by Carl Hiassen
He followed Twilly and McGuinn to the parking lot, where the dog methodically peed on the tires of five late-model cars, including the doctor's.
"Can I ask a favor?" the veterinarian said. "It's about that fake eyeball. Mr. Spree, would you mind if I kept it for my collection?"
"That depends," said Twilly, "on the collection."
"Weird Things Dogs Eat," Dr. Whitcomb said. "I've got doorstops, earrings, fountain pens, cigarette lighters, car keys. This one Lab – Rachel was her name – she swallowed a cellular phone! And here's the funny part: It kept ringing inside her stomach. That's how her owners figured out what'd happened."
Twilly reached into his shirt for Palmer Stoat's Cape buffalo eye. He tossed it underhand to the veterinarian. "It's all yours, Doc."
Dr. Whitcomb looked amused as he fingered the glossy orb. "Crazy dog. How'd you suppose he got hold of something like this?"
Twilly shrugged. "Crazy damn dog," he said.
Why couldn't he stop thinking of Desie?
Her neck, in particular – the pale snowy slope between her pearl-spangled earlobe and her collarbone. Twilly had a grand weakness for the female neck. The last time he'd seen one as alluring as Desie's, it nearly got him killed.
The neck had been attached to a woman named Lucy, and Twilly didn't know about the pharmaceuticals and the booze and the bipolar disorder. All he knew was that Lucy had an indisputably fabulous neck, and that she freely let him nuzzle her there. She was also nice enough to have sex with him, which meant he quickly fell in love with her and moved in. They had known each other sixteen days. Lucy, it turned out, was not well. She took lots of self-prescribed medicine and washed it down with Bombay gin. Some nights she was the happiest person on the planet, a joy to behold. And some nights she was a skank monster, violent and paranoid and gun-crazy. Twilly had never known a woman so fond of handguns. Lucy owned several, mostly semi-automatics. "My father was a policeman," she would say by way of explanation. Whenever Twilly came across one of Lucy's firearms, he would secretly take it from the house and throw it down a nearby manhole. But she always seemed to have another at the ready; where she hid all those guns was a mystery. Sometimes she shot at the telephone; sometimes it was the television. Once she shot the bagel toaster while Twilly was fixing breakfast. Another time she shot out her personal computer because one of her drug connections had e-mailed to say he was out of Percocet. That was the same afternoon she ran next door and shot her neighbor's scarlet macaw for squawking during her naptime (Lucy needed lots of naps). The police took Lucy downtown but no charges were filed, since she promptly reimbursed the grief-stricken bird owner and agreed to undergo counseling. There the therapists found Lucy to be a model of stability – engaging and self-aware and repentant. Happy, too. One of the happiest patients they'd ever seen. But of course they didn't have to live with her.
To Lucy's credit, she never purposely tried to shoot Twilly, although on several occasions she nearly hit him by accident. For all her vast gun-handling experience, she was a surprisingly lousy shot. Yet during fourteen hair-raising weeks under the same roof, Twilly's fear of taking a bullet was outweighed by his neck-nuzzling lust. It was, he realized later, another appalling example of his own deficient judgment.
Twilly never knew which Lucy was coming through the front door until he leaned down to kiss her neck, which was the first thing he always did. If it was Happy Lucy, she would sigh and press close against him. If it was Bipolar Lucy, she would shove him away and beeline for the medicine cabinet, and then the gin. Later a loaded handgun or two might appear. Most boyfriends would have wisely bolted after the first drunken shooting episode, but Twilly stayed. He was infatuated with the Happy Lucy. He truly believed he could mend her. Whenever Bipolar Lucy surfaced, Twilly declined to do the sensible thing, which was run like a scalded gerbil. Instead he hovered at the scene, endeavoring to soothe and coax and communicate.He was always trying to talk Lucy down; he dearly wanted to be the one to catch her when she fell. And that's how he nearly died.
