Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

“You’re right, Bob. I should’ve told you as soon as it happened.”

“Oh, not telling me was disappointing enough. But on top of it all you try to rip me off… that takes kryptonite balls! Not just blaming Rainbow Willie for the veto but exploiting the dog situation for your own gain—I mean, that’s about the lowest thing imaginable.”

Stoat said, miserably, “I’m sorry.” He should have had a backup plan; should have guessed that the hotheaded Clapley might contact the governor directly; should have known that Dick Artemus would’ve ignored Stoat’s instructions and taken Clapley’s phone call, Clapley being a platinum-plated campaign donor and Dick being an obsequious glad-handing maggot.

“I thought it was all bullshit, until I saw the ear.” Clapley pointed solemnly toward the freezer. “I thought, Hell, Palmer’s gotta be making it up, that weirdness about the dog ear. A fifty-thousand-dollar line of bullshit is what I figured. But you weren’t, making it up.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Which makes it worse. Which makes you worse,” Clapley said. “Worse than the worst of turd fondlers, is this not true?”

Stoat, dull-eyed and slump-shouldered: “What do you want from me. Bob?”

“Fifty thousand bucks’ worth of fun,” Clapley replied without hesitation. “Let’s start with a cheetah for the wall. I remember you told me about a place where I could shoot one. A place right here in Florida, so I wouldn’t have to fly to Bumfuck, Africa, or wherever.”

“Yes. It’s called the Wilderness Veldt Plantation.”

“Where you got your black rhino!”

“Right,” Stoat said.

“So how about let’s go there on a cheetah hunt. All expenses paid by you.”

“No problem, Bob.” Stoat thinking: Easy enough. One phone call to Durgess. “It’ll take a little time to set up,” he told Clapley, “in case they don’t have a cat on the property. Then they’ll have to order one.”

“All the way from Africa? That could be months.”

“No, no. They get ’em from zoos, circuses, private collectors. Two-day air freight. Three tops.”

Robert Clapley said, “I want a goody.”

“Of course.”

“A prime pelt.”

“Guaranteed.” Stoat was dying for a drink and a cigar at Swain’s. Something to kill the reek of fear, and also the aftertaste of rodent. Maybe Estelle the Republican prostitute would be there to listen to his tale of terror.

“A cheetah would be fantastic, really fantastic,” Robert Clapley was saying.

“I’ll call you soon with the details.”

“Terrific. Now, what else?”

Stoat shook his head helplessly. “What else do you want?”

“Something for the Barbies. Something special.”

Stoat sagged in relief. “I’ve got just the thing.” Opening a cupboard and removing the opaque Tupperware container; popping the lid and showing Clapley what was inside.

“Is that what I think it is?” Clapley wasn’t pleased. “I hauled all kinds a shit in my day, but I never used the stuff. As a matter of policy, Palmer.”

“It’s not dope, Bob. It’s rhinoceros horn. Powdered rhinoceros horn.”

“Wow.” Clapley, leaning closer, using a pinkie finger to touch the fine grains. “I heard about this,” he said.

“The Barbies will love you for it. And love you and love you and love you.” Stoat winked.

“No shit?”

“Magical erections, amigo. I want a full report.”

Stoat inwardly congratulated himself for remembering about the rhino powder. Now he and Clapley were back to being buddies, almost. Clapley closed the Tupperware and tucked it like a football under one arm. Palmer Stoat felt a wave of liberation as he escorted him to the door.

“What exactly do I do with this stuff?” Clapley was saying. “Snort it or smoke it, or what?”

“Put some in your wine,” Stoat advised. “You drink wine? Sprinkle some in there.” That’s what the Chinese man in Panama City had instructed.

“But how much? How much should I use?” asked Clapley.

Palmer Stoat didn’t know the answer; he’d forgotten to question Mr. Yee about dosages. So Stoat told Clapley: “Normally I’d say a table-spoon, but for you, two. One for each Barbie.”

Clapley laughed. “Well, I do try not to play favorites.”

“Exactly!” Now Stoat was laughing, too.

“Good night, Palmer. Sorry if Mr. Gash gave you a fright, but it’s important to get these things out in the open.”

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