“Sunny Jamaica.”
“World headquarters of Avalon Brown Productions.”
“Let ’em go,” Stoat said. “I’m begging you.”
“Are you deaf? It’s not going to happen.” Clapley gave a brittle laugh. “That’s why men like Mr. Gash exist—and prosper. Because of situations like this.”
Stoat said, “Speaking of which, here’s some of that good news I promised. That pesky problem we’ve been having up at Toad Island is all taken care of. The kid who grabbed my dog is in the hospital with a forty-five-caliber hole in his chest.”
“Fantastic! That means Mr. Gash is available for a new job.”
“I don’t know about Mr. Gash. My information comes directly from the governor,” Stoat said, “and he wasn’t too clear on the details. The important thing is, that nutty kid is finally out of the picture. And, oh yeah, Desie and Boodle are OK, too. Not that I give a shit.”
Robert Clapley found himself gazing past Stoat, at a dancer performing in a nearby booth. She had long golden hair, high conical breasts and pouty lacquered lips.
“Close.” Clapley was talking strictly to himself. “If only she was taller.”
“Jesus Hubbard Christ. You want to hear the rest, or you want to go diddle with your dollies?” Palmer Stoat unsheathed a Cohiba and fired it up with a flourish. He took his sweet time.
Without looking away from the woman, Clapley said, “Tell me about the bridge money. Tell me it’s all set.”
“We’re almost there, Bob. It’s ninety-nine percent a done deal.”
“Who’s the one percent?”
“Willie Vasquez-Washington.”
“Again!”
“Don’t worry. He’s almost there.”
Robert Clapley sneered. “I’ve heard that one before. How tall you think that girl is? The blonde.”
“Gee, Bob, it’s awful hard to tell while she’s got her feet hooked behind her ears.”
“I assume you’ve got another plan.”
“Oh, a good one.”
“Do tell.”
“We’re taking Rainbow Willie on a hunting trip. You, me, and Governor Dick. At that private game reserve I told you about up in Marion County,” Stoat said. “We’re gonna hunt, drink, smoke and tell stories. And we’re gonna make friends with Willie, whatever it takes.”
Clapley scowled. “Whoa. That little prick is not getting my trophy cat,”
“That’s the other thing I came to tell you.
“Durgess, my guide, he says they sent the ranch a bum cheetah. A stone gimp.”
“That’s good news?”
“No, Bob, the good news is, he’s got a rhinoceros instead. A genuine killer rhino.” Stoat paused suspensefully. “Stomped a man to death a few years back.”
Robert Clapley’s head snapped around. Tremulously he sat forward. “And the horn?”
“Huge,” Stoat whispered. “Major stud dust.”
“God. That’s fantastic.”
Clapley’s hands dove under the table, into his pockets. Stoat pretended not to notice.
“When’s the hunt?” Clapley was breathless.
“This weekend. Durgess said the sooner the better.”
“Yes! They’ll come back to me now, for sure. Katya and Tish, I know they will.” Clapley was radiant. “They’ll come running home for the good stuff—especially when they find out I’m going to shoot the big bastard myself. A killer rhino. Can you imagine? They’ll dump that ganja turd in a heartbeat.”
“In which case, you wouldn’t have to kill him, right?” Stoat cringed whenever he thought of Porcupine Head amok.
Clapley shrugged. “Frankly, I’d rather spend my money on something else. Mr. Gash isn’t cheap.” Clapley snatched a cigar out of Stoat’s pocket. “And neither are you, Palmer. How much is all this extra fun going to cost me? Remember, you owed me the cheetah and then some. So… how much?”
“Not a dime, Bob. The hunt is on me.”
“That’s mighty kind.”
“But the horn you’ve got to buy separately,” Stoat said, “at the price we discussed. Rules of the house.”
“Glad to do it,” said Clapley. “Oh, by the way, these Cohibas of yours are counterfeit.”
“What! Noway.”
“You can tell by the labels, Palmer. See these tiny black dots? They’re supposed to be raised up, so you can feel ’em with your fingertips. That’s how they come from the factory in La Habana. But these you got”—Clapley, wagging one in front of Stoat’s nose—”see, the dots are smooth to the touch. That means they’re elfake-o.”
“No way,” Stoat huffed. “Three hundred dollars a box at the Marina Hemingway. No way they’re knockoffs.” He removed the cigar from his lips and set it, unaffectionately, on the table’s edge. He hunched close to examine the label.