Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

Mr. Gash put one hand against the door. He made it appear casual, as if he was only leaning. “Is he here now? That dog is dangerous, by the way. Killed some little girl down in Clewiston. Ripped her throat out. That’s another reason this guy’s on the run. Was he here last night?”

“I don’t know where they went, mister. All I know is, the room’s paid for and I’m doing my muffins, because breakfast is part of the package.” Mrs. Stinson took a step back, positioning herself (Mr. Gash noticed) within reach of a wall phone.

“As for that dog of his,” she said, “he’s about as scary as a goldfish, and not much smarter. So you get on outta here. I mean it.”

“You don’t know this guy, ma’am. He’s bad news.”

“I don’t know you,” Mrs. Stinson barked. “Now go! You and your fairy hairdo.”

Mr. Gash was about to punch through the screen when he heard a car turn the corner. He spun around, his heartbeat quickening because he thought it was the young troublemaker, returning in the Buick woody.

It wasn’t. It was a black-and-tan Highway Patrol cruiser.

“How about that!” said Mrs. Stinson.

Mr. Gash edged away from her door. He watched the state police car go by the house, a black uniformed trooper at the wheel. In the backseat cage of the car was the form of a man, a prisoner slumped sideways against a door as if he had passed out. Mr. Gash wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the trooper slowed down a little when he passed the bed-and-breakfast.

From behind him, Mr. Gash heard Mrs. Stinson chortle: “Ha! You still wanna chat, smart-mouth?”

As soon as the police cruiser was out of sight, Mr. Gash stepped off the porch and began to walk. He had a story ready, just in case: The car wouldn’t start. He went to the bed-and-breakfast to use the phone. Next thing he knows, the old hag starts raving at him like some nut…

On the road Mr. Gash saw no sign of the Highway Patrolman. He got to his car and kept walking; circled the block at an easygoing pace and returned. Better safe than sorry, he thought. It was probably nothing at all. Probably just some DUI that the state trooper was carting off to jail. That’s about all they were good for, Mr. Gash mused, busting drunks.

He pulled off his houndstooth jacket and laid it on the front seat. Then he stepped behind a pine tree to take a leak. He was zipping up when he heard movement—something on the edge of the trees, near the car. Mr. Gash took out his gun and peered around the trunk of the pine. He saw a bum crouched by the side of the road.

Mr. Gash stole out from behind the tree. The bum had his back to him; a big sonofabitch, too. When he stood up, he was nearly a foot taller than Mr. Gash. He appeared to be wearing a white-and-black checkered skirt over bare legs and hiking boots.

With confidence Mr. Gash returned the gun to his shoulder holster. He smiled to himself, thinking: This dolly would be a hit on Ocean Drive.

When the bum turned around, Mr. Gash reconsidered his assessment.

“Take it easy, pops.” Hoping the man took notice of the gun under his arm.

The bum said nothing. He wore a cheap shower cap on his head, and he had a jittery red eyeball that looked like a party gag. A silvery beard hung off his cheeks in two ropy braids, each decorated with a hooked beak. In one of his huge hands the bum held by its tail an opossum, its jaw slack and its fur crusty with blood. In the other hand was a paperback book.

Mr. Gash said, “Where’d you come from?”

The man smiled broadly, startling Mr. Gash. He had never seen a bum with such perfect teeth, much whiter than his own.

“Nice dress.” Mr. Gash, testing the guy.

“Actually it’s a kilt. Made it myself.”

“You got a name?”

“Not today,” said the bum.

“I hope you weren’t planning to steal my car.”