Sick Puppy (22 page)

“Up the Gulf Coast. I’m not exactly sure where.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No . . . captain . . . I’ve never been there,” Stoat said.

“That’s beautiful. You sold the place out. Single-handedly greased the skids so it could be ‘transformed’ into a golfer’s paradise—isn’t that what you told me?”

Stoat nodded wanly. Those had been his exact words.

“Another fabulous golfer’s paradise. Just what the world needs,” the one-eyed man said, “and you did all this having never set foot on the island, having never laid eyes on the place. Correct?”

In a voice so timorous that he scarcely recognized it, Palmer Stoat said: “That’s how it goes down. I work the political side of the street, that’s all. I’ve got nothing to do with the thing itself.”

The man laughed barrenly. “ ‘The thing itself’! You mean the monstrosity?”

Stoat swallowed hard. His neck muscles hurt from looking upward at such a steep angle.

“A client calls me about some piece of legislation he’s got an interest in,” he said. “So I make a phone call or two. Maybe take some senator and his secretary out for a nice dinner. That’s all I do. That’s how it goes down.”

“And for that you get paid how much?”

“Depends,” Stoat replied.

“For the Shearwater bridge?”

“A hundred thousand dollars was the agreement.” Palmer Stoat could not help himself, he was such a peacock. Even when faced with a life-threatening situation, he couldn’t resist broadcasting his obscenely exorbitant fees.

The captain said, “And you have no trouble looking at yourself in the mirror every morning?”

Stoat reddened.

“Incredible,” the man said. He came purposefully around the leather chair and with one hand easily overturned the heavy desk. Then he kicked the chair out from under Stoat, dumping him on his butt. The towel came untied and Stoat lunged for it, but the one-eyed man snatched it away and, with a theatrical flair, flung it cape-like across the horns of the stuffed buffalo.

Then he wheeled to stand over Stoat, a bloated harp seal wriggling across the carpet. “I’m going to do this job for your buddy Dick,” the man growled, “only because I don’t see how
not
to.”

“Thank you,” cheeped the cowering lobbyist.

“As for your dog, if he’s really missing an ear or a paw or even a toenail, I’ll deal appropriately with the young fellow who did it.” The captain paused in contemplation.

“As for your wife—is that her?”—pointing at the upended picture frame on the floor, and not waiting for Stoat’s answer. “If I find her alive,” the man said, pacing now, “I’ll set her loose. What she does then, that’s up to her. But I do intend to advise her to consider all options. I intend to tell her she can surely do better, much better, than the sorry likes of you.”

Palmer Stoat had crawled into a corner, beneath a stacked glass display of antique cigar boxes. The bearded man approached, his legs bare and grime-streaked below the hem of the kilt. Stoat shielded his head with his arms. He heard the big man humming. It was a tune Stoat recognized from an old Beach Boys album—“Wouldn’t It Be Great,” or something like that.

He peeked out to see, inches from his face, the intruder’s muddy boots.

“What I ought to do,” Palmer Stoat heard the man say, “I ought to kick the living shit out of you. That’s what would lift my spirits. That’s what would put a spring in my step, ha! But I suppose I won’t.” The man dropped to one knee, his good eye settling piercingly on Stoat while the crimson orb wandered.

“Don’t hurt me,” said Stoat, lowering his arms.

“It’s so tempting.”

“Please don’t.”

The bearded man dangled the two bird beaks for Stoat to examine. “Vultures,” he said. “They caught me in a bad mood.”

Stoat closed his eyes and held them shut until he was alone. He didn’t move from the floor for two hours, long after the intruder had departed. He remained bunched in the corner, his chin propped on his pallid knees, and tried to gather himself. Every time he thought about the last thing the captain had said, Palmer Stoat shuddered.

“Your wife is a very attractive woman.”

17

The dog was having a grand time.

That’s the thing about being a Labrador retriever—you were born for fun. Seldom was your loopy, freewheeling mind cluttered by contemplation, and never at all by somber worry; every day was a romp. What else could there possibly be to life? Eating was a thrill. Pissing was a treat. Shitting was a joy. And licking your own balls? Bliss. And everywhere you went were gullible humans who patted and hugged and fussed over you.