Lucy worked at an acupuncture clinic, keeping the books. One day the doctor caught her in an error – a minor mathematical transposition that resulted in a $3.60 overstatement of the accounts receivable. The doctor made a remark that Lucy deemed unfairly harsh, and she arrived home in a moist-eyed fury that told Twilly she'd stopped for cocktails and toot along the way. For once he knew better than to attempt a neck nuzzle. Lucy disappeared into the bathroom and emerged five minutes later, naked, with an empty pharmacy bottle clenched in her teeth and a 9-mm Beretta in her right hand. Twilly, who remembered she was left-handed, prudently stepped back while she did her Elvis routine, shooting up the TV and the stereo and even the Mr. Coffee. Many rounds were required, due to Lucy's poor marksmanship, yet there was little risk of anyone calling the police. Lucy considerately used a muzzle suppressor to mute the gunshots. Twilly made a practice of counting, so he'd know when the clip was empty. His near-fatal mistake that night was assuming Lucy was too fucked up to reload. After she'd exhausted herself and collapsed in bed, Twilly waited patiently for her ragged and fitful snoring. Then he slipped beneath the sheets, enfolded her in his arms and held her as still as a baby for a long time. Soon her breathing became soft and regular. Through his shirt Twilly could feel the steel coldness of the Beretta, which Lucy continued to clutch with both hands between her breasts. The snout of the silencer pressed ominously against Twilly's ribs, but he wasn't afraid. He thought the gun was empty; he clearly remembered Lucy pulling the trigger over and over until the only noise from the gun was a dull click. He didn't know about the spare clip that she'd stashed inside a tampon box under the bathroom sink.
So on Twilly's part it was carelessness, embracing an unconscious dope-addled psychotic without first confiscating her weapon. His second mistake was succumbing at the worst possible moment to raw desire. By chance Twilly had aligned his comforting hug of Lucy in such a way that his chin came to rest on one of her shoulders. He calculated that a slight turn of the head could put his lips in direct contact with her bare silken neck, and this proved blissfully true.
And perhaps if Twilly had stopped there – perhaps if he'd been content with a chaste and feathery peck – then he wouldn't have ended up on a stretcher in the emergency room. But Lucy's neck was a truly glorious sight and, gun or no gun, Twilly could not resist kissing it. The sensation (or possibly it was the sound of ardent smacking) jarred Lucy from her turbulent, gargoyle-filled stupor. She stiffened in Twilly's arms, opened one bloodshot eye and emitted a hollow startled cry. Then she pulled the trigger, and drifted back to sleep.
The bullet furrowed along Twilly's chest, rattling across his rib cage as if it were a washboard, then exiting above the collarbone. So copious and darkly hued was the seepage of blood that Twilly feared he might be mortally wounded. He snatched the top sheet off the bed (rearranging the zonked Lucy) and knotted it around his thorax; a full body tourniquet. Then he drove to the nearest hospital, informing the doctors that he'd accidentally shot himself while cleaning a pistol. X rays showed that Lucy's slug had missed puncturing a jugular vein – and likely killing Twilly Spree – by scarcely two inches.
She hadn't meant to shoot him; she was scared, that's all, and too ripped to recognize him.
Twilly never told Lucy what she'd done. He did not return to the house, and never saw her again. More than a year had passed since the shooting, and during that time Twilly had avoided all lip-to-neck contact, the experience being indelibly connected to the muffled thump of a Beretta. Even in the throes of lovemaking, he remained scrupulous about the location of his kisses, and banished all thoughts of delicious forays into the nape region.
Until he met Desie. Twilly wanted very much to see the intriguing Mrs. Stoat again, despite the imminent risk of arrest and imprisonment. He wanted not only to be near her but to apologize for leaving the glass eyeballs lying around for McGuinn to swallow; wanted her to know how remorseful he felt.
The dog was the connection, th
e link to Desie. Having the dog beside him buoyed Twilly's spirits and gave him something resembling hope. So what if Desie was married to an irredeemably soulless pig? Everybody makes mistakes, Twilly thought. Look at me.
McGuinn instantly knew something was wrong – he could smell it in the car. His nose twitched and the hair bristled on his withers.
"Chill out," Twilly said.
But the beast hurdled into the backseat and started digging frenetically at the upholstery.
"Oh stop," said Twilly.
McGuinn was trying to claw through the cushions and get into the trunk of the car.
"No!" Twilly commanded. "Bad boy!" Finally he was forced to pull off the road and park. He snatched the end of McGuinn's leash and gave a stiff yank.
"You wanna see? OK, fine." Twilly got out, pulling the dog behind him. "You're not gonna like it, sport. That, I can promise."
