Isle of Dogs (12 page)

“No!” Possum cried out. “Please, Smoke. You can’t go shooting that little dog! And I don’t like her, either! I can’t stand that stupid dog, but we need her! So don’t go wasting a bullet on her yet!”

“I’m gonna shoot her eventually,” Smoke said. “Or set her on fire, even better. But not until I’m ready to get that bitch Hammer. I’ll show her for getting me locked up. Her and that fucker Andy Brazil!”

Possum reluctantly retreated to his bedroom, where he was shocked to see a photograph of Popeye in a red coat filling his computer screen. The real Popeye was sleeping on Possum’s bed and noticed the scanned photograph of herself the instant Possum woke her up.

“Shit!” Possum whispered. “We can’t tell Smoke about this!” he warned Popeye as he picked her up and she began to shake with excitement and fear.

Trooper Truth somehow knew that Popeye had been dog-napped and was still alive! He was looking for her and encouraging the world to help him out. Of course, Popeye knew very well that Trooper Truth was Andy, because she had overheard many private conversations between Andy and Popeye’s owner when the website was in the planning stages. Then Andy had suddenly disappeared, and next, Popeye had.

“I ain’t gonna hurt ya, little girl,” Possum was whispering in her ear. “But Smoke’s mean. You know how mean he is, and we gotta make sure he don’t know Trooper Truth’s offering a reward for you and got everybody joining some big posse to come find you, just like on
Bonanza.”

Popeye didn’t need to be reminded of how mean Smoke was, and she would have traded her favorite stuffed squirrel for a chance to sink her teeth into his ankle. She would be forever traumatized by the memory of that unguarded moment when her owner had let her out the front door and gotten distracted by the stove, which she wasn’t sure she had remembered to turn off. It all happened so fast. Her owner ran back into the kitchen while Popeye was sniffing grass near the sidewalk, and then a black Toyota Land Cruiser suddenly roared up the street and slammed on the brakes and Possum was calling Popeye’s name and holding out a treat.

“Come here, Popeye, you good little girl,” Possum said as if he were the nicest human in the world. “Look what I got for you!”

Next thing Popeye knew, she was snatched up and thrown into the back of the Land Cruiser, which was driven by that vicious monster, Smoke. Popeye was sped away to the Winnebago, where she had been ever since, and every night she dreamed about her owner, who Smoke said was dead. For a while, Popeye hadn’t believed him, but by now, she had resigned herself to the probability that her owner was gone from this earth, because if she wasn’t, certainly she would have found Popeye by now and sent Smoke to jail for the rest of his rotten life.

Possum held Popeye tightly and carried her back into the living room. Possum had learned to fake many things, including his feelings. He was careful to act as if taking care of their canine hostage was an inconvenience. He never let on that he and Popeye had bonded, and that the dog was perhaps the only warm spot of love in his life, except for the television reruns he watched while the other road dogs slept. Popeye cowered in Possum’s lap and licked his hand.

“I told you not to lick me!” Possum lied to Popeye, who by now understood the ugly act Possum put on when Smoke was around.

“Maybe it’s time we get a message to Hammer that we’ve found her dog,” Smoke said as he handed Unique cash and she silently left. “So she’ll meet us somewhere, and when she does, I blow her fucking head off and Brazil’s, too.”

“Yeah,” Cuda said. “You been saying that for months, Smoke. And I keep saying to you, what if she brings other troopers with her? And what if this Brazil guy gets off the first round? I ’member you telling us last time you got in a tussle with him, you ended up in jail, so he must be The Man.”

“He’s not The Man! I am! Maybe we just kill everybody who shows up, including
you,”
Smoke cruelly taunted Pop-eye. “Lock that ugly dog back in your room and send an e-mail to Captain Bonny and ask him when the hell we’re gonna make our move and use the damn dog to get the fuckers,” he told Possum. “I’m tired of waiting!” he said to everyone. “Go get the car!” he ordered Cat.

