Cornwell, Patricia - Andy Brazil 03 - Isle Of Dogs.txt

by Isle Of Dogs (lit)

  "Hey," Cuda piped, "maybe he say what hospital he in and we go finish him off!"

  "Naw, I don't think Pinn Head's Trooper Truth," Possum voiced his opinion. "Not unless he write a lot better than he talk. I think Trooper Truth the po-lice just like his name say he is. 'Cause he always talking about pirates and DNA and shit, and we better watch out he don't come after us 'cause he sure do have a way of finding out things and you already been locked up before." He looked at Smoke. "And there's a 'scription of you going around, so maybe we be better off just quittin' being pirates and maybe go get jobs at the Foot Locker or Bojangles or something . . ."

  "Shut up!" Smoke screamed at him as the RV's aluminum door opened and Unique walked in carrying something in a plastic trash bag.

  "I need some money," she said to Smoke. "You still owe me."

  "Listen here, you concerned viewers out there." Pinn was pointing his finger at the camera again, once more fixated on his own ordeal. The hell with Moses Custer or anyone else. "You see a plain-looking white boy with dreadlocks, you call me right now."

  "See, I told you there's a 'scription!" Possum exclaimed.

  "He say anything about that queer girl who just got killed on Belle Island?" Unique asked as she stared at the TV.

  "What queer girl?" Smoke asked with a yawn.

  "No, but Trooper Truth did on his web, but he didn't say nothing about her being queer," Possum volunteered. "He's asking the public for tips."

  Unique thought this was very funny. There were no tips. She had been invisible when she left the bar with T.T., so it wasn't possible that anybody had seen Unique and could offer tips to Trooper Truth or anyone else. Of course, becoming invisible was not without its downside. Unique had finally realized that rearranging her molecules when she pursued her Purpose was probably the reason she didn't remember much after the fact. And reliving her cruelities was the best part.

  "Pick up the phone right this minute." Pinn repeated the telephone number at the bottom of the screen. "You tell the truth and we get him, I send you five hundred dollars. This is A.P. Pinn for Head to Head with Pinn. Good night," he beamed.

  "Maybe we should go out and see what's around," Cat suggested, thoroughly bored by the TV show and the local news that followed. "1 get the car out from under the tarp and we can go huntin'."

  "Yeah," grunted Cuda. "We're almost out of beer and I got one smoke left. Man," he got up, stretching and strutting. "Maybe we find that Custer son of a bitch and kill him in the hospital before he keep snitching on us."

  "He doesn't know anything more about us," Smoke snapped at Cuda. "And if you'd killed him to begin with," he added to Possum, "we wouldn't have to worry about it."

  Possum had drunk too many beers while they were out cruising for a prize the other night, and his aim had been a little off, much to his secret relief, and as best he knew, the bullet he had fired had struck Moses in the foot and knocked his boot off. "I still think we should find him," he agreed, contrary to his true feelings. "I'll get him smack in the head this time." He pretended to be as coldblooded as Smoke by pulling a nine-millimeter pistol out of the back of his relaxed-leg jeans and pointing it at the TV, as if it were a hospital bed.

  "You shoot the TV, you little shit, and you're next. " Smoke jumped up and grabbed the gun and pointed it at Possum's head, snapping back the slide.

  Possum swallowed hard, his eyes wide with terror as he begged, "Smoke, don't. Please! I was just kidding, you know?"

  "I need my money, " Unique said in her quiet, soft voice as her eyes began to blaze and her Purpose began to create that unbearable tension inside her Darkness.

  Smoke ignored her, laughing as he shot a hole in the floor. The ejected shell pinged against a lamp and he tossed the pistol back to Possum. "Or maybe I'll shoot the damn dog, since you seem to like her so much. In fact, bring her in here. "

  "No!" Possum cried out. "Please, Smoke. You can't go shooting that little dog! And I don't like her, either! I can't stand that stupid dog, but we need her! So don't go wasting a bullet on her yet!"