So the dog was having a blast, cruising in the station wagon with Twilly Spree and Desirata Stoat. The new name? Fine. McGuinn was just fine. Boodle had been OK, too. Truthfully, the dog didn’t care
what
they called him; he would’ve answered to anything. “Come on, Buttface, it’s dinnertime!”—and he would’ve come galloping just as rapturously, his truncheon of a tail wagging just as fast. He couldn’t help it. Labradors operated by the philosophy that life was too brief for anything but fun and mischief and spontaneous carnality.

Did he miss Palmer Stoat? It was impossible to know, the canine memory being more sensually absorbent than sentimental; more stocked with sounds and smells than emotions. McGuinn’s brain was forever imprinted with the smell of Stoat’s cigars, for example, and the jangle of his drunken late-night fumbling at the front door. And just as surely he could recall those brisk dawns in the duck blind, when Stoat was still trying to make a legitimate retriever out of him—the frenzied flutter of bird wings, the
pop-pop-pop
of shotguns, the ring of men’s voices. Lodged in McGuinn’s memory bank was every path he’d ever run, every tomcat he’d ever treed, every leg he’d tried to hump. But whether he truly missed his master’s companionship, who could say. Labradors tended to live exclusively, gleefully, obliviously in the moment.

And at the moment McGuinn was happy. He had always liked Desie, who was warm and adoring and smelled absolutely glorious. And the strong young man, the one who had carried him from Palmer Stoat’s house, he was friendly and caring and tolerable, aroma-wise. As for that morbid bit with the dog in the steamer trunk—well, McGuinn already had put the incident behind him. Out of sight, out of mind. That was the Lab credo.

For now he was glad to be back at Toad Island, where he could run the long beach and gnaw on driftwood and go bounding at will into the cool salty surf. He loped effortlessly, scattering the seabirds, with scarcely a twinge of pain from the place on his tummy where the stitches had been removed. So energetic were his shoreline frolics that McGuinn exhausted himself by day’s end, and fell asleep as soon as they got back to the room. Someone stroked his flank and he knew, without looking, that the sweetly perfumed hand belonged to Desie. In gratitude the dog thumped his tail but elected not to rise—he wasn’t in the mood for another pill, and it was usually Desie who administered the pills.

But what was this? Something being draped across his face—a piece of cloth smelling vaguely of soap. The dog blinked open one eye: blackness. What had she done? McGuinn was too pooped to investigate. Like all Labradors, he frequently was puzzled by human behavior, and spent almost no time trying to figure it out. Soon there were unfamiliar noises from the bed, murmurs between Desie and the young man, but this was of no immediate concern to McGuinn, who was fast asleep and chasing seagulls by the surf.

Twilly Spree said: “I can’t believe you blindfolded him.”

Desie tugged the sheet to her chin. “He’s Palmer’s dog. I’m sorry, but I feel funny about this.”

She moved closer, and Twilly slipped an arm around her. He said, “I guess this means we have to be extra quiet, too.”

“We have to be quiet, anyway. Mrs. Stinson is in the next room,” Desie said.

Mrs. Stinson was the proprietress of Toad Island’s only bed-and-breakfast. She stiffly had declared a no-dogs policy, and was in the process of turning them away when Twilly had produced a one-hundred-dollar bill and offered it as a “pet surcharge.” Not only did Mrs. Stinson rent them the nicest room in the house but she brought McGuinn his own platter of beef Stroganoff.

Twilly said, “Mrs. Stinson is downstairs watching wrestling on Pay-Per-View.”

“We should be quiet, just the same,” said Desie. “Now I think you ought to kiss me.”

“Look at the dog.”

“I don’t want to look at the dog.”

“A purple bandanna.”

“It’s mauve,” Desie said.

Twilly was trying not to laugh.

“You’re making fun of me,” said Desie.

“No, I’m not. I think you’re fantastic. I think I could search a thousand years and not find another woman who felt guilty about fooling around in front of her husband’s dog.”

“They’re very intuitive, animals are. So would you please stop?”

“I’m not laughing. But just look at him,” Twilly said. “If only we had a camera.”

“That’s it.” Desie reached over and turned off the lamp. Then she climbed on top of Twilly, lifted his hands and placed them on her breasts. “Now, you listen,” she said, keeping her voice low. “You told me you wanted to make love.”

“I do.” McGuinn looked outrageous. It was all Twilly could do not to crack up.

Desie said, “Did you notice I’m in my birthday suit?”

“Yup.”

“And what am I doing?”

“Straddling me?”

“That’s correct. And are those your hands on my boobs?”

“They are.”

“And did you happen to notice,” Desie said, “where
my
hand is?”

“I most certainly did.”

“So can we please get on with this,” she said, “because it’s one of the big unanswered questions about this whole deal, about me running off with you, Twilly—this subject.”

“The sex?”

Desie sighed. “Right. The sex. Thank God I don’t have to spell everything out.” She squeezed him playfully under the covers.

He smiled up at her. “Nothing like a little pressure the first time out.”

“Oh, you can handle it.” Desie, squeezing him harder. “You can
definitely
handle it.”

“Hey! Watch those fingernails.”

“Hush,” she said, and kissed him on the mouth.

They were not so quiet, and not so still. Afterward, Desie rolled off and put her head next to Twilly’s on Mrs. Stinson’s handmade linen pillowcases. Desie could tell by the frequent rise and fall of his chest that he wasn’t drowsy; he was wired. She switched on the lamp and he burst out laughing.

“Now what?” She snapped upright and saw McGuinn sitting wide-awake at the foot of the bed. His tail was bebopping and his ears were cocked and he looked like the happiest creature in the whole world, even with a ludicrous mauve blindfold.

Twilly whispered: “Dear God, we’ve traumatized him for life.”

Desie broke into a giggle. Twilly removed the bandanna from the dog and put out the light. In the darkness he was soothed by the soft syncopations of their breathing, Desie’s and McGuinn’s, but he didn’t fall asleep. At dawn he rose and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Desie stirred when she heard him murmur: “Time for a walk.”

She propped herself on one elbow. “Come back to bed. He doesn’t need a walk.”

“Not him. Me.”

She sat up, the sheet falling away from her breasts. “Where you going?”

“The bridge,” said Twilly.

“Why?”

“You coming?”

“It’s nippy out, Twilly. And I’m beat.”

He turned to McGuinn. “Well, how about you?”

The dog was up in an instant, spinning euphorically at Twilly’s feet. A walk—was he kidding? Did he even
have
to ask?

Krimmler had worked nineteen years for Roger Roothaus. He had been hired because of his reputation as a relentless prick. When Krimmler was on-site, construction moved along swiftly because Krimmler whipped it along. The faster a project got completed, the less money it cost the developer, and the more profit and glory accrued to the engineering firm of Roothaus and Son. Krimmler abhorred sloth and delay, and would let nothing—including, on occasion, the law—stand in the path of his bulldozers. Unless otherwise instructed by Roger Roothaus personally, Krimmler began each day with the mission of flattening, burying or excavating something substantial. Nothing gladdened his soul so much as the sharp crack of an oak tree toppling under a steel blade. Nothing fogged him in gloom so much as the sight of earth-moving machinery sitting idle.

Krimmler’s antipathy toward nature was traceable to one seminal event: At age six, while attending a Lutheran church picnic, he’d been bitten on the scrotum by a wild chipmunk. The incident was not unprovoked—Krimmler’s mischievous older brother had snatched the frightened animal from a log and dropped it down Krimmler’s corduroy trousers—and the bite itself had barely drawn blood. Nevertheless, Krimmler was traumatized to such a degree that he became phobic about the outdoors and all creatures dwelling there. In his imagination every uncut tree loomed as a musky, mysterious hideout for savage scrotum-nipping chipmunks, not to mention snakes and raccoons and spiders and bobcats . . . even bats!

Young Krimmler felt truly safe only in the city, shielded by concrete and steel and glass. It was the comfort drawn there—in the cool sterile shadows of skyscrapers—that propelled him toward a career in engineering. Krimmler proved ideally suited to work for land developers, each new mall and subdivision and high-rise and warehouse park bringing him that much closer to his secret fantasy of a world without trees, without wilderness; a world of bricks and pavement and perfect order; a world, in short, without chipmunks. It was inevitable Krimmler would end up in Florida, where developers and bankers bought the politicians who ran the government. The state was urbanizing itself faster than any other place on the planet, faster than any other place in the history of man. Each day 450 acres of wild forest disappeared beneath bulldozers across Florida, and Krimmler was pleased to be on the forefront, proud to be doing his part.

