The young cop lowered the tailgate, and the trained German shepherd sprung into the bed of the pickup. One whiff at the steamer chest and Spike went white-eyed—yapping, snapping, scratching at the locks, turning circles.
“God Almighty,” said the K-9 cop.
“I got the trunk at a yard sale,” Twilly said. “They said it came over on the Queen Mary.”‘ True enough.
“The hell you got in there, son?”
Twilly sighed. He approached the pickup and said, “May I?”
“Do it,” said the younger cop.
Twilly flipped the latches and opened the lid of the chest. When Spike the drug-sniffing shepherd saw what was inside, he vaulted off the tailgate and bounded, whimpering, into the cage of his master’s squad car. Both policemen trained their lights on the contents of the steamer trunk.
The K-9 cop, trying not to sound shocked: “What’s the story here?”
“It’s dead,” said Twilly.
“I’m listening.”
“That’s just ice, dry ice. It’s not dope.”
“What a helpful guy,” said the K-9 cop.
“There’s no law against possessing a dead dog,” Twilly asserted, although he wasn’t certain.
The officers stared at the roadkill Labrador. One of them said: “Happened to the ear?”
“Vulture,” replied Twilly.
“So, why are you driving around with this… this item in your truck?” the younger cop asked.
“Because he’s a deeply twisted fuckhead?” the K-9 officer suggested.
“I’m on my way to bury it,” Twilly explained.
“Where?”
“The beach.”
“Let me guess. Because Labs love the water?”
Twilly nodded. “Something like that.”
The younger cop said nothing as he wrote Twilly a ticket for improper lane changing. Nor did he reply when Twilly asked if he’d ever lost a beloved pet himself.
“Look, this is not what you think,” Twilly persisted. “He got hit by a car. He deserves a decent burial.”
“Whatever.” The young policeman handed him the ticket. “You can pay by mail.”
“I don’t blame you for being suspicious.”
The K-9 officer said, “On the off chance you’re telling the truth, don’t try to bury this damn thing on the public beach.”
“Why not? Is there a law against it?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Understand?”
The younger cop bent to stroke McGuinn’s neck. “If I stop your truck again,” he said to Twilly, “and there’s two dead dogs inside. I’m going to shoot your ass. Law or no law.”
“Your candor is appreciated,” Twilly said.
After the policemen left, he drove south along A1A to Fort Lauderdale, where he parked across from Bahia Mar. He hoisted the steamer trunk out of his truck and, walking backward, dragged it along the sand. He stopped behind the Yankee Clipper Hotel and dug for more than an hour with his bare hands. No one stopped to ask what he was doing but around the steamer trunk a small crowd of curious tourists gathered, many of them Europeans. They acted as if they anticipated entertainment; a magic act, perhaps, or a busker! Twilly opened the lid to show them what was inside before he covered it up with sand. Afterward one of the tourists, a slight gray-bearded man, stepped up to the fresh grave and said a prayer in Danish. Soon he was joined by the others, each murmuring reverently in their native tongue. Twilly was deeply moved. He hugged the Dane, and then each of the other tourists one by one. Then he stripped off his clothes and dove into the ocean. When he got out of the water, he was alone on the beach.
He picked up Desie on Federal Highway, at the south end of the New River Tunnel. “A really super idea,” she remarked when she got in the truck. “They think I’m a hooker, standing out here on the corner. I had a dozen guys stop and ask how much for a blow job.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Very funny.”
“Well,” said Twilly, “you don’t look like a hooker.”
“Aw, what a sweet thing to say.”
“Aren’t we the sarcastic one?”
“Sorry,” Desie said, “but I had a shitty day. And a fairly shitty night, too, come to think of it. Where’s my dog?”
“Someplace safe.”
“No more games, Twilly. Please.”
“I had to be sure you came alone.”