  "I'm gonna shoot her eventually, " Smoke said. "Or set her on fire, even better. But not until I'm ready to get that bitch Hammer. I'll show her for getting me locked up. Her and that fucker Andy Brazil!"

  Possum reluctantly retreated to his bedroom, where he was shocked to see a photograph of Popeye in a red coat filling his computer screen. The real Popeye was sleeping on Possum's bed and noticed the scanned photograph of herself the instant Possum woke her up.

  "Shit!" Possum whispered. "We can't tell Smoke about this!" he warned Popeye as he picked her up and she began to shake with excitement and fear.

  Trooper Truth somehow knew that Popeye had been dognapped and was still alive! He was looking for her and encouraging the world to help him out. Of course, Popeye knew very well that Trooper Truth was Andy, because she had overheard many private conversations between Andy and Popeye's owner when the website was in the planning stages. Then Andy had suddenly disappeared, and next, Popeye had.

  "I ain't gonna hurt ya, little girl," Possum was whispering in her ear. "But Smoke's mean. You know how mean he is, and we gotta make sure he don't know Trooper Truth's offering a reward for you and got everybody joining some big posse to come find you, just like on Bonanza."

  Popeye didn't need to be reminded of how mean Smoke was, and she would have traded her favorite stuffed squirrel for a chance to sink her teeth into his ankle. She would be forever traumatized by the memory of that unguarded moment when her owner had let her out the front door and gotten distracted by the stove, which she wasn't sure she had remembered to turn off. It all happened so fast. Her owner ran back into the kitchen while Popeye was sniffing grass near the sidewalk, and then a black Toyota Land Cruiser suddenly roared up the street and slammed on the brakes and Possum was calling Popeye's name and holding out a treat.

  "Come here, Popeye, you good little girl," Possum said as if he were the nicest human in the world. "Look what I got for you!"

  Next thing Popeye knew, she was snatched up and thrown into the back of the Land Cruiser, which was driven by that vicious monster, Smoke. Popeye was sped away to the Winnebago, where she had been ever since, and every night she dreamed about her owner, who

  Smoke said was dead. For a while, Popeye hadn't believed him, but by now, she had resigned herself to the probability that her owner was gone from this earth, because if she wasn't, certainly she would have found Popeye by now and sent Smoke to jail for the rest of his rotten life.

  Possum held Popeye tightly and carried her back into the living room. Possum had learned to fake many things, including his feelings. He was careful to act as if taking care of their canine hostage was an inconvenience. He never let on that he and Popeye had bonded, and that the dog was perhaps the only warm spot of love in his life, except for the television reruns he watched while the other road dogs slept. Popeye cowered in Possum's lap and licked his hand.

  "I told you not to lick me!" Possum lied to Popeye, who by now understood the ugly act Possum put on when Smoke was around.

  "Maybe it's time we get a message to Hammer that we've found her dog," Smoke said as he handed Unique cash and she silently left. "So she'll meet us somewhere, and when she does, I blow her fucking head off and Brazil's, too."

  "Yeah," Cuda said. "You been saying that for months, Smoke. And I keep saying to you, what if she brings other troopers with her? And what if this Brazil guy gets off the first round? I 'member you telling us last time you got in a tussle with him, you ended up in jail, so he must be The Man."

  "He's not The Man! I am! Maybe we just kill everybody who shows up, including you," Smoke cruelly taunted Popeye. "Lock that ugly dog back in your room

  and send an e-mail to Captain Bonny and ask him when the hell we're gonna make our move and use the damn dog to get the fuckers, " he told Possum. "I'm tired of waiting!" he said to everyone. "Go get the car!" he ordered Cat.

  Possum logged on to the Internet, clicked on FAVORITES and pu
lled up Captain Bonny's egotistical, self-promoting, self-serving website, which featured a fierce woodcut of Blackbeard on the home page. Possum went to the How To Contact section and pecked out the following message, which was the opposite of what Smoke wanted:

  Dear Captin Bonny

  Us pirates ain't ready to make the Big Move yet. I'll let you know.

