Sick Puppy by Carl Hiaasen Page B

shit-eating insects.
    A cry for help, Palmer Stoat figured. Obviously the kid’s got some loose shingles.
    But whatever weird was happening within Desie, it was the part of her yarn about the dog that Stoat couldn’t sort out. What had she done with poor Boodle, and why?
    He toweled off and crawled into bed. He felt her go tense when he slipped an arm around her waist.
    “You OK?” he asked.
    “Never felt better.”
    “You smell good.”
    “Compared to a sack of dead pigeons, I hope so.”
    “I know you’re upset, sweetie. I think we should talk.”
    “Well, I think we should be calling the police.” Desie knew he wouldn’t do it, but she was ticked off that he hadn’t raised the prospect. What concerned husband wouldn’t at least consider notifying the authorities after an intruder breaks into his home and takes off with his wife! So maybe it hadn’t been a
real
kidnapping (since it was Desie’s idea to go), but Palmer didn’t know that.
    He said, “Sweetie, we can’t possibly get the police involved.”
    “Why not? You said he’ll never hurt the dog, so what’ve we got to lose?”
    “Because it’ll be all over the TV and the newspapers, that’s why. My clients rely on me to be low-profile and discreet,” he explained. “This would be a disaster, Desie. I’d be a laughingstock. ‘Dognapper Targets Prominent Lobbyist.’ Jesus Hubbard Christ, can you imagine the headlines?”
    She squirmed out of his embrace.
    Stoat said, “Honestly, how could I show my face in Tallahassee or Washington? A story like that, I’m telling you, it might turn up in a Letterman monologue. Try to understand what that could do to my business.”
    “Fine,” she said curtly.
    “Don’t worry. We’ll get our puppy back.”
    “Then you’ll do what this maniac wants. It’s the only way,” she said.
    With an exaggerated sigh, Palmer rolled on his back. “It’s
not
the only way. Trust me.”
    Desie turned to face him. “Please just do what he says.”
    “You can’t be serious.”
    She said, “It’s just a bridge, Palmer. One lousy bridge to one lousy little island. They’ll get by fine without it.”
    “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, it’s already done. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to, which I don’t.”
    “Don’t lie to me. Not about this.”
    Stoat sucked in his breath, wondering: What the hell does she mean by
that
?
    Desie said what she’d been told to say by the dognapper: “Your buddy Governor Dick—he hasn’t signed the budget bill yet, has he? Tell him to veto the money for the bridge.”
    “OK, that’s it.” Stoat sat up and reached for the lamp. “Darling, you’ve obviously lost your goddamned mind.”
    She closed her eyes but kept her cheek to the pillow. “Otherwise we’ll never see the dog again,” she said. “The lunatic has already changed his name, Palmer. He calls him McGuinn.”
    “Yeah. Whatever.” What a whacked-out imagination she has, Stoat thought. He’d had no idea.
    Desie stiffened beside him. “So you think I’m out of my mind? Isn’t that what you just said?”
    Palmer bowed his head and gingerly massaged his tender temples. “Look, Des, let’s please finish talking about this tomorrow. I’m having a tough day’s night.”
    His wife groaned in exasperation and rolled over.
       
    Robert Clapley celebrated in his own special style. He returned with his share of the dove kill to the oceanfront condominium his company owned in Palm Beach. There he cooked the birds in a light wine sauce and lovingly served them to Katya and Tish, whom Clapley half-whimsically referred to as Barbie One and Barbie Two. Katya was from Russia; Tish was from the Czech Republic. They were both five ten and weighed approximately 130 pounds. Clapley didn’t know their last names, or their true ages, and didn’t ask. He had met them six months earlier on South Beach, at an all-night party thrown by a bisexual German real estate tycoon. The women told