“Dick told me everything,” Clapley was saying. “Told me this was entirely your idea, the veto, on account of your fucking dog got kidnapped by some mystery maniac. Can this possibly be true? Of course not. There’s no earthly way.”
Stoat said, “The guy sent me an ear.”
“Do tell.” Robert Clapley put his tan face close to Stoat’s. He wore a mocking smile. Palmer Stoat was struck—no, overwhelmed—by Clapley’s cologne, which smelled like a fruit salad gone bad.
“The dog’s ear, Bob. The guy cut it off and sent it to me.”
Clapley chuckled harshly and moved away. “Yeah, Dick told me all about that, the FedEx delivery. I say it’s bullshit. Creative bullshit, Palmer, but bullshit nonetheless. I say you’re nothing but a world-class turd fondler who’s making up stories in order to shake me down for an extra fifty large. Please give me one good reason not to trust my instincts.”
Then, as if on impulse, Blond Porcupine Man seized a handful of Stoat’s hair, jerked back his head, pried open his mouth, inserted something warm and soft, closed his mouth and then continued to hold his jaws shut. This was achieved, with viselike effect, by placing a thumb beneath Palmer Stoat’s surgically resculpted chin, and a stiff finger inside each nostril.
Robert Clapley saying: “Before I became a real estate developer, I was engaged in another line of work—not exporting VCRs, either, as you’ve probably figured out. Mr. Gash here was on my payroll, Palmer. I’m sure even you can figure out what he did for me, job description-wise. Nod if you understand.”
It wasn’t easy, with Mr. Gash clamping his face, but Stoat managed to nod. He was also desperately trying not to throw up, as he would likely choke to death on his own trapped vomit. The gag reflex had been triggered when the small soft object Mr. Gash had dropped into Stoat’s mouth began to squirm; when Stoat finally identified the odd tickling sensation as movement—ambulation, it felt like, something crawling across his tongue, moistly nosing into the pouch of his right cheek. Stoat’s doll-sized blue eyes puckered into a squint, and with a violent moan he began shaking his head.
Robert Clapley said to Mr. Gash: “Aw, let him go.”
And Mr. Gash released Stoat’s face, allowing him to unhinge his jaws and expel (in addition to the tuna casserole he’d eaten for lunch) a live baby rat. The rat was dappled pink and nearly hairless, no bigger than a Vienna sausage. It landed unharmed on the kitchen counter, next to a bottle of Tabasco sauce, and began to creep away.
Later, after Stoat finished hacking and splurting, Clapley placed a hand on the back of his neck. “That’s a little something from the old days, the rat-in-the-mouth number. Worked then, works now.”
“Lets you know we’re serious.” The first utterance by Mr. Gash. He had a deceptive voice, as mild as a chaplain’s, and it sent a frigid bolt up Stoat’s spine.
Clapley said, “Palmer, I assume you’ve now got something to say. Help me fill in the missing pieces.”
And Stoat, who had never before faced torture or death, willed himself to swallow. He grimaced at the taste of his own bile, spit copiously on the tile and croaked: “The freezer. Look in the goddamn freezer.” Jerking his chin toward the huge custom Sub-Zero that Desie had picked out for the kitchen.
Mr. Gash opened the door, peeked inside, turned to Clapley and shrugged.
Stoat blurted: “Behind the ice cream!” Praying that Desie hadn’t moved the damn thing, or thrown it in the trash.
Mr. Gash, reaching into the freezer compartment and moving things around, taking things out—a pair of steaks, a box of frozen peas, a do-it-yourself pizza, a carton of rum raisin—dropping them on the floor. Then giving a barely audible “Hmmmm,” and withdrawing from the freezer the clear Baggie containing the dog ear.
“See!” cried Stoat.
Mr. Gash tapped the frosty ear into the palm of his hand. He examined it closely, holding it to the light as if it were an autumn leaf, or a shred of rare parchment.
Then he turned and said: “Yeah, it’s real. But so fucking what?”