So Dick Artemus dutifully had programmed himself not to respond to the jokes and jabs about his past life, though it wasn’t easy. He was a proud fellow. Moreover, he believed he wouldn’t have made it to the governor’s mansion had it not been for all those hard sweaty Florida summers on automobile lots. That’s where you learned your people skills, Dick Artemus would tell his staff. That’s where you learned your sincerity and your flattery and your graciousness. That’s where you learned to smile until your cheeks cramped and your gums dried out.
Running for public office was a cakewalk, Dick Artemus liked to say, compared to moving 107 light pickups in one year (which he had done, single-handedly, in 1988). Even after winning the election, the new governor frequently found himself falling back on his proven Toyota-selling techniques when dealing with balky lobbyists, legislators and constituents. Wasn’t politics all about persuasion? And wasn’t that what Dick Artemus had been doing his entire adult life, persuading reluctant and suspicious people to overextend themselves?
While Dick Artemus felt unprepared for some facets of his job, he remained confident in his ability to sell anybody anything. (In interviews he insisted on describing himself as “a people person’s people person,” though the phrase induced muted groans from his staff.) The governor’s abiding faith in his own charms led to many private meetings at the mansion. One-on-one, he liked to say, that’s how I do business. And even his most cynical aides admitted that Dick Artemus was the best they’d ever seen, one-on-one. He could talk the fleas off a dog, they’d say. He could talk the buzzards off a shit wagon.
And talking was what Dick Artemus was doing now. Loosening his necktie, rolling up his cuffs, relaxing in a leather chair in his private study, the tall hardwood shelves lined with books he’d never cracked. Talking one-on-one to a black man wearing the stiff gray uniform of the state Highway Patrol. Sewn on one shoulder of the uniform was a patch depicting a ripe Florida orange, a pleasing sunburst of color to take a tourist’s mind off the $180 speeding ticket he was being written.
The black trooper sitting in the governor’s study had a strong handsome face and broad shoulders. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, wisps of silver visible in his short-cropped hair.
Dick Artemus said, “Well? Has it changed much since you worked here?” He was referring to the governor’s mansion.
“Not much,” the trooper said, with a polite smile.
“You’re a lieutenant now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s impressive,” said the governor. Both of them knew why: The Highway Patrol was not famous for promoting minorities.
“Your wife?”
“She’s fine, sir.”
“She was a trooper, too?”
“That’s right.”
“Never went back?”
“No, sir.”
Dick Artemus nodded to show his approval. “One in the family’s enough. It’s dangerous as hell out there on the road.”
As if the lieutenant needed reminding.
“Which is why I asked you to stop by, Jim”—as if the trooper had a choice—”for this private chat,” said the governor. “I’ve got a problem that needs to be handled quickly and quietly. A delicate situation involving a highly unstable individual—a nutcase, if I can be blunt—who’s on the loose out there… somewhere.” Dick Artemus motioned somberly toward the window.
The trooper’s expression never changed, but the governor sensed an onset of discomfort, a newfound wariness in the man’s gaze. Artemus picked up on it immediately; he’d encountered the same vibe a thousand times before, with customers at Dick’s Toyota Land, USA.
“What I’m about to tell you,” the governor said, leaning forward, “must remain in the strictest confidence.”
The trooper, whose name was Jim Tile, said, “Of course.”
And Dick Artemus told him the story, almost the whole story, about the young man who’d kidnapped Palmer Stoat’s dog and Fed-Exed him one of the ears, in order to stop a new bridge from being built to a place called Toad Island.
“Or Shearwater, which is the developer’s Yuppie-ass name for it,” the governor added. “Point is, I didn’t call you here to talk about rescuing some jerkoff lobbyist’s dog—that’s been taken care of. The problem is this young man, who has the potential—and I’m no shrink—but I’d say he’s got the potential to hurt or even kill someone if we don’t find him fast.”