Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

Dick Artemus set up one of his famous private lunches at the governor’s mansion, and made sure Stoat arrived through the service entrance, out of view of visitors and journalists. The menu featured sauteed baby lobsters, quite illegal to possess, which had been confiscated from poachers by the marine patrol in Key Largo and then transported by state helicopter to Tallahassee. (Anyone who asked questions was told the undersized crustaceans were being donated to the kitchen of a local church orphanage, and on infrequent occasions—when the governor had a prior dinner commitment, for example—that act of charity would actually come to pass.)

The lobsters were so runty that Palmer Stoat immediately abandoned the fork and went to his fingers. Dick Artemus couldn’t help but notice how Stoat delicately stacked the empty carapaces on his butter plate, a display of meticulousness that contrasted oddly with his wet sloppy chewing.

“The bridge,” Stoat said, after his second glass of wine.

“Which bridge?”

“Toad Island. The Shearwater project.” Stoat had a baby lobster plugged in each cheek. It made him appear mottled and goggle-eyed, like a grouper.

Dick Artemus said, “What’s the problem, Palmer? The bridge money is in the budget—it’s a done deal.”

“Well, I need you to undo it.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No,” Stoat said, “it’s a matter of life and death.”

“That’s not good enough,” said the governor.

“Dick, you’ve got to veto the bridge.”

“You’re completely insane.”

“No, you listen up.” Palmer Stoat wiped his butter-slick hands on a linen napkin and slugged down the rest of his wine. Then he told Dick Artemus the whole story about the missing dog; about the deranged lunatic who broke into his house and stole Boodle and vowed to murder the animal if Robert Clapley got that new bridge; about how Desie was threatening to leave him if he didn’t do what the dognapper demanded; about how he couldn’t afford another costly divorce, couldn’t afford to have a humiliating story like this splashed all over the newspapers and television; and, finally, about how much he loved his big dopey pooch and didn’t want him to die.

The governor replied with a murmur of disappointment. “It’s that fucking Willie Vasquez-Washington, isn’t it? He wants something else from me.”

Palmer Stoat rose off his chair. “You think I’d make up something like this—a dog abduction, for Chrissake!—to cover for a greedy two-bit cocksucker like Willie V? He’s nothing to me, Dick, a jigaboo gnat on the fucking windshield of life!”

“OK, keep it down.” Three hundred Brownie scouts were touring the governor’s mansion, and Dick Artemus preferred that their tender ears be spared Stoat’s profane braying.

“This is my reputation I’m talking about,” Stoat continued. “My marriage, my financial situation, my whole future—”

“What kind of dog?” the governor asked.

“Black Lab.”

Dick Artemus smiled fondly. “Aw, they’re great. I’ve had three of ’em.”

“Then you know,” Stoat said.

“Yeah, yeah. I sure loved those hounds, Palmer, but I wouldn’t have tanked a twenty-eight-million-dollar public works project for one. I mean, there’s love and then there’s love.” The governor raised his palms.

Stoat said, “I’m not talking about killing the bridge project, my friend. You sign a line-item veto next week. Maybe Clapley screams and hollers for a little while. Same for Roothaus. My crazy dognapper reads in the papers how the Shearwater deal is suddenly DOA, and he lets Boodle go free and everything’s hunky-dory.”

“Boodle?” Dick Artemus said quizzically.

“That’s his name—long story. Anyhow, soon as I get back my dog, here’s what you should do, Dick. You call the legislature back to Tallahassee for a special session.”

“All for a bridge? You can’t be serious. I’ll get slaughtered by the press.”

In agitation Stoat lunged for a fresh bottle of wine. “Dick, in the immortal words of Jethro Tull, sometimes you’re as thick as a stick.”

The governor glanced at his wristwatch and said, “How about cutting to the chase.”

“OK,” said Stoat. “You’re not calling a special session for one lousy bridge, you’re calling it for education. You aren’t happy with how your colleagues in the House and Senate hacked up your education package—”

“That’s the truth.”

“—and so you’re bringing them back to Tallahassee to finish the job, on behalf of all the children of Florida. You say they deserve bigger classrooms, more teachers, newer books, and so on. You follow me?”

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 *