Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

Skink ambled up and seized McGuinn in a jovial bear hug. The Labrador chomped one of Skink’s cheek braids and began to tug, Skink giggling like a schoolboy.

Twilly said, “We’d better go.”

“No, son. Not just yet.”

He got up, took out the.45 and strode purposefully toward the rhinoceros.

“What are you doing?” Twilly called out. In the tumult he’d left his Remington up on the knoll. “Don’t!”

As Skink approached the rhinoceros, a voice from the tree inquired: “Are you fuckin’ nuts?”

“Hush up,” said the former governor of Florida.

The rhino sensed him coming and struggled to rise.

“Easy there. Easy.” Skink stepped gingerly, edging closer. His arm gradually reached out, the blue barrel of the Colt pointing squarely at the animal’s brainpan—or so it appeared to Twilly, who had kept back. Morosely he wondered why Skink would kill the old rhino now; perhaps to spare it from being shot by somebody else, a cop or a game warden. Meanwhile, McGuinn bucked at the leash, thinking the opossum-smelling man had cooked up a fun new game.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” Twilly shouted again at Skink.

The rhino’s view remained obstructed by the lumpy object snagged on its horn. El Jefe could not clearly see either the silver-bearded man or the gun at its face, which was just as well, though the man had no intention of harm.

Watching Skink’s arm stiffen, Twilly braced for the clap of a gunshot. None came, for Skink didn’t place the weapon to the ancient animal’s brow. Instead he touched it firmly to Robert Clapley’s unblinking right eye, to make absolutely sure the fucker was dead. Satisfied, he stepped back and lowered the gun. The man in the tree hopped down and scampered away. McGuinn barked indignantly, which made the rhinoceros stir once more. With a volcanic grunt and a violent head shake, it launched Robert Clapley’s beanbag body, which landed in a khaki heap.

Skink went over and poked it with a boot. Twilly saw him bend over and pick something up off the ground. Later, striding up the slope, he removed the article from his pocket and showed it to Twilly. “What do you make of this?” he asked.

It was a voluptuous blond doll, dressed in a skimpy deerhide outfit of the style Maureen O’Sullivan wore in the old Johnny Weismuller movies. Barbie as Jane.

“Came off Clapley,” Skink reported, with a troubled frown. “A girl’s doll.”

Twilly Spree nodded. “Sick world.”

30

It was seventy-seven steps to the top of the lighthouse. He counted each one as he went up the circular stairwell. Where the steps ended stood a warped door with flaking barn-red paint and no outside knob. The former governor of Florida gave three hard raps, waited a few moments, then knocked again. Eventually he heard movement on the other side; more a shuffling than a footfall.

“Doyle?”

Nothing.

“Doyle, it’s me. Clint.”

He could hear his brother breathing.

“Are you all right?”

The only light slanting into the stone column came from a row of narrow salt-caked windows. Littering the floor from wall to wall were envelopes—hundreds of identical envelopes, yellowed and unopened. Payroll checks from the State of Florida. It had been a very long time since Clinton Tyree had seen one.

In the shadows he noticed a crate of fresh oranges, three one-gallon water jugs and, stacked nearby like library books, two dozen boxes of Minute rice. It was rice he smelled now, cooking on the other side of the door.

“Doyle?”

He so wanted to lay eyes on his brother.

“I’m not going to stay. I just need to know you’re all right.”

Clinton Tyree leaned his shoulder to the wood. The door held fast. He heard more shuffling; the scrape of metal chair legs across a pine floor, the sibilant protest of a cheap cushion being sat upon, emphatically. His brother had taken a position.

“The park rangers said there are people bringing you food. Doyle, is that true?”

Nothing.

“Because if there’s anything you need, I’ll get it for you. Groceries, medicine, whatever. Anything at all.”

Books, magazines, paintings, a VCR, a grand piano… how about a whole new life? Jesus, Clinton Tyree thought, who am I kidding here.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *