“Still? I thought—didn’t you tell me he let her go?”
“He did,” said Stoat. “But he got her again.”
“How, for God’s sake?”
“Who knows. Point is, he’s most definitely got her.”
“Plus the dog?” Clapley asked.
“That’s right.”
“Damn.” Clapley looked exasperated. “What a sick fucking world. Sick, sick, sick.”
“Speaking of which,” said Palmer Stoat, “your charming Mr. Gash—where might he be, Bob?”
“Shearwater Island, last I heard. Hunting for the sicko dognapper.”
Palmer Stoat said, “Call him off, please.”
“What for?”
“I don’t want him anywhere near my wife. Call him off until this puppy-slicing freak lets her go.”
“What if he doesn’t let her go?”
“He will,” Stoat said. “Governor Dick vetoed your twenty-eight-million-dollar bridge. It was in the papers this morning.”
The veto was a very sore subject with Clapley. “You’re damn lucky to be alive,” he reminded Palmer Stoat.
“I know, I know. The point is, Bob, that’s all the dognapper guy asked for—the veto. So now he’ll think he won.”
Clapley fidgeted impatiently. “And you’re saying this twerp is as good as his word. Some demented fruitcake who’s mailing you chunks of your pet dog—him you trust. Is that about the size of it?”
“Look, I want him out of the picture as much as you do. Once Desie’s free, then Mr. Gash can go do his thing and you can get on with Shearwater. Just give it a couple days, that’s all I’m asking. Until she’s home safe and sound.”
“The dog, too?” Robert Clapley said. “Or should I say, what’s left of the dog.”
Stoat ignored the snideness. “When does Mr. Gash usually check in?”
“When there’s a result to report.”
“Next time he calls—”
“I’ll be sure to relay your concerns,” Clapley said, “and in the meantime, you’ll make inquiries about purchasing another rhinoceros horn.”
Stoat nodded. “If I find one, it won’t be cheap.”
“When did perfection ever come cheap?”
Clapley smiled wearily. “Do your best, Palmer.” A commotion arose from outside, on the deck. Clapley hurried to the door, Stoat at his heels. The two Barbies were fighting in the Jacuzzi, throwing punches and shrieking in two thickly dissonant tongues. As Clapley waded haplessly into the hot tub, Palmer Stoat could not help but reflect once more on the seedy, disturbing downturn his own life had taken. Here he was, standing in the scorching sun like a eunuch servant, obediently holding a silk robe for a man—his own client!—who had filled both pockets with dolls. Not only dolls but a tiny hand mirror and makeup kits and a hairbrush, too!
Stoat held the miniature brush, no larger than a stick of Dentyne, in the palm of one hand. The bristles were exquisitely fine and the handle—my God, could it possibly be? Stoat squinted in amazement. Pearl!
Slowly he looked up, beyond the sordid tumble of yowling flesh in the Jacuzzi, toward the tranquil gem blue of the Atlantic. What’s happening to this country of ours? Stoat wondered ruefully. What’s happening to me?
16
No, Mr. Gash was not a patient man.
And Toad Island was a drag; no trace of the dick-faced boy he was supposed to murder.
After much searching, Mr. Gash located a tolerable motel on the mainland. He chose not to call Robert Clapley, as there was nothing to report except for the drunken biologist whom Mr. Gash had shot and buried with the backhoe. No bonus points there.
So Mr. Gash got in his car and returned to Toad Island. All morning he drove back and forth across the old bridge, with a favorite 911 compilation in the tape deck: Snipers in the Workplace, accompanied by an overdub of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony no. 3 in D Major.
caller: It’s Tim! Tim from the ramp! He’s gone totally batshit! He’s shooting all the goddamned supervisors!
dispatcher: What’s your last name, Tim?
caller: I AM NOT TIM! Tim’s the shooter!!!
dispatcher: You say he’s got a gun?
caller: Hell yes. He’s got, like, FIVE guns! You better send some cops fast!
dispatcher: Sir? Sir?
caller: You hear that? Holy Christ.
dispatcher: Was that gunfire?
caller: Well, it ain’t the [bleeping] Fourth a July. Is somebody on the way yet?