He popped open the trunk and McGuinn charged forward. Just as suddenly he drew back, his legs splaying crookedly, like a moose on thin ice. He let out a puppy noise, half bark and half whimper.
Twilly said, "I warned you, dummy."
Inside the car trunk was a dead Labrador retriever. Twilly had found it in south Miami-Dade County at the intersection of 152nd Street and U.S. 1, where it had been struck by a car. The dog couldn't have been dead more than two hours when Twilly spotted it in the median, bundled it in bubble wrap and placed it on a makeshift bed of dry ice in the rental car. The dog wasn't as hefty as McGuinn, but Twilly thought it would do fine; correct species, correct color phase.
Before spotting the black Lab, Twilly had searched 220 miles of highway and counted thirty-seven other dog carcasses – mostly mutts, but also a golden retriever, two Irish setters, a yellow Lab and a pair of purebred Jack Russell terriers with matching rhine-stone collars. The Russells had perished side by side in a school zone on Coconut Grove's busy Bayshore Drive. Twilly speculated it might have been a double suicide, if dogs were capable of such plotting. Evidence of a cold and heartless master was the fact that the two stumpy bodies of the Russells lay uncollected in the roadway; they would have easily fit in a grocery bag. It took Twilly twenty minutes to bury the dogs between the roots of an ancient banyan tree. Before that, he had jotted down the numbers off the rabies tags, so that someday – when he had more time – he could track down the owner of the terriers and ruin his or her day.
The roadkill Lab wore no tags or identification collar. Twilly was saddened to think it might be a stray, but he would have been equally depressed to know it was somebody's beloved pet; a child's best buddy, or an old widow's faithful companion. A dead dog was just a sad thing, period. Twilly didn't feel good about what he had to do, but the animal was long past suffering and the cause seemed worthy.
McGuinn was pacing behind the rental car. He whined and kept his head low, and every few steps he would glance apprehensively toward the trunk, as if expecting the dead Lab to spring out and attack. Twilly calmed McGuinn and put him in the front seat. As an extra precaution, Twilly tethered the leash to the steering wheel. Then he walked back to the rear of the car and snapped open his pocketknife, a splendid three-inch Al Mar from Japan. The blade was wicked enough to shave tinsel.
Twilly was glad the dead dog's eyes were shut. He stroked its silky brow and said: "Better it's me than the damn buzzards." Afterward he tucked the severed ear in his back pocket and drove around Miami until he spotted a FedEx truck on the Don Shula Expressway. For a two-hundred-dollar tip the driver was pleased to pull over for an unscheduled pickup.
10
The king-sized hot tub was outdoors, on the scalloped balcony of Robert Clapley's beachfront condominium. All four of them peeled off their clothes and slipped into the water – Clapley, Katya, Tish and Palmer Stoat, who needed three cognacs to relax. Stoat was self-conscious about his pudginess, and slightly creeped out by the two Barbies; he wished Clapley hadn't told him the details.
"Twins!" Clapley had chortled.
"No kidding."
"Identical twins – in time for next Christmas!"
"They speak English, Bob?"
"Damn little," Clapley had replied, "and I intend to keep it that way."
Now one of the Barbies was attempting to straddle Stoat in a balmy swirl beneath tropical stars, and Stoat caught himself peeking under her immense high-floating breasts for telltale surgical scars. Gradually the cognac began to soothe him.
"In Moscow," Clapley was saying, "there's a school where they go to become world-class fellatrixes."
"A what?"
"Blow-job artists," Clapley explained. "An actual school – you hear what I'm saying!"
"Oh, I hear you." Stoat thinking: They can hear you all the way to St. Augustine, dip-shit.
Robert Clapley got very loud when he was coked up and drunk. "I'd like to be there for final exams!" he said with a salacious grunt. "I'd like to personally grade thoseSATs – "
"Which one's from Russia?" Stoat inquired.
Clapley pointed at the Barbie now laboring to wrap her legs around Stoat's waist. "Yours!" he said. "You old horndog!"
"And she ... went ... to ... this ... 'school'?"
"She's the one who told me about it. Isn't that right, Katya? Show Mr. Stoat what you learned."
"Me, too!" exclaimed Tish. Her vast bosom pushed a wake like a shrimp trawler as she sloshed across the tub to join her future twin. They spread Palmer Stoat's legs and, with merry jostling, squeezed between them.
