"Sick Puppy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hiassen Carl)5In the week that followed, a conference committee of the Florida Legislature agreed to appropriate $9.2 million for a neighborhood development project in southwest Miami called the Willie Vasquez-Washington Community Outreach Center. The same committee approved $27.7 million in transportation funds toward the design and construction of an elevated four-lane concrete bridge to replace the creaky two-lane wooden span that connected Toad Island to the mainland. Governor Dick Artemus declared his strong support for both projects, and praised lawmakers for their "bipartisan commitment to progress." A few days later, as the last of the oak toads were being plowed under, Nils Fishback and twenty-two other signatories of the anti-Shearwater Island petition met with Robert Clapley and his attorneys in a private dining salon at a fashionable Cuban restaurant in Ybor City. A deal was reached in which Clapley would purchase Fishback's seventeen vacant lots for $19,000 each, which was $16,500 more than Fishback originally had paid for them. The other Toad Island "protesters" received, and eagerly accepted, comparable offers. They were flown home on a Gulfstream jet, and the next morning Nils Fishback called a press conference at the foot of the old wooden bridge. With a handful of local reporters present, "the mayor" announced he was terminating the petition drive because the Shearwater Island Company had "caved in to virtually all our demands." Wielding a sheath of legal-sized papers, Fishback revealed that Robert Clapley had promised in writing to preserve the natural character of the barrier island, and had agreed to provide on-site biologists, botanists and hydrologists to supervise all phases of construction. In addition, Clapley had endorsed an ambitious mitigation program that required replanting three acres of new trees for each acre sacrificed to development. What Nils Fishback didn't tell the press was that Clapley legally was not compelled to revegetate Toad Island itself, and that the new trees could be put anywhere else in Florida – including faraway Putnam County, where Clapley happened to own nine hundred acres of fresh-cut timber-land that needed replanting. The architect of the mitigation scam was none other than Palmer Stoat, who'd had a very productive week. The governor's cronies would be getting their new bridge, Willie Vasquez-Washington would be getting his new community center, and that impertinent tollbooth clerk in Yeehaw Junction would be getting a pink slip. Palmer Stoat flew home from Tallahassee and drove directly to Swain's, his favorite local cigar bar, to celebrate. Here he felt vigorous and important among the ruddy young lawyers and money managers and gallery owners and former pro athletes. Stoat enjoyed watching them instruct their new girlfriends how to clip the nub oh-so-carefully off a bootleg Bolivar – the Yuppie foreplay of the nineties. Stoat resented that his wife wouldn't set foot in Swain's, because she would've looked spectacular sitting there, scissor-legged and preening in one of her tight black cocktail dresses. But Desie claimed to be nauseated by cigars. She nagged him mercilessly for smoking in the house – a vile and toxic habit, she called it. Yet she'd fire up a doobie every time they made love – and did Palmer complain? No, ma'am. Whatever gets you past the night, he'd say cheerfully. And then Desie would say, Just for once shut up, wouldya? And that's the only way she'd do it, with him completely silent in the saddle. The Polaroid routine she'd tolerate, but the moment Palmer blurted a single word, the sex was over. That was Desie's ironclad rule. So he had learned to keep his mouth shut for fifteen or twenty minutes in the bedroom, maybe twice a week. Palmer could handle that. Hell, they were all a little crazy, right? And besides, there were others – the ones up at the capitol, especially – who'd let him talk all he wanted, from start to finish. Like he was calling the Preakness. The bartender delivered a fresh brandy. "Where'd this come from?" Stoat asked. "From the gentleman at the end of the bar." That was one thing about cigar joints, the customers were all "gentlemen" and "ladies." "Which one?" said Stoat. "In the sunglasses." Young guy in a tropical-print shirt; parrots and palm fronds. Stoat couldn't place the face. Deeply tanned, with long sun-bleached hair and a two-day stubble. Probably an off-duty deckhand from Bahia Mar or Pier 66, Stoat thought, somebody he'd met on