Possum logged on to the Internet, clicked on
FAVORITES
, and pulled up Captain Bonny’s egotistical, self-promoting, self-serving website, which featured a fierce woodcut of Blackbeard on the home page. Possum went to the
How To Contact
section and pecked out the following message, which was the opposite of what Smoke wanted:

Dear Captin Bonny

Us pirates ain’t ready to make the Big Move yet. I’ll let you know.

Yours truley,
Pirate Possum.

Major Trader just happened to be eating a banana split in his spec-home office when the e-mail landed. He was becoming annoyed with Pirate Possum and whoever his felonious, crude mates were. Trader had faithfully leaked information to the pirates and kept them out of the news for many months and so far had gone unrewarded. He had better be taken care of appropriately just as soon as the pirates made their so-called Big Move, which Trader had assumed all along was a big move of cocaine, heroin, and guns across the Canadian border.

He typed out an e-mail.

Dear Pirate Possum,

It was good to hear from you as always. But let me remind you that when I orchestrated the dognapping of Pop-eye so you could set up an ambush of Superintendent Hammer, the deal was that I would be handsomely rewarded. I have been patient for months, and now my terms have changed! I am demanding not 50% but 60% of the booty, paid in cash and left in a waterproof suitcase at a location of my choosing. Let me remind you that if you don’t come through for me, I will be forced to use force.

Sincerely,
The Notorious Captain Bonny

 The black front door of Ruth’s Chris Steak House slowly opened, and Governor Crimm and the First Lady emerged from the former plantation house, pressed upon from all sides by serious EPU troopers in neat suits. The Crimms’ four daughters—all unmarried and over thirty—fell in behind their important parents and were sealed off from the rest of society by yet another wall of troopers at the rear of the procession.

Macovich quickly tossed the cigarette and unfolded himself like a stretcher as he worked his way out of the car while Andy smoothed down his dark gray uniform, checking to make sure that his clip-on tie, pepper spray, handcuffs, tactical baton, extra magazines of ammunition, pistol, and whistle were in place. He realized it might not be a good idea to bring up Tangier Island or Hammer in front of so many sets of eyes and ears. Certainly, it would make Hammer look bad if her troops knew that the governor never returned her phone calls or met with her. And based on the way the governor was walking, Andy wasn’t confident that he was entirely sober.

“Look, it’s possible the governor might remember you or the daughter you upset might say something,” Andy said, falling in stride with Macovich as the distinguished party
approached. “So I think it best I take him aside. I think he’s a bit drunk.”

Macovich had no intention of helping Andy have a private audience with the governor, especially if the governor had a buzz on and was happier and more generous than usual. The last thing Macovich needed was for Andy to end up the governor’s pet in addition to being Hammer’s pet. Macovich had been trying for years to gain special status and even affection from the governor, all to no avail, and the pool incident certainly hadn’t helped matters.

“Wooo, I wouldn’t try it,” Macovich tried to discourage Andy. “ ’Specially if he’s drunk. He’s one mean man when he’s drunk.”

Macovich felt a little guilty about lying and stepping on Andy, but Macovich couldn’t help himself. He feared he had leveled out on his professional climb to success, and if he wasn’t shrewd and territorial, he would find himself working security in a shopping mall one of these days or maybe flying grumpy racist businessmen around for a helicopter charter service. But to Macovich’s surprise and annoyance, Andy completely ignored Macovich and walked right up to the governor and shook his hand.

“So the military’s protecting me now.” The governor seemed pleased, recognizing dimly that the person before him was a tall male in uniform, and therefore was either Army or National Guard. “I like that.”

The three oldest Crimm daughters fastened their attention to Andy like leeches at a bloodletting, while the fourth daughter, whose arrested adolescence was annoyingly apparent, smacked gum. Governor Crimm smiled, patting for his magnifying glass, which he had attached to his pocket-watch chain to ensure that his beloved optical aid did not find its way into the compote again. A huge eye peered through thick glass, scanning to see who might be watching his generous overtures toward the young soldier.

“The more protection the better, I always say,” the governor commented. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Andy Brazil. I’d like to be one of your pilots, Governor. If that would be all right with you. Maybe I could have a moment of your time to discuss it.”

“Bet you want to be executive protection, too.”

