Heppppppppppppppmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
Well, sort of human, Krimmler mused. If you let your imagination run wild.
He stepped into a pair of canvas work trousers and pulled on a windbreaker. Grabbing the pistol and a flashlight, he stalked into the mist. To hell with that drunken snitch Brinkman, wherever he is, Krimmler seethed. This bugshit island will be tamed; cleared dredged, drained, graded, platted, paved, stuccoed, painted and reborn as something of tangible, enduring human value—a world-class golf and leisure resort.
To Krimmler, the screaming in the night was a call to arms. He would not cower and he would not retreat, and he would not allow Shearwater to be thwarted by some smelly, spavined, tick-infested feline. Not after so much work and so much money and so much bullshit politics.
I’ll kill the damn thing myself, Krimmler vowed.
Again the night was cleaved by wailing, and Krimmler struck out toward it in a defiant rage. This panther is beyond endangered, he thought. This fucker is doomed.
His charge was halted momentarily when he slipped on a log, the fall shattering his flashlight. Quickly he gathered himself and marched on, slashing with his gun arm to clear a path through the silhouetted trees. The feral cry drew him to the clearing where the toad-mulching bulldozers were parked, and in a frenzy Krimmler started firing the moment he burst from the woods.
“Here, kitty, kitty!” he exulted with a mad leer.
Heppppppppppppppmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
Besides the money, what Robert Clapley missed most about the drug business was the respect. If you were known to be a smuggler of serious weight, the average low-life schmuck wouldn’t dream of screwing with you.
A schmuck such as Avalon Brown, for instance—making Clapley stew for forty-five minutes in the lobby of the Marlin Hotel while he attended to “important business” upstairs with the two Barbies.
Although Avalon Brown obviously found it amusing to be rude to a wealthy American real-estate developer, he would never (Clapley was certain) treat a major importer of cocaine with such reckless disrespect. The longer Clapley had to wait, the more his thoughts turned to Mr. Gash—now, there was a fellow who could teach Avalon Brown some manners, and would be pleased to do so.
Clapley wondered why Mr. Gash had not phoned from Toad Island. Shootings, even if not fatal to the target, customarily resulted in a first-person report from the field. Maybe Mr. Gash was sulking, Clapley speculated, because the dognapper had survived. Mr. Gash took a great deal of pride in his work.
Still, he ought to call soon, Clapley thought. Wait’ll I tell him about Avalon Brown—a turd fondler like that would be just the thing to brighten Mr. Gash’s spirits; the sort of assignment he’d been known to do for free.
“Bobby?”
In the lobby stood Katya and Tish, aloof but not outwardly sullen. There was no sign of Jamaica’s answer to Stanley Kubrick.
“Bobby, Mr. Brown vonts to know vere is movie money.”
“My lawyers are drawing up the partnership papers. Let’s go eat lunch,” Robert Clapley said.
As they strolled to the News Cafe, Clapley was nearly overcome by distress. The Barbies looked ghoulish. They had frizzed their hair and dyed it as black as onyx, shading lips and eyelids to match. They wore musty lace shawls over loose diaphanous halters, tight leather pants and buckled, open-toed shoes as clunky as tugboats. It was criminal, Clapley lamented silently. The women were made for short skirts and high heels; hell, he ought to know. He was the design engineer! At no small expense, he had re-formed Katya and Tish into perfect twin images of the American beauty icon. And here was the thanks he got: rebellion. Toenails painted black!
Over cappuccinos and bagels, he asked: “You girls miss me?”
“Shore, Bobby,” Tish said.
“Score any rhino dust yet?”
Tish shook her head tightly. Katya dropped her eyes.
“No luck, huh?” Clapley clucked in mock sympathy.
“Just cocaine. Cocaine is bo-rink.” Katya, crunching into a toasted raisin bagel.
“Very boring,” Robert Clapley agreed. “What’s with the new look? Is that for your movie?”
“Is casual Goth, Bobby.” By way of explanation, Tish pointed to a silver crucifix hanging from her neck. Katya was wearing one, too, Clapley noticed.