Carl Hiassen - Sick Puppy

"That's right."

"What if you don't hit?"

"Then it will probably kill me. Just like it killed another man a few years ago." Clapley affected a rueful sigh. "A truly awful thing, it was. The guide says this is an extremely dangerous animal. A rogue."

The Barbies sat big-eyed and transfixed. Another teenaged Rollerblader skated past, swinging his spandex-covered buns, but the women remained riveted upon the great white hunter.

"Don't you worry. I won't miss," Clapley told them. "I never miss."

Katya said, "Big gun, ya?"

"The biggest."

"Then, after, you bring home horn!"

"Only if you'll be there waiting."

The women nodded in syncopated enthusiasm.

"Fantastic. But you can't tell anyone, especially not Mr. Brown," Clapley warned. "This is very risky, what I'm doing for you. I could get in lots of trouble."

"OK, Bobby."

"Not to mention trampled to death."

Katya tenderly put a hand on top of Clapley's. "We love, Bobby, that you would do such risky things for us. To shoot so dangerous rhino."

"Haven't I always given you whatever you wanted? Haven't I? You and Tish asked for more horn, and this is the only way I can get it for you. Putting my life on the line."

"Thank you, Bobby."

"So, I'll see you both Saturday night? With blond hair. Please?"

Tish tittered. "Tall shoes, too."

"That would be fantastic." So much for the Goth shit, Robert Clapley thought. He was rapturous with triumph and longing; soon his twins would be home.

In the lobby of the Marlin, he hugged both of them and said: "I trust Mr. Avalon Brown got you a nice oceanfront suite."

Tish looked questioningly at Katya, who seemed embarrassed.

"No? Well, maybe after the movie's a big hit." Clapley leaned in for good-bye kisses, wincing at the fumes of a sickly, unfamiliar perfume.

"What is that?" he wheezed politely.

"Name is called Undead," Katya replied. "I think by Calvin."

"Lovely. Tell Mr. Brown I'll be in touch."

"Be careful to shoot rhino, Bobby."

"Don't worry about me," Clapley said. "Oh, I almost forgot. Dr. Mujera will be flying in from South America next week. Just a reminder." He tapped an index finger on his chin. "Assuming you girls are still interested."

"Maybe.," Katya said, guardedly.

"Ya, maybe.," Tish said.

"Only the best for you two. Right? He's the top guy in the whole world."

"But Mr. Brown says he loves our chins, like is now."

"Is that so," Clapley said thinly.

"Good chins for movie light-ink," Tish elaborated.

"Soft," Katya added. "He says soft angles look better. Not sharp, like on American models."

"Dr. Mujera has operated on many, many international movie stars."

"For real, Bobby? Chins of movie stars?"

"I'll speak to Mr. Brown myself. I believe he'll be very pleased with the doctor's qualifications." Robert Clapley looked at his wristwatch. "As a matter of fact, I've got some time now. Why don't you girls phone the room and ask Mr. Brown to join us for a drink?"

"No," Katya said. "Massage lady is there."

"Two o'clock every day," said Tish.

"The massage lady?"

"He says is for stress," Katya explained.

Clapley offered an understanding smile. "Mr. Brown must be under a lot of pressure."

"See you Saturday, Bobby. We party like before, OK?"

"Baby, I can't wait."

"And good lucks with black rhino!"

"Don't worry about me," Robert Clapley told his future Barbie twins. "You just get busy fixing that beautiful hair of yours."

When they put him in the Highway Patrol car, Twilly Spree was loaded on painkillers, which worked out fine because McGuinn immediately pounced on his chest to say hello. It still hurt like hell, but not enough to make Twilly pass out.

The first stop was a Barnett bank, where he made a cash withdrawal that by chance equaled, almost to the dollar, three whole years of Lt. Jim Tile's Highway Patrol salary. Even the former governor was taken aback.

"Inheritance," Twilly said thickly. "My grandfather's spinning in his grave."

The next stop was a GM dealership on the way out of Tallahassee.

"What for?" the captain demanded.

"We need a car."

"I walk most everywhere."

"Well, I don't," Twilly said, "not with a hole in my lung."

Jim Tile appeared highly entertained. Twilly sensed that Clinton Tyree was accustomed to running the show.

"Can I call you Governor?"

"Rather you didn't."

"Mr. Tyree? Or how about Skink?"

"Neither."

"All right, captain," Twilly said, "I just wanted to thank you for what you did on the island."

"You're most welcome."

"But I was wondering how you happened to be there."

"Spring break," Skink said. "Now, let's get you some wheels."

With McGuinn in mind, Twilly picked out another used Roadmaster wagon, this one navy blue. While he filled out the paperwork in the salesman's cubicle, the trooper, the captain and the big dog ambled around the showroom. None of the other salesmen dared to go near them. Afterward, in the parking lot, Jim Tile admired the big Buick. McGuinn was sprawled in the back, Twilly was in the front passenger seat and Skink was behind the wheel.

"I don't really want to know where you three are headed," the trooper said, "but, Governor, I do want to know what you did with that gun I gave you."

"Gulf of Mexico, Jim."

"You wouldn't lie to me?"

"I threw it out of the chopper. Ask the boy."

Twilly nodded. It was true. The pilot wisely had asked no questions.

"But the cell phone is a sad story, Jim. I must've dropped it in the woods," Skink said. "The great state of Florida should buy you a new one. Tell Governor Dick I said so."

Jim Tile circled to Twilly's side of the car and leaned down at the window. "I assume you know whom you're traveling with."

"I do," Twilly said.

"He is a dear friend of mine, son, but he's not necessarily a role model."

Skink cut in: "Another public service announcement from the Highway Patrol!"

Twilly shrugged. "I'm just looking for peace and quiet, Lieutenant. My whole mortal being aches."

"Then you should take it easy. Real easy." The trooper returned to the driver's side. Clearly something was bothering him.

Skink said, "Jim, you believe the size of this thing!"

"How long since you drove a car?"

"Been awhile."

"Yeah, and how long since you had a license?"

"Twenty-two years. Maybe twenty-three. Why?" The captain idly walked his fingers along the steering wheel. Twilly had to grin.

"Tell you what I'm going to do," Jim Tile said. "I'm going to leave right now, so that I don't see you actually steer this boat off the lot. Because then I'd have to pull you over and write you a damn ticket."

Skink's eye danced mischievously. "I would frame it, Jim."

"Do me a favor, Governor. This young man's already been through one shitstorm and nearly didn't make it. Don't give him any crazy new ideas."

"There's no room in his head for more. Am I right, boy?"

Twilly, deadpan: "I've turned over a new leaf."

The trooper put on his wire-rimmed sunglasses. "Might as well be talking to the damn dog," he muttered.

Clinton Tyree reached up and chucked him on the shoulder. Jim Tile gravely appraised his road Stetson, the brim of which had been nibbled ragged by McGuinn.

"Governor, I'll say it again: I'm too old for this shit."

"You are, Jim. Now, go home to your bride."

"I don't want to read about you two in the paper. Please."

Skink plucked off the trooper's shades and bent them to fit his face. "Elusive and reclusive! That's us."

"Just take care. Please," Jim Tile said.

As soon as he was gone, they drove straight for the interstate. Twilly drifted in and out of codeine heaven, never dreaming. Near Lake City the captain excitedly awakened him to point out a dead hog on the shoulder of the highway.