Early on, Roger Roothaus had recognized the value of placing such a zealot on-site as a project supervisor. So long as a single sapling remained upright, Krimmler was impatient, irascible and darkly obsessed. The construction foremen hated him because he never let up, and would accept none of the standard excuses for delay. To Krimmler, a lightning storm was no reason to shut down and run for shelter, but rather a splendid opportunity to perform unauthorized land clearing, later to be blamed on the violent weather. He would permit nothing to waylay the machines, which he regarded with the same paternal fondness that George Patton had felt for his tanks.

Krimmler regarded each new construction project as a battle, one step in a martial conquest. And so it was with the Shearwater Island resort. Krimmler lost no sleep over the fate of the oak toads, nor did he derive particular joy from it; burying the little critters was simply the most practical way to deal with the situation. As for the sudden disappearance of Brinkman, the pain-in-the-ass biologist, Krimmler couldn’t be bothered to organize a search.

What’m I now, a goddamn baby-sitter? he’d griped to Roothaus. The guy’s a lush. Probably got all tanked up on vodka and fell off that old bridge—speaking of which, what’s all this shit I see in the newspaper. . . .

“Not to worry,” Roger Roothaus had assured him.

“But is it true? The governor vetoed the bridge money!”

“A technicality,” Roger Roothaus had said. “We get it back in a month or two. All twenty-eight mil.”

“But what about the meantime?”

“Just chill for a while.”

“But I got a survey crew coming over from Gainesville this week—”

“Calm down. It’s a political thing,” Roger Roothaus had said. “A long story, and nothing you’ve got to worry about. We just need to chill out for a spell. Take some time off. Go up to Cedar Key and do some fishing.”

“Like hell,” Krimmler had said. “Forget the bridge, I’ve still got serious acreage to clear. I’ve got the drivers ready to—”

“No. Not now.” The words of Roger Roothaus had hit Krimmler like a punch in the gut. “Mr. Clapley says to lay low for now, OK? No activity on-site, he says. There’s a small problem, he’s handling it. Says it shouldn’t take long.”

“What kind a problem?” Krimmler had protested. “What in the hell kind a problem could shut down the whole job?”

“Mr. Clapley didn’t say. But he’s the boss chief, OK? He’s paying the bills. So I don’t want no trouble.”

Krimmler had hung up, fuming. He was fuming when he went to bed, alone in the luxury camper that he drove from site to site. And he was still fuming the next morning when he woke up and heard the goddamned mockingbirds singing in the tops of the goddamned pines, heard the footsteps of a goddamned squirrel scampering across the camper’s aluminum roof—a
squirrel,
which was a second goddamned cousin to a chipmunk, only bolder and bigger and filthier!

Wretched was the only way to describe Krimmler’s state after the Roothaus phone call; wretched in the milky tranquillity of the island morning, wretched without the growling, grinding gears of his beloved front-end loaders and backhoes and bulldozers. And when the surveyors showed up at the construction trailer at 7:00 a.m. sharp (a minor miracle in itself!), Krimmler could not bring himself to send them away, just because some shithead politicians were monkeying around with the bridge deal. Because the bridge was absolutely crucial to the project; without it, Shearwater Island would forever remain Toad Island. It had been hairy enough (and plenty expensive!) hauling the earth-moving equipment, one piece at a time, across the old wooden span. A fully loaded cement truck would never make it, and without cement you’ve got no goddamned seaside resort. Without cement you’ve got jack.

So why not get the bridge surveying out of the way? Krimmler reasoned. What harm could come of
that
? It would be one less chore for later, one less delay after the money finally shook loose in Tallahassee. To hell with “laying low,” Krimmler thought. Roger’ll thank me for this later.

So he led the surveyors to the old bridge and sat on the hood of the truck and watched them work—moving their tripod back and forth, calling coordinates to one another, spray-painting orange
X’s
on the ground to mark critical locations. It was tedious and boring, but Krimmler hung around because the alternative was to sulk by himself in the trailer, listening to the goddamned birds and hydrophobic squirrels. The bridge survey was the closest thing to progress that was happening on Toad Island at the moment, and Krimmler felt a powerful need to be there. Once the surveyors were gone, that would be all for . . . well, who knew for
how
long. Krimmler willed himself not to fret about that. For now, perched on the hood of a Roothaus and Son F-150 pickup, he would be sustained by the click of the tripod and the sibilant
fffttt
of the aerosol spray-paint cans. Briefly he closed his eyes to envision the gleaming new bridge, fastened to the bottom muck of the Gulf with stupendous concrete pillars, each as big around as a goddamn sequoia. . . .