Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

But Dick Artemus wasn’t worried, for he believed he was the most irresistible sonofabitch in the whole world. He believed he could make anyone like him. And he had been flattered to learn that the legendary Clinton Tyree wanted to meet him.

“Tell me about your eye,” he chirped.

“If you tell me about your hair.”

Lisa June, helpfully: “Governor Tyree lost the eye many years ago, during a violent robbery.”

“Actually, it was more of an old-fashioned assault,” Skink said, inhaling a frothy sliver of pie. “I go through glass eyeballs like underwear. A friend of mine found this one in Belgrade.” He tapped the crimson iris with a tine of his silver dessert fork. “Said she got it off a Gypsy king, and I choose to believe her. She had quite a circus background.”

The governor nodded as if this were conversation he heard every day. His attention was broken by something poking him between his legs—the Labrador, lobbying for a handout. Dick Artemus genially slipped the dog a chunk of corn bread.

“Let’s talk turkey,” he said. “First, I want to thank you, Governor, for finding this troubled young man.”

“Unfortunately, someone else found him first.”

“Yes. Lieutenant Tile notified me as soon as he heard. He also told me how you risked your life to get the kid out alive.”

“A promise is a promise.” Skink put down the fork with a sharp clink. “I kept mine.”

“Yes. You sure did.” The governor shifted uneasily, then pretended it was because of the dog nosing him beneath the table. Lisa June Peterson knew better. So did Jim Tile.

Skink said, “You said you’re going to get the boy some counseling.”

“That’s right.”

“Where?”

“Uh… well, wherever he wants,” Dick Artemus fumbled. “How’s he doing, by the way? How bad was he hit?”

“He’ll make it. He’s tough,” Skink said. “Why’re all those cops outside his hospital room?”

“For his own protection,” the governor replied matter-of-factly. “Somebody tried to kill him, remember?”

“So he’s not under arrest?”

“Not to my knowledge. Mr. Stoat isn’t interested in prosecuting. He says the publicity of a trial would be unwelcome, and I couldn’t agree more.”

“All right.” Skink, planting his elbows on the table. “Now, what about my brother?”

“Yes?” The governor snuck an anxious glance at Lisa June Peterson.

“Doyle,” she said.

“Right. Doyle Tyree!” Dick Artemus, awash with relief. “The lighthouse keeper. Certainly he can stay there as long as he wants. Hillsborough Inlet, right?”

“Peregrine Bay.” Again Skink turned to Lisa June Peterson. “Would you and Jim mind if I spoke to the governor in private?”

Lisa June tried to object and Jim Tile weighed in with a grave sigh, but Dick Artemus brushed them off. “Of course they don’t mind. Lisa June, why don’t you take this puppy out back and introduce him to some of our magnificent old Leon County pine trees.” Dick Artemus had a speech to give in thirty minutes, and he didn’t wish to be seen with dog snot on his inseam.

Once they were alone, the former governor said to the present governor: “What about that island?”

“It’ll be real nice when they’re done.”

“It’s real nice now,” Skink said. “Ever been there?”

Dick Artemus said he hadn’t. “Look, you remember how this stuff works.” He drained his glass down to the ice cubes, chasing the last of the vodka. “The guy wrote some major checks to my campaign. In return, he expects a little consideration. Slack, if you want to call it that. And I’ve gotta say, he’s done most everything by the book with this Shearwater thing. The zoning, the permits, the wildlife surveys—it all looks kosher. That’s what my people say.”

“You oughta at least see the place before you let ’em wreck it.”

“Governor, I appreciate how you feel.”

“You don’t appreciate shit.”

“What’re you doing? Hey, let go!”

The bulldozer dream kept rerunning itself, the snarling chorus of machines chasing Twilly Spree farther and farther from shore. The way it finally ended was: The gulls began falling from the sky, just as Twilly had dreaded. The birds were stiff before they hit the water and they hurtled down like rocks, splashing around his head. He dove to escape, but whenever he surfaced for a breath he got struck; a sickening thwock against his skull. Twilly soon lost the strength to swim, and he found himself sinking into an icy whorl of cobalt and foam. It felt like talons pulling him down, death clawing at his bare legs. Then something powerful took hold of him and tugged him upward, out of the swirling cold and free of the grasping claws.

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