Still hollow-eyed from the night before, Dick Artemus gamely looked up from his coffee cup. “I heard about that stuff from a buddy works for Toyota HQ. These horns are very pricey, he says, plus you’ve got to go all the way to Hong Kong or Bangkok to find one. Supposedly you sprinkle it in your sake and get a hard-on that lasts longer than a hockey season.”
“Some men do, but not Bob,” Palmer Stoat chirped.
Willie Vasquez-Washington couldn’t believe what he was hearing—Clapley clearly was more excited about scoring the sex powder than stalking the formidable African rhinoceros. White guys were truly pathetic, the worst, when it came to fretting about their dicks.
Addressing the table, Robert Clapley said, “Palmer disapproves of my two ladies, though I suspect he’s just jealous. They have exotic tastes, it’s true—and talents to match.”
There was a ripple of appreciative laughter.
“So bring a hacksaw for the horn,” Clapley instructed Durgess firmly.
“Yessir.”
“You know what’s also supposed to be good for boners? Bull testicles,” the governor volunteered informatively. “Rocky Mountain oysters is what they call ’em out West. Can you imagine eating barbecued bull’s balls?”
Durgess rose sluggishly, as if cloaked in cast iron. “We best be movin’ out now,” he told the men. “I’ll go fetch Asa. You fellas meet us in front.”
“With our guns,” Palmer Stoat added.
“Yessir. With your guns,” Durgess said, with dull resignation.
29
They found a knoll with a clear downhill view of the towering moss-draped oak, which stood alone at the confluence of two slopes. The men laid down in the tallest grass to wait, Twilly sighting with the Remington while Skink scanned with the field glasses. McGuinn sat restlessly between them, nosing the foggy dawn air. The end of his leash was looped once around Skink’s ax-handle wrist.
“Is it alive?” Twilly, squinting through the rifle scope.
“Hard to say,” Skink said.
They were talking about the black rhinoceros.
“Lookie there!”
“What?”
Skink, who needed only half of the binoculars, said: “It’s eating. See for yourself.”
Twilly positioned the crosshairs and saw twin puffs of mist rising from the beast’s horned snout. Its prehensile upper lip browsed feebly at a bale of hay.
“Looks about a thousand years old,” Twilly said.
Skink sounded somber. “If we’re going to do this thing, whatever it is, it’s gotta happen before they plug that poor sonofabitch. That I won’t watch, you understand?”
McGuinn edged cagily toward the slope, but Skink yanked him on his butt. Twilly pointed on a line with his rifle: “Here they come, captain.”
The hunting party arrived in a zebra-striped Chevy Suburban, parking no more than two hundred yards from the solitary oak. Eight men in all, the group made no effort at stealth. The great El Jefe, masticating serenely beneath the tree, seemed oblivious to the slamming doors, clicking gun bolts and unmuffled male voices.
At the front of the truck they held a brief huddle—Skink spotted the orange flare of a match—before the stalk began in earnest. Two men headed out first, both armed. Twilly didn’t recognize either of them but he knew one had to be Robert Clapley.
Four men followed in a second group. Twilly didn’t need a scope to pick out Desie’s husband. He remembered Palmer Stoat’s oversized cowboy hat from that first day, when he had pursued the obnoxious litterbug down the Florida Turnpike. Another giveaway was the bobbing cigar; downwind or upwind, only a stooge such as Stoat would smoke while tracking big game.
Skink said, “There’s your boy.” He recognized Stoat’s dough-ball physique from the night he’d broken into the lobbyist’s house and usurped his bathroom. Seeing him again now, in such an inexcusable circumstance, Skink was even less inclined toward mercy. Twilly Spree had related how all the madness had started—Stoat blithely chucking hamburger cartons out the window of his Range Rover. The ex-governor had understood perfectly Twilly’s infuriated reaction, for such atrocious misbehavior could not be overlooked. In Skink’s view, which he kept to himself, Twilly had shown uncommon restraint.
In the same contingent of hunters as Palmer Stoat marched the governor, looking theatrically chipper in an Aussie bush hat. Dick Artemus carried his gun in a way that suggested he practiced everything except shooting. A third man, leaner and darker, held a long-lensed camera but no weapon. The fourth man in the group walked out front with a rifle at the ready; he was older and wiry-looking, dressed more like a mechanic than a hunter.