The governor had heard this before. Every state trooper he had ever met wanted to be EPU, just as most federal agents wanted to be Secret Service. It was all about power. It was all about being close to the throne. He also vaguely made out that Andy was a handsome fellow, well built but not a big wall of muscle like the other men and women who protected the First Family. Andy’s was a useful body that could dance around trouble instead of barreling right through it, and the governor fancied that Andy might make a decent son-in-law for at least one of the Crimm daughters. Then it dimly penetrated his overburdened, inebriated mind that he wasn’t so sure he was inclined to trust his wife around such an attractive and charming young fellow.

Despite her swearing to tell the truth and even placing her left hand on the Crimm family Bible, the First Lady had not convinced her husband that she hadn’t been hiding adulterous men in the mansion’s linen closets. Yesterday, Crimm came home for lunch unannounced and discovered Pony on his hands and knees wiping a linen closet floor with a rag.

“What are you doing?” the governor demanded as he fumbled for his watch chain and the magnifying glass dangling from it.

“Just putting a little furniture polish on the hardwood,” Pony said, nervously rubbing oil into the scratches the trivets had left on the heart-of-pine flooring. “I’ve been meaning to get around to it, sir. Just now did. There’s some nice split-pea soup cooking in the kitchen, if you want some.”

“Does it have ham in it?” The governor peered through the magnifying glass at the scratched old wood. “How did the floor get gouged like that? It looks like someone wearing hobnail boots was hiding in the closet or maybe someone wearing tap shoes.”

“I think it’s maybe from the vacuum cleaner,” Pony suggested as he covered the scratches as quickly as possible. “I keep telling the housekeepers not to put the vacuum cleaner in the linen closets. I’m afraid the pea soup does have ham in it. I didn’t know you’d be coming home for lunch or I would have made sure they didn’t put ham or even a ham bone in it, sir.”

Just as Pony was explaining all this, the governor detected a clanking sound as someone hurried downstairs. Crimm hurried, too, but wasn’t fast enough to catch the source of the odd noise that he now suspected was a man wearing either spurs or armor, and his fears about his wife began to scream inside his psyche. Was she playing strange dress-up games with unknown men she picked up on the Internet? He imagined her in erotic poses with virile young suitors dressed in nothing but spurs or a helmet with a plume or perhaps both. Maude and her lascivious lovers would have loud, metallic sex and maybe use magnets to enhance their perverted pleasure before she suddenly noticed the crown molding and cobwebs and began withholding favors from these cybermen the same way she had been denying the governor for long years. For all he knew, Andy Brazil was part of the plot. How did the governor know that Andy hadn’t already met Maude on the Internet and wanted to fly the First Family because he really wanted to fly Maude?

“You’d have to be a state trooper before you can be EPU,” the governor told Andy in an autocratic, unfriendly tone.

“I am a state trooper, Governor. And we’re short of pilots,” Andy added to the First Lady, because by nature he was inclusive and did not treat the wives of others as appendages.

“Seems like it’s always the same pilot these days,” she said, irritated by the reminder as she frowned at Macovich.

Where had all her pilots gone? As she recalled, there had been plenty of them earlier in the year, and she supposed that the problem must be that ball-breaking woman who was the new superintendent of the state police. Trader had horrible things to say about her. What was her name? A tool of some type. How appropriate. A sledgehammer? No, not quite. Mrs. Crimm strained to remember. Sledge. That was it. Superintendent Sledge. Maybe it was time for the First Lady to send a pointed note to her and demand more pilots, and Mrs. Crimm fondly thought of her favorite saying,
Variety is the spice of life,
and recited it out loud.

“Pardon?” Andy was baffled.

“I’m just wondering if you agree,” the First Lady said to him.

Andy sensed he was being tested and replied, “In most
cases. But not always. For example, I don’t wear a variety of clothes to work. Always a uniform. And I very much like the state police uniform and am happy to wear it every day, so variety is not an issue with me.”

