Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

Nils Fishback shook his head frantically. Mr. Gash laughed. He had been made aware of Fishback’s lucrative real estate sellout. “Oh, I know it’s not you,” he told the old man. “From what I hear, you got no complaints. You made out like a bandit on this deal.”

Now Fishback was nodding. Mr. Gash set the handgun on the toilet seat and took out a penknife, which he used to pry the cake of Dial from Fishback’s mouth. The soap came out embedded with expensive porcelain bridge-work. Immediately the mayor wriggled upright and began vomiting in his own lap. Mr. Gash turned on the shower, picked up his gun and left the bathroom.

When Nils Fishback emerged, he was the consummate host, all southern graciousness and hospitality. He fixed fresh coffee and powdered doughnuts for Mr. Gash, and told him of a rumor going around the island.

“About a guy who works for Roothaus, Clapley’s engineering firm. This guy’s all—what is it they say these days?—conflicted about his job. He’s been getting drunked up at night, roamin’ around saying it’s a damn crime, what Clapley’s set to do to this island.”

“Crime?” Mr. Gash was amused.

“Crime against nature, the young man said. I believe he’s some kind a biologist.” Nils Fishback paused to readjust his dental bridge. Slivers of orange soap were visible between his front teeth.

He said, “Tree-hugger type, that’s the rumor.”

“But he works for Roothaus,” said Mr. Gash, “who works for Clapley. Ha!” Mr. Gash knit his brow. “What ever happened to good old-fashioned loyalty? This is excellent coffee, by the way.”

Fishback said: “Thanks. The young fella’s name is Brinkman or Brickman. Somethin’ like that. They say he’s a doctor of biology.”

“I appreciate the information.”

Fishback fingered his sodden beard apprehensively. “Keep in mind, it’s only a rumor. I don’t wanna see nobody get hurt, because there might be nothin’ to it. People say all kinds a crazy shit when they drink.”

Mr. Gash rose and handed his empty cup to Fishback. “Well, these sorts of stories need to be checked out. Where you moving to, Mayor?”

“Vegas.”

“Whoa. Land of opportunity.”

“No, it’s just I got sinus problems.” Mr. Gash smiled encouragingly. “You’ll love it there.”

Krimmler had warned Dr. Steven Brinkman to curtail his drinking, but it wasn’t easy. Brinkman was depressed so much of the time. He had nearly completed the biological survey of Toad Island without documenting one endangered species. That was splendid tidings for Roger Roothaus and Robert Clapley, but not for the remaining wildlife; not for the ospreys or the raccoons, not for the gray squirrels or the brown tree snails, not for the whip-tailed lizards or the western sandpipers. Because now, Brinkman knew, there was no way to block the Shearwater resort. The creeps who’d bulldozed the tiny oak toads would do the same to all other creatures in their path, and no law or authority could stop them. So Dr. Brinkman’s exhaustively detailed catalog of Toad Island’s birds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, insects and flora was for all practical purposes a death list, or that’s how the young biologist had come to think of it. Sometimes, at night, he would sneak into the construction trailer to brood over the impressive Shearwater mock-up—how verdant and woody the layout looked in miniature! But Brinkman knew it was an illusion created by those two immense golf courses—a wild, rolling splash of green rimmed by houses and condos, a chemical hue of emerald found nowhere in nature. And the suckers were lining up to buy! Occasionally Brinkman would crouch by the scale model in mordant contemplation of Clapley’s “nature trail”—a linear quarter-mile trek through a scraggle of pines at the north hook of the island. And there was the scenic little saltwater creek, for kayaks and canoes. In the mock-up the creek was painted sky blue, but in real life (Brinkman knew) the water would be tea-colored and silted. A school of mullet would be cause for great excitement. Meanwhile Clapley’s people would be leveling hundreds of acres for home-sites, parking lots, the airstrip, the heliport and that frigging shooting range; they’d be dredging pristine estuary for the yacht harbor and water-sports complex and desalinization plants. Along the beach rose the dreaded high-rises; on the model, each sixteen-story tower was the size of a pack of Marlboro mediums.