Beowulf, said Twilly.
Aw, thass adorable, said one of the girlfriends.
As Twilly followed the boyfriends across the parking lot toward the Cadillac with the tandem trailer, he asked if there was an extra beer in the cooler. And that was the last thing the girlfriends remembered overhearing until Twilly returned a few minutes later and took the dog by the leash. The college girls hugged “Beowulf” and crooned their smoochy goodbyes. Then they wobbled to their feet and glanced around for their boyfriends, at which point Twilly Spree lowered his voice and said: “I saw what you dipshits did to that pelican.”
“Uh?” said one of the girlfriends.
The other grabbed her elbow and said, “Whadhesay?”
“Don’t ever come back here,” Twilly advised. “Not ever. Now go call the fire department. Hurry.”
The trunk of the Cadillac was open. So was the cooler inside. The boyfriends were stretched out on the ground, faceup at a forty-five-degree angle to each other; like the hands of a broken clock. One had a fractured cheekbone, denoted by a rising purple bruise. The other had a severely dislocated jaw, also festooned with an angry raw contusion. Nearby lay two misshapen Budweiser cans, fizzing beer bubbles on the pavement. The drunken girlfriends began to wail, and from the cooler they frantically scooped bare handfuls of ice cubes, which they attempted to affix on the lumpy wounds of their drunken boyfriends. The college girls were so absorbed in first aid that they didn’t notice the two water bikes smoldering ominously on the trailer, soon to burst into flames.
As much as he would’ve enjoyed it, Twilly Spree didn’t wait around for the fire. Later, when the flashing blue police lights appeared in his rearview mirror, he concluded that the two girlfriends hadn’t been quite as intoxicated as he thought. He figured they’d taken note of his pickup truck, perhaps even memorizing the license plate. It was a dispiriting turn of events, for Twilly couldn’t afford to go back to jail. Not now anyway; not with the Toad Island mission unresolved. The timing of his outburst against the young pelican molesters couldn’t have been worse, and he was mad at himself for losing control. Again.
The Lauderdale-by-the-Sea police officer was a polite young fellow not much older than Twilly. He stood back from the truck, peering into the cab and shining a powerful flashlight on McGuinn, who started barking theatrically. The officer seemed relieved that it was a dog and not a large dark-skinned person sharing the front seat with Twilly. He asked Twilly to step out and show his driver’s license. Twilly did as he was told. He easily could have disarmed and outrun the young cop, but he couldn’t abandon McGuinn. No, they were going down together, man and beast.
The policeman said: “Sir, I noticed you were driving erratically.”
Twilly was elated—a routine traffic stop! “Yes. Yes, I was driving erratically!”
“Is there a reason?”
“Yes, sir. I accidentally dropped a Liv-A-Snap on my lap, and the dog went for it.” This was the absolute truth. “At that moment,” Twilly said, “I’m sure I began driving erratically.”
“It’s a big dog you got there,” the officer allowed.
“And rambunctious,” added Twilly. “I’m sorry if we alarmed you.”
“Mind taking a Breathalyzer?”
“Not at all.”
“Because I definitely smell beer.”
“I didn’t drink it. It got spilled on me,” Twilly said, without elaboration.
He passed the breath test with flying colors. The young policeman got on the radio to check for outstanding warrants, but Twilly came up clean. The officer walked back to the truck and gave it a once-over with the flashlight, the beam of which settled upon an old steamer trunk in the cargo bed.
“Mind if I look inside?” the policeman asked.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Twilly said.
“Whatcha got in there?”
“You’d never believe it.”
“I can call in a K-9 unit, Mr. Spree. If you want to do this the hard way.”
“K-9s in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea,” Twilly marveled. “What are they sniffing for, bootleg Metamucil?”
A second squad car brought a trained German shepherd named Spike. Twilly and McGuinn were ordered to stand back and observe. Twilly spied the Labrador looking up at him querulously. “You’re right,” Twilly muttered to the dog. “I’m an asshole.”