  Yours truley, Pirate Possum.

  Major Trader just happened to be eating a banana split in his spec-home office when the e-mail landed. He was becoming annoyed with Pirate Possum and whoever his felonious, crude mates were. Trader had faithfully leaked information to the pirates and kept them out of the news for many months and so far had gone unrewarded. He had better be taken care of appropriately just as soon as the pirates made their so-called Big Move, which Trader had assumed all along was a big move of cocaine, heroin, and guns across the Canadian border.

  He typed out an e-mail.

  Dear Pirate Possum,

  It was good to hear from you as always. But let me remind you that when I orchestrated the dognap-ping of Popeye so you could set up an ambush of Superintendent Hammer, the deal was that I would be handsomely rewarded. I have been patient for months, and now my terms have changed! I am demanding not 50% but 60% of the booty, paid in cash and left in a waterproof suitcase at a location of my choosing. Let me remind you that if you don't come through for me, I will be forced to use force.

  Sincerely,

  The Notorious Captain Bonny

  Eleven

  The black front door of Ruth's Chris Steak House slowly opened, and Governor Crimm and the First Lady emerged from the former plantation house, pressed upon from all sides by serious EPU troopers in neat suits. The Crimms' four daughters--all unmarried and over thirty--fell in behind their important parents and were sealed off from the rest of society by yet another wall of troopers at the rear of the procession. Macovich quickly tossed the cigarette and unfolded himself like a stretcher as he worked his way out of the car while Andy smoothed down his dark gray uniform, checking to make sure that his clip-on tie, pepper spray, handcuffs, tactical baton, extra magazines of ammunition, pistol, and whistle were in place. He realized it might not be a good idea to bring up Tangier Island or Hammer in front of so many sets of eyes and ears. Certainly, it would make Hammer look bad if her troops knew that the governor never returned her phone calls or met with her. And based on the way the governor was walking, Andy wasn't confident that he was entirely sober.

  "Look, it's possible the governor might remember you or the daughter you upset might say something," Andy said, falling in stride with Macovich as the distinguished party approached. "So I think it best I take him aside. I think he's a bit drunk."

  Macovich had no intention of helping Andy have a private audience with the governor, especially if the governor had a buzz on and was happier and more generous than usual. The last thing Macovich needed was for Andy to end up the governor's pet in addition to being Hammer's pet. Macovich had been trying for years to gain special status and even affection from the governor, all to no avail, and the pool incident certainly hadn't helped matters.

  "Wooo, I wouldn't try it," Macovich tried to discourage Andy." 'Specially if he's drunk. He's one mean man when he's drunk."

  Macovich felt a little guilty about lying and stepping on Andy, but Macovich couldn't help himself. He feared he had leveled out on his professional climb to success, and if he wasn't shrewd and territorial, he would find himself working security in a shopping mall one of these days or maybe flying grumpy racist businessmen around for a helicopter charter service. But to Macovich's surprise and annoyance, Andy completely ignored Macovich and walked right up to the governor and shook his hand.

  "So the military's protecting me now." The governor seemed pleased, recognizing dimly that the person before him was a tall male in uniform, and therefore was either Army or National Guard. "I like that."

  The three oldest Crimm daughters fastened their attention to Andy like leeches at a blood-letting, while the fourth daughter, whose arrested adolescence was annoyingly apparent, smacked gum. Governor Crimm smiled, patting for his magnifying glass, which he had attached to his pocket-watch chain to insure that his beloved optical aid did not find its way into the compote again. A huge eye peered through thick glass, scanning to see who might be watching his generous overtures toward the young soldier.

  "The more protection the better, I always say," the governor commented. "What's your name, soldier?"

  "Andy Brazil. I'd like to be one of your pilots, Governor. If that would be all right with you. Maybe I could have a moment of your time to discuss it."

