“They being… ”
“Our current governor, the Honorable Dick Artemus.”
Skink snorted. “Never heard of him.”
“Well, he’s heard of you. Wants to meet you someday.”
At this, Skink hooted. The trooper went on: “This boy they want you to find, he’s been trying to stop a new bridge from getting built.”
“I expect he’s got a name.”
“Unknown.”
“Where are they putting this bridge?”
“Place called Toad Island, up on the Gulf. The boy’s kidnapped the pet dog of some important guy, some asshole buddy of the governor. And now the governor’s pal is receiving pooch parts via Federal Express.”
Skink’s eyebrows arched. “FedEx? That could run into some money, depending on the size of the animal.”
“It’s a Labrador, I’m told.” Jim Tile reached for his friend’s canteen and took a swig of water. “The point is, Governor Artemus is keen on getting this bridge built—”
“Like I care—”
“—and he wants this disturbed young fellow tracked down and apprehended at your earliest convenience. Please don’t look at me that way.”
Skink said, “I’m no damn bounty hunter.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“And, furthermore, I wouldn’t know Dick Artemus from an elephant hemorrhoid. I don’t give two shits about him and I don’t give two shits about his bridge, though I do feel badly about the dismembered canine. Now”—Skink, boosting himself off the hood of the race car—”you may return to Tallahassee, my large Negro friend, and advise the governor to go fuck himself, repeatedly and without lubricants, at my behest.”
“Not so fast.” The trooper reached under his shirt for the brown envelope, damp with sweat. “He told me to give this to you. He thought it might change your mind. I’m afraid he’s right.”
“What the hell is it?”
“See for yourself.”
“You peeked?”
“Certainly,” said Jim Tile.
Inside the envelope was a single piece of paper, to which The Honorable Richard Artemus had been wise enough not to affix his name. The man known as Skink read the paper twice, silently. He looked up and said, “The bastard might be bluffing.”
“He might be.”
“On the other hand… ” Skink turned, and for several moments he gazed off through the mangroves, toward the sounds of the waves on the coral. “Goddammit, Jim.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t see another way but to do this thing.”
“Not one you could live with, I agree.”
“So now what?”
“Take me back to wherever the hell I parked that little boat. I’ll go up to Ocean Reef and make some calls. Then we’ll meet up tonight outside the Last Chance, say ten o’clock.”
“All right.” For once Skink sounded old and worn-out. He slung the AK-47 over his shoulder and adjusted his shower cap.
Jim Tile said, “I got a feeling you’ll get another uninvited guest today. A fat-assed Cracker rent-a-badge—Gale would be his name. He’ll be lost and thirsty and chewed up, and he’ll be screaming bloody murder about some crazy nigger cop ditching him on Steamboat Creek. Otherwise he’s mostly harmless.”
“I’ll show him the way to the road.”
“I’d appreciate that, Governor.”
On the trek out, the two men came across a full-grown crocodile with a blue heron clamped in its jaws. The beast lay in the reeds on the edge of a brackish pond, its massive corrugated tail blocking Skink’s footpath. He stopped to watch, motioning for the trooper to do the same. The idea of using their guns would not have occurred to either man. Respectfully they waited while the reptile, spraying feathers, gulped down the magnificent stilt-legged bird.
“A sad sight,” whispered Skink, “but also a beautiful one. Because you and I and the six billion other selfish members of our species didn’t interfere.”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Jim Tile was relieved when the crocodile skidded off the muddy bank and into the lake. Twenty minutes later the two men reached the johnboat. Skink held it steady while the trooper climbed in. The motor was cold and didn’t crank until the fifth pull. Skink eased the bow away from the mangroves and gave a light push.
“See you tonight,” he said.
“Wait, there’s one more thing,” said Jim Tile. The engine coughed and stopped. The boat began to drift, slowly.