"Under certain conditions, sure," Clapley said. "Hell, you met the man. He's a primitive. Take a hot shower, Palmer, you'll feel better. Later we'll go look for the twins."
All night he waited in vain for the Buick station wagon. He was parked in a grove of pines not far from Mrs. Stinson's bed-and-break-fast. Playing over and over in the tape deck was one of his most prized 911s—a private bootleg not for sale anywhere at any price, not even on the Internet. Mr. Gash had learned of the recording one afternoon while hanging in his custom iguana-skin sex harness from the rafters of his air-conditioned South Beach apartment. One of the three women in bed below him fortuitously turned out to be a police dispatcher trainee from Winnipeg, Canada, who had a friend who had a friend who worked fire rescue in Duluth, Minnesota, where the bizarre incident was rumored to have occurred.
For three hundred dollars Mr. Gash had procured the tape recording, raw and unedited. He set the conversation to Mozart's Offertory in D Minor, "Misericordias Domini."
caller: I've got an emergency!
dispatcher: Go ahead.
caller: My wife thinks I'm in Eau Claire!
dispatcher: Sir?
caller: But I'm eighteen thousand feet over Duluth and dropping like a fucking stone!
dispatcher: Sir, this is Duluth fire rescue. Please state your emergency.
caller: OK, here's my emergency. I'm on an airplane that's about to fucking crash. We lost an engine, maybe both engines—whoaaaaa, Jesus!—and we're coming down, and my wife thinks I'm in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.
dispatcher: You're on a plane?
caller: Yes! Yes! I'm calling from a cellular.
dispatcher: And you're in Duluth?
caller: No, but I'm getting closer every second. Oh God! Oh God, we're ro—ro—rolling …
dispatcher: Hold on, sir, hold on...
caller: Please, you gotta call my wife. Tell her the company sent me upstate at the last minute. Tell her... I dunno, make something up, I don't give a shit... anything!
dispatcher: Sir, I'm... sir, did your pilot have a heart attack?
caller: No! I'd let you talk to him but he's kinda busy right now, trying to pull us outta this nosedive... whooaaaaa... Mother Mary... whooaaaaaaa!!!
dispatcher: What type of aircraft? Can you give me a flight number?
caller: I don't know... Oh God, it's so dizzy, so dizzy, oh Jesus... I think I see, uh, cornfields... My wife's name is Miriam, OK? Phone number is area... uh, area code—
dispatcher: Cornfields? Anything else? Can you see Duluth yet?
caller: Oooooeeeeeeeehhhhh...
dispatcher: Sir, I need a location or I can't assign units.
caller: It's way too late for units, mister... Whoaaaaaaa... you just... whoaaaaaa, Jesus, you just tell 'em to look for the giant smoking hole in the ground. That'll be us... Oh fuck me, FUCK MEEEEEEEEEE!...
dispatcher: Sir, I have to put you on hold but don't hang up. Sir? You there?
Mr. Gash was tantalized by the call—the idea that a cheating husband aboard a crashing airplane would find the composure to dial 911 just to cover his doomed ass. What admirable futility! What charming desperation!
A dozen times he replayed the tape. Everything was on there, eighteen thousand feet of gut-heaving panic. Everything was there but the fatal impact and explosion.
Too late for units.
Man, thought Mr. Gash, was that poor bastard ever right.
Mr. Gash's Duluth connection had enclosed a newspaper clipping with the cassette. The flight was a twin-engine commuter out of St. Paul. It went down in a farm field; twenty-one dead, no survivors. Local authorities didn't release the name of the passenger who had placed the telephone call from the cabin; they said it would upset the relatives. The original 911 tape was turned over to the National Transportation Safety Board and sealed as evidence in the accident investigation. The version sent to Mr. Gash was a second-generation copy of high quality.
Suddenly he thought of something to make the recording even more dramatic: Redub it with a symphonic piece, one that ended with a crashlike crescendo of cymbals—a musical simulation of an aircraft breaking up as it smashes into the ground.
Sir? You there?
Boom, boooooom, KA-BOOOOOOOM!
"Oh, yeah," Mr. Gash murmured. He got out of the car to stretch. It was nearly daylight on Toad Island, and still there was no sign of the troublemaker, the woman, the black dog or the Buick Roadmaster.
Mr. Gash went down the street to the bed-and-breakfast. He ambled up the porch steps and knocked. Mrs. Stinson called him around to the kitchen, where she was making muffins. At the screen door she greeted him warily, studying his oily spiked hair with unmasked disapproval.
Mr. Gash said, "I'm looking for a guy with a black dog."
"Who're you?"
"He's driving a big station wagon. Might have a woman along."
"I said, who are you?"
"The guy owes me some money," said Mr. Gash. "He owes everybody money, so if I were you I'd be careful."
Mrs. Stinson offered a chilly smile through the screen. "Well, he paid me cash. In advance."
"I'll be damned."
"So get on outta here before I call the law. You two settle this some other time, 'cause I don't allow no trouble."
Mr. Gash put one hand against the door. He made it appear casual, as if he was only leaning. "Is he here now? That dog is dangerous, by the way. Killed some little girl down in Clewiston. Ripped her throat out. That's another reason this guy's on the run. Was he here last night?"
"I don't know where they went, mister. All I know is, the room's paid for and I'm doing my muffins, because breakfast is part of the package." Mrs. Stinson took a step back, positioning herself (Mr. Gash noticed) within reach of a wall phone.
"As for that dog of his," she said, "he's about as scary as a goldfish, and not much smarter. So you get on outta here. I mean it."
"You don't know this guy, ma'am. He's bad news."
"I don't know you," Mrs. Stinson barked. "Now go! You and your fairy hairdo."
Mr. Gash was about to punch through the screen when he heard a car turn the corner. He spun around, his heartbeat quickening because he thought it was the young troublemaker, returning in the Buick woody.
It wasn't. It was a black-and-tan Highway Patrol cruiser.
"How about that!" said Mrs. Stinson.
Mr. Gash edged away from her door. He watched the state police car go by the house, a black uniformed trooper at the wheel. In the backseat cage of the car was the form of a man, a prisoner slumped sideways against a door as if he had passed out. Mr. Gash wasn't sure, but it seemed like the trooper slowed down a little when he passed the bed-and-breakfast.
From behind him, Mr. Gash heard Mrs. Stinson chortle: "Ha! You still wanna chat, smart-mouth?"
As soon as the police cruiser was out of sight, Mr. Gash stepped off the porch and began to walk. He had a story ready, just in case: The car wouldn't start. He went to the bed-and-breakfast to use the phone. Next thing he knows, the old hag starts raving at him like some nut...
On the road Mr. Gash saw no sign of the Highway Patrolman. He got to his car and kept walking; circled the block at an easygoing pace and returned. Better safe than sorry, he thought. It was probably nothing at all. Probably just some DUI that the state trooper was carting off to jail. That's about all they were good for, Mr. Gash mused, busting drunks.
He pulled off his houndstooth jacket and laid it on the front seat. Then he stepped behind a pine tree to take a leak. He was zipping up when he heard movement—something on the edge of the trees, near the car. Mr. Gash took out his gun and peered around the trunk of the pine. He saw a bum crouched by the side of the road.
Mr. Gash stole out from behind the tree. The bum had his back to him; a big sonofabitch, too. When he stood up, he was nearly a foot taller than Mr. Gash. He appeared to be wearing a white-and-black checkered skirt over bare legs and hiking boots.
With confidence Mr. Gash retu
rned the gun to his shoulder holster. He smiled to himself, thinking: This dolly would be a hit on Ocean Drive.
When the bum turned around, Mr. Gash reconsidered his assessment.
"Take it easy, pops." Hoping the man took notice of the gun under his arm.
The bum said nothing. He wore a cheap shower cap on his head, and he had a jittery red eyeball that looked like a party gag. A silvery beard hung off his cheeks in two ropy braids, each decorated with a hooked beak. In one of his huge hands the bum held by its tail an opossum, its jaw slack and its fur crusty with blood. In the other hand was a paperback book.
Mr. Gash said, "Where'd you come from?"
The man smiled broadly, startling Mr. Gash. He had never seen a bum with such perfect teeth, much whiter than his own.
"Nice dress." Mr. Gash, testing the guy.
"Actually it's a kilt. Made it myself."
"You got a name?"
"Not today," said the bum.
"I hope you weren't planning to steal my car."
The bum grinned again. He shook his head no, in a manner suggesting that Mr. Gash's car wasn't worth stealing.
Mr. Gash pointed at the opossum and said, "Your little pal got a name?"
"Yeah: Lunch. He got hit by a dirt bike."
Mr. Gash thought the bum seemed oddly at ease, being interrogated by a stranger with a handgun.
"You didn't answer my question, pops. Where'd you come from?"
The bum held up the book. "You should read this."
"What is it?" Mr. Gash said.
"''The Comedians. By Graham Greene."
"Never heard of him."
"He would have enjoyed meeting you."
"The hell's that supposed to mean?" Mr. Gash took two steps toward the car. He was creeped out by the guy's attitude, the nonchalant way he handled the dead opossum.
The bum said, "I'll loan you my copy."
Mr. Gash got in his car and started the engine. The bum came closer.
"Stop right there, pops." Mr. Gash, whipping out the semiautomatic. The guy stopped. His weird red iris was aimed up toward the tree-tops, while his normal eye regarded Mr. Gash with a blank and unnerving indifference.
Mr. Gash waggled the gun barrel and said, "You never saw me, understand?"
"Sure."
"Or the car."
"Fine."
"The fuck are you staring at?"
There it was again—that toothpaste-commercial smile.
"Nice hair," the bum said to Mr. Gash.
"I ought to kill you, pops. Just for that I ought to shoot your sorry homeless ass... "
But the bum in the homemade checkered skirt turned away. Toting his paperback book and his roadkill opossum, he slowly made his way into the pines, as if Mr. Gash wasn't there; wasn't pointing a loaded gun at his back, threatening to blow him away on the count of six.
Mr. Gash sped off, burning rubber. What a motherfreaking nutcase! he thought. I hate this place and I hate this job. A whole goddamn island full of troublemakers!
Mr. Gash turned on the tape and punched the rewind button.
Very soon, he reminded himself. Then I get to go home.
20
The first few times Twilly and Desie made love, McGuinn paid no attention; just curled up on the floor and snoozed. Then one night—the night they freed Palmer—the dog suddenly displayed a rambunctious interest in what was happening up on the mattress. Desie was on the verge of what promised to be a memorable moment when the bed frame heaved violently, and Twilly let out a groan that was notably devoid of rapture. All movement ceased, and the springs fell dolefully silent. Desie felt hot liver-biscuit breath on her cheeks and a crushing weight upon her chest. By the quavering glow of the motel-room television, she saw that the Labrador had leapt upon Twilly's bare back and planted himself there, all 128 pounds. That alone would have distracted Twilly (who was nothing if not focused while in Desie's embrace), but the dog had made himself impossible to ignore by clamping his jaws to the base of Twilly's neck, as if snatching an unsuspecting jackrabbit.
"Bad boy," Twilly scolded through clenched teeth.
McGuinn was not biting hard, and he didn't seem angry or even agitated. He was, however, intent.
"Bad dog," Twilly tried again.
Desie whispered, "I think he's feeling left out."
"What do you suggest?"
"Are you hurt?"
"Only my concentration," Twilly said.