He said, "Really, Bob."
Robert Clapley laughed. "I should get the camcorder!"
"Not unless you want to see it in pieces." Normally Stoat was more of a sport, but not tonight. Desie was heavy on his mind; also, the severed dog ear that had been delivered by the FedEx man.
Clapley said, "You need to relax, kiddo."
"I just stopped by to talk some business, Bob. I didn't mean to make an evening of it."
"Hell, we can chat later. How often in a guy's lifetime does he have a chance to get sucked off by two semi-identical six-foot dolls? I'm guessing this isn't a weekly event for you, Palmer, so please shut the hell up and enjoy. I need to make a couple calls."
Clapley climbed agilely out of the tub. Stoat could hear him talking on the phone but couldn't see over the tops of the two Barbies, each of whose head was stacked with at least one linear foot of shiny bleached hair. The women tugged and stroked and prodded at Palmer Stoat until finally, not wishing to seem the ungrateful guest, he closed his eyes and submitted. He enjoyed the moment, but not so much that he forgot his reason for being there.
By the time Clapley finished his calls, the Barbies were done, out of the tub and in the shower. Stoat floated back with his legs extended, frog-like. He pretended to gaze at the stars.
Clapley said, "How'd you like that twin sandwich?"
Stoat whistled appreciatively. "Blond sugar, like the song says."
"Yea, brother." Clapley was too trashed to dispute the lyric. "Listen, I know why you're here."
Stoat slowly righted himself, tucking his pink knees beneath him. How could Robert Clapley know! Was it possible, Stoat wondered, that the maniacal ear-mutilating dognapper had contacted his client?
Clapley said, "I believe I still owe you some money."
"Yeah, you do." Stoat was much relieved.
They moved to the den, both wearing long towels and matching terry-cloth bath slippers. Clapley sat behind a glass-topped desk and opened his checkbook.
"It completely slipped my mind," he said, "last time you were here."
"That's quite all right, Bob."
"Now ... how much was it?"
"Fifty thousand," Stoat replied, thinking: Asshole. He knows damn well how much.
"Fifty? Boy, that's a shitload of shotgun shells."
Clapley, alluding to the bird-hunting trip. That and the kinky Barbie action was aimed at hustling a discount, Stoat concluded. Well, Bobby boy, you can bite me.
Robert Clapley waited a couple beats, but Stoat retained hi
s anticipatory demeanor.
"Right. Fifty it is." Clapley strained to sound gracious.
Palmer Stoat enjoyed watching the man write out the check. Clapley's discomfiture was manifest, and Stoat didn't mind prolonging it. An important principle was at stake; a matter of respect. Stoat considered himself a professional, and in the lobbyist trade a pro didn't tolerate being jerked around for his fee, particularly by baby-faced ex-smugglers with Barbie fetishes. Stoat had come to Clapley's condo intending to warn him of a temporary snag with the Toad Island bridge appropriation. Stoat had been prepared to let Clapley hold the balance of his fee until the situation with the extortionist dognapper got resolved. But Clapley had so annoyed Palmer Stoat with his coy cheapness – "how much was it? "– that Stoat changed his mind about the money. He'd pocket it and say nothing. Besides, if Desie left him – as she'd threatened to do if Stoat didn't meet the dognapper's demands – he would be needing the extra fifty grand (and more) for divorce lawyers.
"Here you go." Clapley capped his Mont Blanc and slid the check toward Stoat.
"Thanks, Bob." Stoat's smile could have passed for sincere. He didn't take the check immediately, but left it lying faceup on the glass desktop.
Clapley said, "Dick was right about you."
"Dick has his moments."
"So, when's he supposed to sign the budget?"
"Week or two, I expect," Stoat said.
"Fan-fucking-tastic. The sooner they can get started on the new bridge, the sooner I can slap together some model homes."
One of the Barbies walked in carrying a tray with two cognacs and two large cigars. She was wearing a blood-red catalog-style teddy with lacy bra cups. Clapley whistled when she leaned over to set down the drinks.
"Thank you, darling,"he said in a leering tone. Then, to Palmer Stoat: "Hey, how'd you like that double-barreled hummer in the hot tub?"
"Great." Stoat thinking: Christ, how many times do I have to say it? "One of the great blow jobs of all time, Bob."