  "Bet you want to be executive protection, too."

  The governor had heard this before. Every state trooper he had ever met wanted to be EPU, just as most federal agents wanted to be Secret Service. It was all about power. It was all about being close to the throne. He also vaguely made out that Andy was a handsome fellow, well built but not a big wall of muscle like the other men and women who protected the First Family. Andy's was a useful body that could dance around trouble instead of barreling right through it, and the governor fancied that Andy might make a decent son-in-law for at least one of the Crimm daughters. Then it dimly penetrated his overburdened, inebriated mind that he wasn't so sure he was inclined to trust his wife around such an attractive and charming young fellow.

  Despite her swearing to tell the truth and even placing her left hand on the Crimm family Bible, the First Lady had not convinced her husband that she hadn't been hiding adulterous men in the mansion's linen closets. Yesterday, Crimm came home for lunch unannounced and discovered Pony on his hands and knees wiping a linen closet floor with a rag.

  "What are you doing?" the governor demanded as he fumbled for his watch chain and the magnifying glass dangling from it.

  "Just putting a little furniture polish on the hardwood," Pony said, nervously rubbing oil into the scratches the trivets had left on the heart-of-pine flooring. "I've been meaning to get around to it, sir. Just now did. There's some nice split pea soup cooking in the kitchen, if you want some."

  "Does it have ham in it?" The governor peered through the magnifying glass at the scratched old wood. "How did the floor get gouged like that? It looks like someone wearing hobnail boots was hiding in the closet or maybe someone wearing tap shoes."

  "I think it's maybe from the vacuum cleaner," Pony suggested as he covered the scratches as quickly as possible. "I keep telling the housekeepers not to put the vacuum cleaner in the linen closets. I'm afraid the pea soup does have ham in it. I didn't know you'd be coming home for lunch or I would have made sure they didn't put ham or even a ham bone in it, sir."

  Just as Pony was explaining all this, the governor detected a clanking sound as someone hurried downstairs. Crimm hurried, too, but wasn't fast enough to catch the source of the odd noise that he now suspected was a man wearing either spurs or armor, and his fears about his wife began to scream inside his psyche. Was she playing strange dress-up games with unknown men she

  picked up on the Internet? He imagined her in erotic poses with virile young suitors dressed in nothing but spurs or a helmet with a plume or perhaps both. Maude and her lascivious lovers would have loud, metallic sex and maybe use magnets to enhance their perverted pleasure before she suddenly noticed the crown molding and cobwebs and began withholding favors from these cybermen the same way she had been denying the governor for long years. For all he knew, Andy Brazil was part of the plot. How did the governor know that Andy hadn't already met Maude on the Internet and wanted to fly the First Family because he really wanted to fly Maude?

  "You'd have to be a state trooper before you can be EPU," the governor told Andy in an autocratic, unfriendly tone.

  "I am a state trooper, Governor. And we're short of pilots," Andy added to the First Lady, because by nature he was inclusive and did not treat the wives of others as appendages.

  "Seems like it's always the same pilot these days," she said, irr
itated by the reminder as she frowned at Macovich.

  Where had all her pilots gone? As she recalled, there had been plenty of them earlier in the year, and she supposed that the problem must be that ball-breaking woman who was the new superintendent of the state police. Trader had horrible things to say about her. What was her name? A tool of some type. How appropriate. A sledgehammer? No, not quite. Mrs. Crimm strained to remember. Sledge. That was it. Superintendent Sledge. Maybe it was time for the First Lady to send a pointed note to her and demand more pilots, and Mrs. Crimm fondly thought of her favorite saying, Variety is the spice of life, and recited it out loud.

  "Pardon?" Andy was baffled.

  "I'm just wondering if you agree," the First Lady said to him.

  Andy sensed he was being tested and replied, "In most cases. But not always. For example, I don't wear a variety of clothes to work. Always a uniform. And I very much like the state police uniform and am happy to wear it every day, so variety is not an issue with me."