a party yacht. Stoat raised the brandy and mouthed a thank-you. The boat guy in the sunglasses acknowledged with a wry nod. Stoat turned his attention to an effervescent brunette who wasn't smoking a seven-inch Cuban knockoff so much as fellating it. And while the woman would hardly be mistaken for a serious cigar connoisseur, her husky giggle indicated an enthusiasm to learn. Stoat was about to introduce himself when the bartender touched his sleeve and passed him a folded cocktail napkin. "The young gentleman in the sunglasses," the bartender said, "he left this for you." Palmer Stoat opened the note: Stoat's hands were shaky when he put down the napkin. He scanned the bar: no sign of the boat guy. Stoat flipped open his cell phone, dialed the nonlisted number to his den, and punched in the numeric code of his answering machine. The first two messages, recorded on the same morning he'd flown to Tallahassee, were exactly as described in the boat guy's note. Mr. Yee – Durgess's elusive rhino-horn connection – had finally returned Stoat's call. (Without Desie's knowledge, Stoat intended to score some of that magic erection powder; he was scheming some wild recreation for his next business trip.) And the second phone message on the machine was indeed from the BMW salesman, a young go-getter named Jorge Hernandez. Spooky, Stoat thought. Either the boat guy pirated my phone code or he's been snooping inside my house. Stoat laid a twenty on the bar and raced home. Once inside the front door, he sidestepped the dog and hurried to his den. The room did not appear ransacked, and none of the personal items on his desk had been taken or moved out of place. Then Palmer Stoat noticed the polished glass eyeballs, arranged in a pentagram star. The geometry was so flawless that it appealed in an occult way to Stoat's obsession with neatness and order. (The inverse manifestation of this fetish was a compulsion to jettison all traces of potential untidiness – every scrap of trash, waste or rubbish – with no regard for the consequences. It's what made Stoat the impenitent litterbug he was.) So he did not disturb the mystery pentagram. Slowly he raised his face to look at the walls; at the stuffed lynx, the timber wolf, the mule deer, the bighorn ram, the elk, the marlin, the tarpon, the peacock bass. Stoat stared at all of them, but they weren't staring back. Twilly Spree had a habit of falling in love with any woman who was nice enough to sleep with him. One was named Mae, and she was ten years older. She had straight straw-blond hair, and caramel freckles from her cheeks to her ankles. Her family was wealthy, and she showed an endearing lack of interest in Twilly's inheritance. He likely would have married her, except for the fact she was already married to a businessman in Singapore. Mae filed for divorce three days after meeting Twilly, but the lawyers said it would take years for her to get free, since her spouse avoided the United States and therefore could not be served with papers. Having nothing else to do, Twilly got on a plane and flew to Singapore and met briefly with Mac's husband, who quickly arranged for Twilly to be beaten up, arrested in a brothel and deported. After Twilly was returned to Florida, he said in all innocence to Mae: "What'd you ever see in a creep like that?" Mae and Twilly lived together five months. She said she wanted him to help her become a free spirit. Twilly had heard the same line from other girlfriends. Without him asking, Mae gave up her bridge league and her Wednesday pedicures and took up the mandolin and bromeliads. Mac's father became concerned and flew down from Sag Harbor to check Twilly out. Mae's father was a retired executive from the Ford Motor Company, and was almost single-handedly responsible for ruining the Mustang. To test Twilly's character, he invited him to a skeet range and placed a 12-gauge Remington in his hands. Twilly knocked down everything they tossed up. Mae's father said, Sure, but can you hunt? He took Twilly to a quail plantation in Alabama, and Twilly shot the first four birds they jumped. Then Twilly set the gun in the grass and said, That's plenty. Mae's father said, What the hell's the matter with you, we're just getting warmed up. And Twilly said, I can't eat more than four birds so what's the point? The point, thundered Mae's father, isn't the eating. It's the sport of it! Is that so? Twilly said. To shoot something fast and beautiful out of the sky, Mae's father told him. That's the essence of it! Now I see, said Twilly. And that evening, as