Desie released the headboard and slipped her arms around Twilly's shoulders. She hooked her fingertips inside the Labrador's cheeks and tugged gently. McGuinn compliantly let go. Ears pricked in curiosity, the huge dog stared down at Desie. She could hear his tail thwumping cheerfully against Twilly's thighs.
"Good boy," Twilly said, the words muffled by Desie's right breast. "Wanna go for a w-a-l-k?"
McGuinn scrambled off the bed and bounded to the door. Desie used a corner of the top sheet to sop the dog slobber from Twilly's neck, which also featured a detailed imprint of canine dentition.
"No bleeding," Desie reported.
"How about hickeys?"
"Maybe he was having a bad dream."
"Or a really good one."
They tried again later, after McGuinn's walk. They waited until they heard him snoring on the carpet near the television. This time it was Twilly whose promising climax got thwarted—the dog flew in out of nowhere, knocking the wind out of Twilly, and knocking Twilly out of Desie.
"Bad boy," Twilly rasped. He was highly annoyed. "You're a bad, bad boy. A rotten, miserable, worthless boy."
"He's biting your neck again!"
"He certainly is."
"Maybe I'm making too much noise when we do it," Desie said. "Maybe he thinks you're hurting me."
"No excuses. He's not a puppy anymore."
But the more strenuously Desie tried to prize open the dog's jaws, the more intractable his grip became. To McGuinn it was a new game, and Labradors loved to play games.
"Well, I intend to get some rest," Twilly said. "If the dumb bastard doesn't let go of me by morning, I'm killing him."
And to sleep Twilly went, a jumbo-sized Labrador retriever attached to his neck. Soon the dog was sleeping, too, as placidly as if he'd dozed off with his favorite rubber ball in his mouth. Desie lay rigid in the bed, listening to both of them enjoy a deep, restful slumber. She thought: So this is my status at age thirty-two and a half—alone with a kinky dog and my kidnapper-lover in a twenty-nine-dollar motel room in Fort Pierce, Florida. What interesting choices I've made! Roll the highlights, please, starting with untrustworthy Gorbak Didovlic, the not-so-gifted NBA rookie; brilliant Andrew Beck, the self-perforating producer of deceptive political commercials; slick-talking Palmer Stoat, the tiresomely devious husband whom we dumped only two hours earlier at a Cracker Barrel restaurant off Interstate 95.
And finally young Twilly Spree, who would probably love me faithfully and forever in his own charming adolescent way, but who has no ambition beyond wreaking havoc, and no imaginable future that doesn't include felony prison time. The man of my dreams!
Fun? Big fun. Major adrenaline rush. Mysteriously wealthy, and other surprises galore. Then what? Desie wondered. Then he'll be gone, of course.
Well, there was still Palmer. Deceitful asshole though he was, Desie nonetheless had felt a twinge of pity at the sight of him tied up and hooded in the rocking chair. And the expression on his pie-shaped face when Twilly removed the sweat-stained pillowcase and cut the ropes—a look of malignant contempt, manufactured for Desie's benefit. See how serious I am!
But he'd take her back in a heartbeat, her husband would. Palmer required a sharp-looking wife, one who would put up with his conveniently ambiguous travel plans and his unsportsmanlike hunting trips and all that Polaroid weirdness in the bedroom. Palmer knew he had a good thing in Desie, and he also knew what divorces cost. So, sure, he'd take her back.
That would be the easiest road for Desie, too, but she couldn't take it. She would n
ot be able to look at her husband without thinking of tiny orange-striped toads, bulldozed into goop.
Her folks in Atlanta—they'd be glad to have her home for a while. Mom was busy with her medical practice, but Dad would be retiring soon from Delta. Maybe I could start back at GSU, Desie thought, finish up on my teaching degree.
Yeah, right. And afterward I'll move to Appalachia and live in a tin shanty and do volunteer work with the learning disabled. Who the hell am I kidding?