Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

Still dripping from the bath, she padded to the kitchen and got a notepad. Twilly made her read back his directions after she’d jotted them down.

“Can I bring you anything?” she said.

There was a pause on the line. “Yes, I’d like a book.”

“Poetry?” Desie, thinking of his Ezra Pound approach.

“I’m not in the mood. But anything by John D. MacDonald would be terrific. And also some Tic Tacs. Spearmint, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Desie caught herself smiling. “No trouble,” she said. Something brushed her bare toes and she jumped—it was only the maid, diligently mopping the drops on the kitchen tile.

“How do you know McGuinn misses me?”

“Sometimes he gets mopey,” Twilly said.

“Maybe it’s Palmer he misses.”

“Be serious. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait. About this ear—what do I do with it?”

“Whatever you want,” said Twilly. “Hang it on the Christmas tree, for all I care. Or nail it to the wall, with the rest of your husband’s dead animal parts.”

Desie thought: Boy, he is in a shitty mood.

She said, “I’m just curious. If it’s not Boodle’s—”

“McGuinn!”

“Sorry. If it’s not McGuinn’s ear—”

“And it’s not. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Right, you did,” Desie said. “And that’s why I can’t help being curious. Anybody would—a gross item like this arrives on your doorstep. But now I’m thinking: Do I really want to know where it came from?”

“You do not,” said Twilly Spree. “Definitely not.”

Dick Artemus had known Palmer Stoat three years. They’d first met on a quail-hunting plantation in Thomasville, Georgia, across the state line from Tallahassee. At the time, Dick Artemus was the mayor of Jacksonville, and also the multimillionaire owner of seven Toyota dealerships, all prosperous. For the usual reasons he decided he needed to be governor of Florida, and methodically began ingratiating himself with all the major players in state politics. One was Palmer Stoat, the well-known lobbyist, problem fixer and deal broker.

Stoat had been ambivalent about meeting Dick Artemus, as he’d recently purchased a Toyota Land Cruiser that had given him nothing but grief. One of the electric windows shorted out, the CD player got jammed on Cat Stevens, and the four-wheel drive functioned only in reverse. These annoyances were brought to Dick Artemus’s attention by a mutual acquaintance of Palmer Stoat, and two days later a flatbed hauling a brand-new Land Cruiser pulled into Stoat’s driveway. The next morning, Stoat chartered a plane for Thomasville.

The quails were so quick that he actually managed to hit a few. Another pleasant surprise was Dick Artemus, who turned out to be glib, sufficiently charming and presentable, with the obligatory flawless dentition and mane of silver-gray hair. The man could actually win this thing, Palmer Stoat thought—Artemus was three inches taller and ten times better-looking than any of the Democrats.

In Stoat’s occupation it was unwise to take sides (because one never knew when the political tides might change), but he discreetly arranged introductions between Dick Artemus and Florida’s heaviest campaign donors, most of whom happened to be Stoat’s clients from industry, real estate and agriculture. They were favorably impressed by the handsome automobile tycoon. By midsummer, two months before the Republican primary, Dick Artemus had collected more than $4 million in contributions, much of it traceable and even legitimate. He went on to capture the general election by a breezy margin of 200,000 votes.

Dick Artemus never forgot the value of Palmer Stoat’s early guidance, because Palmer Stoat wouldn’t let him forget. Usually it was the lobbyist who needed a favor but occasionally the governor himself made the phone call. They cut back on the weekend hunting trips, as both men agreed it would be imprudent to be seen spending time together. Stoat couldn’t afford to piss off the Democrats, while Dick Artemus couldn’t afford to be branded the stooge of some oily wheeler-dealer lobbyist. The two remained friendly, if not close. When (after less than a year!) Palmer Stoat traded in the Toyota for a new Range Rover, Dick Artemus diplomatically hid his disappointment. He had reelection to worry about; he would need Stoat’s connections.

So naturally the governor said yes when Palmer called to request a rare meeting alone. Lisa June Peterson, the aide who took the call, knew it was a serious matter because Stoat didn’t try to flirt with her over the phone, or invite her out for drinks, or ask for her dress size so he could buy her a little something the next time he was in Milan. No, Palmer Stoat sounded more tense and distracted than Lisa June Peterson had ever heard him.

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 *