Durgess declined. He grimaced at the acrid comingling of fumes, stogie and rhino piss.
Stoat said, “Tell me something, little bwana.”
Oh blow me, Durgess almost said.
“How old you figure this animal to be?”
“I ain’t too sure.”
Stoat said, “She looks to be in her prime.”
“Yeah, she does,” said Durgess, thinking: Blind, tame, fat and half-senile—a regular killing machine, all right.
Palmer Stoat continued to admire the carcass, as he felt this was expected of a triumphant hunter. In truth, it was himself he was admiring, as both he and Durgess knew. Stoat patted the flank of the carcass and said to his guide: “Come on, man. I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Sounds good.” Durgess took a portable two-way radio from a pocket of his safari jacket. “First lemme call Asa to bring the flatbed.”
Palmer Stoat had more than enough money to go to Africa, but he didn’t have the time. That’s why he did his big-game hunting at local safari ranches,, some legal and some not. This one, located near Ocala, Florida, was called the Wilderness Veldt Plantation. Officially it was a “private game preserve”; unofficially it was a place where rich people went to shoot exotic wild animals. Palmer Stoat had been there twice before, once for a water buffalo and once for a lion. From Fort Lauderdale it wasn’t a bad drive, a shade over four hours. The hunts were staged early in the morning, so usually he was home in time for dinner.
As soon as he made the interstate, Stoat got on the phone. He had three cellular lines to his Range Rover, as his professional services were in high demand.
He called Desie and told her about the kill. “It was classic,” he said, smacking on the cigar.
“How so?” his wife asked.
“Just being out there in the bush. The sunrise. The mist. The twigs crackling under your boots. I wish you’d come along sometime.”
“What did she do?” his wife asked. “When you blasted her, I mean.”
“Well—”
“Did she charge?”
“No, Des. Everything was over in a second. It was a clean shot.”
Desirata was Palmer Stoat’s third wife. She was thirty-two years old, an avid tennis player and an occasional liberal. Stoat’s buddies once called her a bunny hugger because she wasn’t a fan of blood sports. It all depends on whose blood you’re talking about. Stoat had said with a taut laugh.
“I suppose you took video?’ Desie said to her husband. “Your first endangered species and all.”
“As a matter of fact, no. No video.”
“Oh, Dick’s office called.”
Stoat rolled down the window and flicked the ash off his Cuban. “When?”
“Four times,” Desie said. “Starting at seven-thirty.”
“Next time let the machine pick up.”
“I was awake anyway.”
Stoat said, “Who in Dick’s office?”
“Some woman.”
That really narrows it down, Stoat thought. Dick Artemus was the governor of Florida, and he liked to hire women.
Desie said, “Should I make dinner?”
“No, let’s you and I go out. To celebrate, OK?”
“Great. I’ll wear something dead.”
“You’re a riot, Alice.”
Palmer Stoat phoned Tallahassee and left a message on the voice mail of Lisa June Peterson, an aide to the governor. Many of Dick Artemus’s staff members went by three names, a vestige of their college sorority days at FSU. So far, none of them had consented to have sex with Palmer Stoat, but it was still early in the new administration. Eventually they would come to see how clever, powerful and charismatic Stoat was, one of the two or three top lobbyists in the state. Only in politics would a job like that get you laid; no normal women were impressed by what Stoat did for a living, or even much interested in it.
In Wildwood he got on the turnpike and soon afterward stopped at the Okahumpka Service Plaza for a late lunch: Three hamburgers all the way, two bags of french fries and a jumbo vanilla shake. He drove one-handed, stuffing his cheeks. The digital Motorola started ringing, and Stoat checked the caller ID. Hastily he touched the off button. The man on the other end was a Miami commissioner, and Stoat had a firm rule against speaking directly with Miami commissioners—those who weren’t already under indictment were under investigation, and all telephone lines into City Hall had long ago been tapped. The last thing Palmer Stoat needed was another trip to the grand jury. Who had time for such nonsense?