobby, Mr. Brown vonts to know vere is movie money."

"My lawyers are drawing up the partnership papers. Let's go eat lunch," Robert Clapley said.

As they strolled to the News Cafe, Clapley was nearly overcome by distress. The Barbies looked ghoulish. They had frizzed their hair and dyed it as black as onyx, shading lips and eyelids to match. They wore musty lace shawls over loose diaphanous halters, tight leather pants and buckled, open-toed shoes as clunky as tugboats. It was criminal, Clapley lamented silently. The women were made for short skirts and high heels; hell, he ought to know. He was the design engineer! At no small expense, he had re-formed Katya and Tish into perfect twin images of the American beauty icon. And here was the thanks he got: rebellion. Toenails painted black!

Over cappuccinos and bagels, he asked: "You girls miss me?"

"Shore, Bobby," Tish said.

"Score any rhino dust yet?"

Tish shook her head tightly. Katya dropped her eyes.

"No luck, huh?" Clapley clucked in mock sympathy.

"Just cocaine. Cocaine is bo-rink." Katya, crunching into a toasted raisin bagel.

"Very boring," Robert Clapley agreed. "What's with the new look? Is that for your movie?"

"Is casual Goth, Bobby." By way of explanation, Tish pointed to a silver crucifix hanging from her neck. Katya was wearing one, too, Clapley noticed.

"Goth? You mean bats and vampires and shit like that."

"Ya," Katya said, "and blude vership."

"Also, good dance clubs," Tish added.

Clapley chuckled caustically. "Blood worship and rave. You're definitely in the right town."

His whole body twitched and perspired with wanton anxiety. Every ounce of concentration was required to steady the coffee cup in his hands. Meanwhile, the Barbies were giddily diverted by a shirtless young man racing backward on Rollerblades; the requisite ponytail, Oakley shades and a white cockatoo on one shoulder.

"Girls." Robert Clapley felt like a teacher who hears giggling in the back of the classroom. "Katya! Tish!"

Their naughty smiles evaporated.

"Do you still want some rhino dust?"

Tish glanced at Katya, who cocked an unplucked eyebrow.

"Vere?" she asked suspiciously.

"The condo in Palm Beach."

"Ven? You have now?"

"Not today," Clapley said. "Day after tomorrow."

Tish said, "No boolshit, Bobby? You got horn?"

"I will."

"How you find? Vere it is?" Katya demanded.

Clapley could hardly bear to look at them, their hair and makeup were so appalling. Plus, they were noshing like a pair of starved heifers!

"Vere you get dis horn?" Katya persisted.

"From a real rhinoceros. I'll be shooting it myself."

Tish froze, her waxy cheeks bulging with bagel. Katya sat forward, the pink tip of tongue showing between her front teeth, like a kitten's.

"Black rhino. A monster," Robert Clapley said. "The hunt is all set for Saturday morning."

"You shoot rhino? No boolshit?"