“What?” The governor picked up on his wife’s secret code and was shocked she would be so blatant, and he imagined her having sex with this Andy fellow, who probably would have nothing on but a duty belt. “Variety most assuredly is not the spice of life or anything else,” Crimm thundered. “Life is all about faithfulness and serving your master. And what do you mean by
spice
?” He glared through his magnifying glass at his unfaithful wife.

“Dear, calm down,” said the First Lady, who suddenly recalled that she had hidden her stash of trivets in the spice cabinet, and perhaps it was best not to allude to spices again. “I told you not to eat all that sour cream and butter. You know what it does to your submarine.” She was confident this would divert his attention. “Why, all that animal fat and all those dairy products are just fuel oil for your submarine, and spices aren’t the problem because there were no spices on your dinner, other than all that salt you poured over everything. We avoid spices for good reason, now don’t we? And we won’t mention them ever again for fear you’ll make associations that will excite your submarine and send it plunging into turbulence that could end terribly with blown gaskets and leaking seals and silt billowing up from the bottom of your constitution. Now, Trooper Brazil—what an exotic name, are you South American? Have you met Constance, Grace, and Faith?”

The First Lady stopped short of the fourth daughter, the youngest, and the least attractive woman in the parking lot.

“And what about you?” Andy asked the ignored daughter, halfway expecting her name to be Sloth or Gluttony, based on her appearance and demeanor.

“What’s it to you?” She violently chewed a massive wad of bubblegum, and Andy was struck by her bluntness and lack of charm. “And I saw you get out of your unmarked car.” She scowled at him. “What good does it do to drive an unmarked car and then wear a uniform? How retarded is that?”

“You don’t sound like you’re from around here.” Andy
overlooked her poor manners as he tried to place her loud drawl. He also didn’t intend to reveal that Hammer insisted Andy drive an unmarked car since he was an undercover journalist and she preferred that he draw as little attention to himself as possible.

“I was born in Grundy, in the coal mines,” the rude daughter replied.

“You most certainly were not.” The First Lady was appalled. “I was carrying her during a whistle-stop campaign up there on the western Virginia border where we toured several coal mines,” she informed Andy as the governor continued to scan through his magnifying glass, in search of the helicopter, while the EPU huddled around him and his family in the dark, waiting for orders. “But she was born in a hospital just like all of my daughters,” Mrs. Crimm added indignantly, giving the so-far nameless girl a warning glance.

“Can always use another pilot, I suppose,” Governor Crimm despondently said, wishing he hadn’t eaten so much and humiliated that the First Lady had mentioned his submarine in public.

There were times when Bedford Crimm regretted his life. In Virginia, governors can’t succeed themselves, so he always had to wait four years before running again. For twenty years, he had been recycled through his arcane, antiquated, ridiculous state system—commander in chief for a term, then back to the private sector for another term, then back in the mansion again. The White House was smaller and more distant by now. Governor Crimm was over seventy, vodka went straight to his head, and his poorly wired submarine was almost never on course anymore.

The EPU troopers were getting restless. A crowd was gathering. Andy was no fool. He knew that an added bonus to flying the governor would be that the closer he could get to him, the more information he could gather for his Trooper Truth essays.

“Governor,” Andy said, “let me just say again that I’d be honored to fly you and your family around in a new helicopter, and although I don’t need to be EPU, I will protect you at the same time. I don’t suppose I could have a moment to talk to you privately?”

Macovich was seething, but nobody could tell, because troopers were taught never to register what was going on inside them. His only consolation as he watched Andy eclipse him on this crisp September night was that Macovich knew that horrid youngest Crimm daughter’s name very well. Wooo, he sure did. He had never spoken to her, not even when he had beaten her in pool, but he always kept his eye on her behind the dark mask of his sunglasses.

Her name was Regina, pronounced the British way, and this was part of what was wrong with her, if you didn’t include her unfortunate obesity and broad, homely face. It was well known among the troopers that Regina had inclinations that did not coincide with the First Lady’s relentless attempts to matchmake her undesirable daughters.

“Trooper Brazil’s not a great pilot,” Macovich whispered to the First Lady, deciding the best way to protect his turf was to set Andy up. “But he’s single and been pretty down lately. I think he’s lonely.”