Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

“Palmer, he’s a criminal. They don’t give out business cards.” Desie didn’t understand why she continued to protect Twilly Spree, but it was no time to change her story.

Stoat said, “I’m just curious is all. It’s gotta be somebody who knows me. Somebody I pissed off somewhere up the line. Seriously pissed off, to break into my house and snatch my goddamn Labrador.”

“What’s the difference?” she said. “You said everything’s set. Governor Dick’s going to do what you asked, then we get Boodle back and all the fuss is over. Right?”

“That would be the plan,” said her husband.

Then, turning to the waiter: “Could you please see that my wife’s entree is taken off our bill? The scrod was so freezer-burned she couldn’t eat it.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Desie said.

Driving home, Palmer slid his free hand beneath her skirt. “You proud of me?” he asked.

“I am.” Involuntarily she pressed her knees together.

“How proud?”

Desie felt her chest tighten. She locked her eyes straight ahead, as if watching the traffic.

“Proud enough for a little you-know-what?”

“Palmer.” But she was leaden with guilt. Of course she’d have sex with him tonight—after what he’d done for the dog, how could she say no?

“It’s been a couple of weeks,” he noted.

“I know. A rough couple of weeks.”

“For both of us, sweetheart. So how about it? Lilac candles. A bottle of French wine—”

“Sounds nice,” said Desie.

“—and maybe a spoonful of rhino dust for some extra-special excitement.”

“No!”

“Des, come on.”

“No way, Palmer. No way!” She removed his hand from inside her panties and told him to mind the road. It took three traffic lights for Stoat to compose himself and rally for the salvage operation.

“You’re right,” he said to Desie. “Forget the rhino horn, forget I even mentioned it. I’m sorry.”

“Promise me you’ll throw it away.”

“I promise,” Stoat lied. Already he was thinking about the intriguing call girl he’d met the other night at Swain’s, the one who fucked only Republicans. Certainly she would have no liberal qualms about aphrodisiacs harvested from endangered species. Nor would Roberta, the free-spirited, prodigiously implanted blonde who was Stoat’s occasional travel companion. For the promise of a new and improved orgasm, Roberta would’ve killed the rhinoceros with her own bare hands.

But to his wife, Palmer Stoat declared: “I’ll toss the stuff first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

With a sly sideways glance, he said: “Does that mean we’re still on for later?”

“I suppose.” Desie turned her head, pretending to scout the bikinis in the display window of a beachwear shop. She felt the spiderish return of Palmer’s fingers between her legs. He left them there after the light turned green.

“You look soooooo gorgeous tonight,” he said. “I can’t wait to see the pictures!”

Lord, Desie thought. The shutterbug routine again.

“Palmer, I’m not really in the mood.”

“Since when? Come on, darling, learn to relax.”

Stoat stopped at a convenience store, where he purchased three packs of Polaroid film. He compulsively tore them open inside the truck, throwing the empty boxes into the parking lot.

Desie got out and retrieved each one, much to her husband’s consternation.

“What’s gotten into you?” he demanded.

“Just drive,” she told him. “Just take me home.”

So we can get it over with.

That night Twilly Spree was pulled over by a policeman on Route A1A in the snowbird community of Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. Twilly thought he knew why: There had been another incident of anger mismanagement, this one involving four college students, two personal watercrafts and a large volume of beer.

It had happened after Twilly returned the rented Chevrolet Corsica and transferred McGuinn to the black pickup truck. Twilly was minding his own affairs, waiting in traffic on the Commercial Boulevard drawbridge, when he noticed two Jet Skis racing at break-ass speed down the Intracoastal Waterway. One Jet Ski was white with bright blue stripes; the other was white with red stripes. Each carried a matching pair of riders—a young stud at the helm with a young babe behind him, arms locked around his waist. They were jumping the wakes of yachts, buzzing the sailboats, spraying the bait netters and otherwise announcing their drunken idiocy to the world. Such brain-dead antics were so commonplace among water bikers that it was hardly noteworthy, and Twilly Spree would have paid no further attention except that the drawbridge was still up and he was stuck for entertainment. Besides, there was a better-than-average chance that the bozos would crash their noisy toys head-on into the seawall at fifty miles per hour—and Twilly was always eager to see Darwin vindicated in such cinematic style.