Sick Puppy

  The dog settled in at his feet. Twilly patted its glossy rump and said, "Everything's going to be all right, buddy." He couldn't bring himself to address the animal by the name on its tag—Boodle. It was a quaint synonym for bribe, Palmer Stoat at his wittiest.

  "From now on," Twilly said to the dog, "you're McGuinn."

  The Lab raised its head, which seemed as wide as an anvil.

  "After a great guitar player," Twilly explained. The dog uncurled and stretched out on his side. That's when Twilly noticed the tape and bandage. He knelt beside the dog and gingerly peeled the dressing from a shaved patch of belly. Beneath the gauze was a fresh surgical incision, in which Twilly counted twelve steel staples. He pressed the tape back in place and lightly stroked the dog's ribs. It let out one of those heavy sighs that Labs do, but didn't appear to be in pain.

  Twilly worried about the wound, wondered what could have gone haywire on such a strapping critter—the gallbladder? Do dogs even have gallbladders? I know they get arthritis and heart disease and autoimmune disorders and cancers—for sure, they get cancer. All this was going through Twilly's mind; a juicer commercial on the television and Twilly hunched with his elbows on his knees, on the corner of the bed, with McGuinn snoozing on the burnt-orange shag.

  That dog, it had the softest breathing for an animal that size. Twilly had to bend close to hear it, the breathing like a baby's in a crib.

  And Twilly thinking: This poor fella's probably on some heavy-duty dope to get past the surgery. That would explain why he'd come along so meekly. And the longer Twilly thought about it, the more certain he became about what to do next: Return to Palmer Stoat's house and find the dog's medicine. Risky—insanely risky—but Twilly had no choice. He wanted nothing bad to happen to McGuinn, who was an innocent.

  Master Palmer, though, was something else.

  He got fooled. He went back the next night, arriving at the same moment Stoat was driving away, the silhouette of a woman visible beside him in the Range Rover. Twilly assumed it was the wife, assumed the two of them were going to a late dinner.

  But it turned out to be one of the maids riding off with the litterbug; he was giving her a lift home. And so Twilly made a mistake that changed everything.

  Ever since his previous incursion, the Stoats had been more scrupulous about setting the house alarm. But Twilly decided to hell with it—he'd bust in and grab the dog's pills and run. He'd be in and out and on the road in a minute flat.

  The kitchen door was a breeze; a screwdriver did the job and, surprisingly, no alarm sounded. Twilly flipped on the lights and began searching. The kitchen was spacious, newly refurbished in a desert-Southwest motif with earth-tone cabinets and all-stainless appliances. This is what guys like Palmer Stoat do for their new young wives, Twilly thought; kitchens and jewelry are pretty much the upper reach of their imaginations.

  He found the dog's medicines on the counter next to the coffee machine: two small prescription bottles and a tube of ointment, all antibiotics, which Twilly put in his pocket. The Lab's leash hung from a hook near the door, so Twilly grabbed that, too. For the daring raid he awarded himself a cold Sam Adams from the refrigerator. When he turned around, there stood Desirata Stoat with the chrome-plated.38 from the bedroom.

  "You're the one who stole our dog," she said.

  "That's correct."

  "Where is he?"

  "Safe and sound."

  "I said where.'"' She cocked the hammer.

  "Shoot me, you'll never see McGuinn again."

  "Who?"

  "That's his new name."

  Twilly told Mrs. Stoat he hadn't known about the dog's surgery—not an apology but an explanation for why he was there. "I came back for his medicine. By the way, what happened to him?"

  The litterbug's wife said, "You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Put your hands on top of your head."

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Stoat, but that's not how it goes in real life." Twilly took a minute to polish off the beer. "You recycle?" he asked.

  Desie motioned toward a closet. Inside was a plastic crate, where Twilly deposited the empty bottle. Then he turned around and calmly snatched the revolver away from the litterbug's wife. He shook out the bullets and put them in the same pocket as the dog's medicine. The gun he placed in a silverware drawer.

  Mrs. Stoat lowered her chin and muttered something inaudible. She wore no shoes and a long white T-shirt and pearl earrings, and that was about it. Her arms were as tanned as her legs.

  "You're the sicko who put the bugs in my husband's truck?"

  "Beetles. Yes."

  "And left those nasty notes? And pulled the eyes out of all the animal heads?"

  "Correct." Twilly saw no point in mentioning the attack on her red Beemer.

  Desie said, "Those were terrible things to do."

  "Pretty childish," Twilly conceded.

  "What's the matter with you anyway?"

  "Evidently I'm working through some anger. How's Palmer holding up?"

  "Just fine. He took the maid home and went over to Swain's for a cocktail."

  "Ah, the cigar bar." That had been Twilly Spree's original target for the insect infestation, until he'd hit a technical snag in the ventilation system. Also, he had received conflicting scientific opinions about whether dung beetles would actually eat a cured leaf of Cuban tobacco.

  "What's your name?" Desie asked.

  Twilly laughed and rolled his eyes.

  "OK," she said, "you're kidnapping our dog?"

  "Your husband's dog."

  "I want to come."

  Of course Twilly chuckled. She couldn't be serious.

  "I need to know what this is all about," she said, "because I don't believe it's money."

  "Please."

  "I believe it's about Palmer."

  "Nice meeting you, Mrs. Stoat."

  "It's Desie." She followed Twilly out to the rental car and hopped in. He told her to get out but she refused, pulling her knees to her chin and wrapping both arms around her legs.

  "I'll scream bloody murder. Worse than bloody murder," she warned.

  Twilly sat down heavily behind the wheel. What a twist of rancid luck that Stoat's wife would turn out to be a head case. A light flicked on in the house across the street. Desie saw it, too, and Twilly expected her to start hollering.

  Instead she said: "Here's the situation. Lately I've been having doubts about everything. I need to get away."

  "Take a cruise."

  "You don't understand."

  "The dog'll be fine. You've got my word."

  "I'm talking about Palmer," she said. "Me and Palmer."

  Twilly was stumped. He couldn't think of anything else to do but drive.

  "I'm not very proud of myself," she was saying, "but I married the man, basically, for security. Which is a nice way of saying I married him for the dough. Maybe I didn't realize that at the time, or maybe I did."

  "Desie?"

  "What."

  "Do I look like Montel Williams?"

  "I'm sorry—God, you're right. Listen to me go on."

  Twilly found his way to the interstate. He was worried about McGuinn. He wondered how often the dog needed the pills, wondering if it was time for a walk.

  "I'll let you see the dog, Mrs. Stoat, just so you know he's all right. Then I'm taking you back home."

  "Don't," Desie said. "Please."

  "And here's what I want you to tell your husband—"

  "There's a cop."

  "Yes, I see him."

  "You're doing seventy."

  "Sixty-six. Now here's what you tell Palmer: 'A dangerous drug-crazed outlaw has kidnapped your beloved pet, and he won't give him back until you do exactly what he says.' Can you handle that?"

  Desie stared in a distracted way out the window.

  Twilly said: "Are you listening? I want you to tell your husband I'm a violent bipolar sociopathic lunatic. Tell him I'm capable of anything."

  "But you're not."

  He was
tempted to recite a complete list of personal felonies, but he thought it might freak her into jumping from the car. "I blew up my uncle's bank," he volunteered.

  "What for?"

  "Does it matter? A bombing is a bombing."

  Desie said, "You'll have to do better than that. I still don't believe you're nuts."

  Twilly sighed. "What do you and Palmer talk about—politics? Television? Repression in Tibet?"

  "Shopping." Desie spoke with no trace of shame or irony. "He's got a keen interest in automobiles and fine clothes. Though I suppose that doesn't count for much in your social circle."

  "I have no social circle."

  "And he also plays a little golf/' Desie said, "when he's not hunting."

  "You play golf, too?"

  "Exactly twice in my life. We're members at Otter Glen."

  "How nice for you," Twilly said. "Ever see any otters out there?"

  "Nope."

  "Ever wonder why?"

  "Not really," Desirata Stoat said.

  Back in the motel room, McGuinn-Boodle was happy to see her. Twilly tried to play vet but the dog kept spitting out the pills. It turned into quite a comic scene. Finally Desie shooed Twilly aside and took over. She slipped one of the big white tablets under McGuinn's tongue while she massaged his throat. Serenely the Labrador swallowed the pill. When Twilly tried to duplicate Desie's technique, the pill came shooting out at him.

  She said, "I'd say that clinches it."

  "No, you cannot come along."

  "But I'm the only one who can give him the medicine. Yesterday he nearly took off Palmer's thumb."

  "I'll get the hang of it," Twilly said.

  After Desie got the dog to gulp the second pill, she asked Twilly about the new name.

  "After a musician I'm fond of. Roger McGuinn."

  She said, "You're way too young to be fond of Roger McGuinn."

  "You know about him?" Twilly was thrilled.

  "Sure. Maestro of the twelve-string. 'Eight Miles High,' 'Mr. Spaceman,' and so on."

  "Fantastic!" Twilly said. "And how old are you?"

  "Old enough." Desie gave him the knowing older-woman smile. She didn't mention her summer stints at Sam Goody's.

  Twilly noticed she was stroking McGuinn with one hand and twisting the tail of her T-shirt with the other. Finally she got around to the big question.

  "Tell me exactly what you want from my husband."

  "I want him to clean up his act."

  "Do what?"

  "He's a loathsome pig. Everywhere he goes he leaves a trail of litter."

  Desie said, "That's it?"

  "I want him to get the message, that's all. I want to see shame in his eyes. Beyond that, hell, I don't know." Twilly tugged a thin blanket off the bed and tossed it to her. "Cover up, Desie. I can see your butt."

  She said, "You're aiming low, Mr. Spaceman."

  "How do you mean?"

  "You know who my husband is? You have any idea what he does for a living?"

  "No," Twilly said, "but the governor's office was on his answer machine the other night."

  "Exactly, there you go—the governor himself. Probably calling about that ridiculous bridge."

  "What bridge?" asked Twilly.

  Desie got cross-legged on the floor, with the blanket across her lap. "Let me tell you some stories," she said, "about Palmer Stoat."

  "No, ma'am, I'm taking you home."

  But he didn't.

  6

  Twilly drove all night with the woman and the dog. They arrived at Toad Island shortly before dawn. Twilly parked on the beach and rolled down the windows.

  "What are we doing here?" Desie said.

  Twilly closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until he heard gulls piping and felt the sun on his neck. The Gulf was lead gray and slick. In the distance he saw Desie strolling the white ribbon of sand, the hulking black McGuinn at her side; above them were seabirds, carping. Twilly got out and stretched. He shed his clothes and plunged into the chilly water and swam out two hundred yards. From there he had a mariner's perspective of the island, its modest breadth and altitude and scraggled green ripeness, as it might have appeared long ago. Of course Twilly understood the terrible significance of a new bridge. He could almost hear his father's voice, rising giddily at the prospects. That this scrubby shoal had been targeted for development wasn't at all shocking to Twilly. The only genuine surprise was that somebody hadn't fucked it up sooner.

  He breaststroked to shore. He stepped into his jeans and sat, dripping, on the hood of the rental car. When Desie returned, she said: "Boodle wanted to jump in and swim. That means he's feeling better."

  Twilly gave her a reproachful look.

  "McGuinn, I mean," she said. "So, is this what you expected to find?"

  "It's nice."

  "You think Governor Dick owns this whole island?"

  "If not him, then some of his pals."

  "How many people," Desie said, "you figure they want to cram out here? All total."

  "I don't know. Couple thousand at least."

  "That explains why they need a bigger bridge."

  "Oh yes. Trucks, bulldozers, backhoes, cement mixers, cranes, gasoline tankers, cars and bingo buses." Twilly blinked up at the clouds. "I'm just guessing, Mrs. Stoat. I'm just going by history."

  Desie said, "McGuinn found a man passed out on the beach. He didn't look too good."

  "The unconscious seldom do."

  "Not a bum. A regular-looking guy."

  Twilly said, "I guess you want me to go have a look. Is that the idea?"

  He slid off the car and headed down the shore. Desie whistled for the dog, and off they went. The passed-out man was in the same position in which she'd found him—flat on his back, pale hands interlocked in funereal calm across his chest. The man's mouth hung open and he was snorting like a broken diesel. A gleaming stellate dollop of seagull shit decorated his forehead; one eye was nearly swollen shut, and on the same cheek was a nasty sand-crusted laceration. Nearby lay a shoe and an empty vodka bottle.

  Tail swishing, McGuinn inspected the passed-out man while Twilly Spree shook him by the shoulder. The man woke up hacking. He whispered "No" when Twilly asked if he needed an ambulance.

  When Desie knelt beside him, he said, "I got drunk and fell off a bulldozer."

  "That's a good one."

  "I wish it weren't true." The man wiped his sleeve across the poop on his forehead. He grimaced when McGuinn wet-nosed the swollen side of his face.

  "What's your name?" Desie asked.

  "Brinkman." With Twilly's assistance, the man sat up. "Dr. Steven Brinkman," he said.

  "What kind of doctor?"

  Brinkman finally noticed what Desie was wearing—the long T-shirt and pearl earrings and nothing else—and became visibly flustered. The big Labrador retriever was also making him jumpy, snuffling in his most personal crevices.

  "Are you an M.D.?" Desie said.

  "Uh, no. What I am—I'm a field biologist."

  Twilly stiffened. "What're you doing out here on the island?"

  "This is where I work."

  "For who?" Twilly demanded. "The Army Corps? Fish and Wildlife?"

  Brinkman said, "Not exactly."

  Twilly took him by the arm, hauled him to his feet and marched him up a grassy dune. "You and I need to talk."

  Dr. Brinkman was not the only one who'd had a rough night. Palmer Stoat had relaxed to sloppy excess at Swain's bar, then wound up at a small party in the owner's private salon with two bottles of Dom, a box of H. Upmann's straight off a boat from Varadero, and a call girl who made Stoat show his voter's card, because she only did registered Republicans. Stoat was so bewitched by the woman's ideological fervency that he couldn't properly concentrate on the sex. Eventually the halting encounter dissolved into a philosophical colloquy that lasted into the wee hours and left Stoat more exhausted than a routine night of illicit intercourse. He crept home with a monstrous headache and collapsed in one of
the guest rooms, so as not to alert Desirata, whom he presumed to be slumbering alone in the marital bed.