Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

“Sure.”

“I was watching. Who was he?”

Krimmler shrugged. “Just some tourist. He wanted to know about the new golf courses. I sent him to the sales office.”

“What else?”

“That’s it. Why’d you bust into my place? Can’t I get up now?”

“Nope,” said the man in the houndstooth suit. “Did he ask about the new bridge?”

Krimmler nodded.

“Well?”

“I told him it was a done deal.”

“Why’d you tell him that?”

“Because he acted like he had money,” Krimmler said. “Mr. Clapley is still in the business of selling property, isn’t he?”

The stranger popped a cassette out of Krimmler’s stereo console. He placed it in an inside pocket of his suit jacket, all the time keeping the gun on display in his other hand. Krimmler wondered why Robert Clapley would employ such a thug. Possibly the stranger was lying about that, though it didn’t really matter at the moment. Krimmler was unfailingly respectful of firearms.

“I never saw this goddamned guy before,” he told the spiky-haired stranger. “He didn’t say his name, and I didn’t think to ask.”

“Is he with a woman?”

“I got no idea.”

“Yesterday I saw a couple in a Buick station wagon crossing to the island,” the stranger said. “They had a dog in the car.”

“Anything’s possible,” Krimmler said restlessly. “Look, I told you everything I know.”

“Well, he acts like a troublemaker. Didn’t he strike you as a troublemaker?” The man went into Krimmler’s refrigerator for a beer. “Was he pissed when you told him about the new bridge?”

“Not that I could tell,” Krimmler said. “Why the hell would he care about a bridge?”

The man with the gun was silent for a few moments. Then he said: “It’s a helluva sound system you got in this cozy little tin can.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You can actually hear the people out of breath on those tapes. You can hear them wheezing and gasping and shit. It’s just amazing what’s possible on a first-rate sound system.”

“The speakers are brand-new,” Krimmler said. “From Germany.”

The spiky-haired man opened the beer and took a swallow. “So. This troublemaker with the black dog—where would he be staying on the island?”

“If he’s not camping out, then he’s probably at Mrs. Stinson’s bed-and-breakfast.”

“And where’s that?”

Krimmler gave directions. The man holstered his gun. He told Krimmler it was all right to get up off the floor.

“Can I ask your name?”

“Gash.”

“You really work for Clapley?”

“I do. Ask him yourself.” The stranger turned for the door.

“That tape you were listening to,” said Krimmler, “was that for real? Was that you on there, calling for help?”

The man laughed—a creepy and unsettling gurgle that made Krimmler sorry he’d asked.

“That’s good,” Mr. Gash said. “That’s really rich.”

“Look, I didn’t mean anything.”

“Hey, it’s OK. I’m laughing because the man on that tape, he’s dead. Dead as a fucking doornail. Those were his last mortal words you heard: ‘You crazy damn bitch!!’ The last living breath out of his mouth.”

Mr. Gash chuckled again, then stepped into the night.

It was nine-thirty, and Lisa June Peterson was alone in her office, which adjoined the governor’s own. When the phone rang, she assumed it was Douglas, the probate attorney she’d been dating. Every time Douglas called, the first question was: “What’re you wearing, Lisa June?”

So tonight, being in a frisky mood, she picked up the phone and said: “No panties!”

And a male voice, deeper and older-sounding than Douglas’s, responded: “Me neither, hon.”

The governor’s executive assistant gasped.

“Ah, sweet youth,” the voice said.

Lisa June Peterson stammered an apology. “I’m so—I thought you were somebody else.”

“Some days I think the same thing.”

“What can I do for you?” Lisa June asked.

“Get me an appointment with the governor.”

“I’m afraid he’s out of town.” Lisa June, trying to recover, hoping to sound cool and professional.

The caller said: “Then I’ll catch up with him later.”

She was troubled by something in the man’s tone—not menace, exactly, but a blunt certainty of purpose. “Maybe I can help,” she said.

“I seriously doubt it.”

“I can try to reach him. Does Governor Artemus know you?”

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