Mae's father's chartered King Air took off from a rural Montgomery airport, somebody hiding in the trees with a semiautomatic rifle neatly stitched an X pattern in one wing, rupturing a fuel bladder and forcing the plane to turn back for an emergency landing. The sniper was never found, but Mae's father went on a minor rampage to the authorities. And while he ultimately failed in his efforts to see Twilly Spree prosecuted, he succeeded in convincing his daughter that she had taken up with a homicidal madman. For a while Twilly missed Mac's company, but he took satisfaction in knowing he'd made his point emphatically with her father, that the man definitely got the connection between his own vanities and the Swiss-cheese holes that appeared in his airplane. And, really, that was the most Twilly ever hoped for, that the bastards would get the message. Most of them did. But not the litterbug. Twilly decided he'd been too subtle with Palmer Stoat; the man needed things spelled out plainly, possibly more than once. For days Twilly tailed him, and wherever Stoat went, he continued to toss garbage out the car window. Twilly was weary of picking up after him. One afternoon Stoat and his wife returned from a senator's wedding in Jacksonville and found a note under a windshield wiper of the Range Rover. The note said: "Quit trashing the planet, fuckwad." Stoat gave a puzzled shrug and showed Desie. Then he crumpled the note and dropped it on the pavement of the parking garage. When Stoat sat down in his sport-utility vehicle, he was aghast to find it full of dung beetles. One pullulating mass covered the tops of his shoes, while a second wave advanced up the steering column. Massing on the dashboard was a third platoon, shiny brown shells clacking together like ball bearings. Despite appearances, dung beetles actually are harmless, providing a unique and invaluable service at the cellar of the food chain; that is, the prodigious consumption of animal waste. Worshiped by ancient Egyptians, the insects are almost as dearly regarded by modern cattle ranchers. In all there are more than seven thousand known species of dung beetles, without which the earth would literally smother in excrement. This true fact would not have been properly appreciated by Palmer Stoat, who couldn't tell a ladybug from a cockroach (which is what he feared had infested his Range Rover). He yelped and slapped at his thighs and burst from the vehicle as if shot from a cannon. Desie, who had been standing in wait for her husband to unlock the passenger door, observed his athletic exit with high interest. In a flash she produced her cellular phone, but Palmer whisked it from her hand. No cops! he exclaimed. I don't want to read about this in the newspapers. Desie wondered what made him think such nonsense would rate press attention. On his own phone Palmer Stoat summoned an exterminator, who used a canister-styled vacuum to remove the bugs from the Range Rover – a total approaching three thousand, had anyone endeavored to count them. To Desie, they sounded like pebbles being sucked through the hose. After consulting an illustrated field guide, the exterminator correctly identified the intruders. "A what?" Desie asked. "Dung beetle. A common bovine dung beetle." "Let me guess," Desie said dryly, "how they get their name." "Yes, it's true," the exterminator acknowledged. Stoat scowled. "What're you saying? You saying they eat And still he missed the whole damn point. The very next afternoon, on his way to the driving range, Stoat tossed a Kentucky Fried Chicken box. At the time, he was stopped for the drawbridge on the Seventeenth Street Causeway in Fort Lauderdale. Stoat casually leaned across the front seat and heaved the chicken box through the passenger window and over the bridge railing. Waiting three cars back in traffic, Twilly Spree watched the whole thing; saw the cardboard box and fluttering napkin and gnawed-on drumsticks and coleslaw cup tumble downward, plopping into the Intracoastal Waterway. That's when Twilly realized that Palmer Stoat was either unfathomably arrogant or unfathomably dim, and in either case was in need of special instruction. On the morning of May 2, the maid walked into the bedroom and announced that Boodle, the dog, was missing. "Oh, that's not possible," said Stoat. Desie pulled on some clothes and tennis shoes and hurried out to search the neighborhood. She was sobbing when she returned, and said to her husband: "This is all your fault." He tried to hug her but she shook him off. "Honey, please," he said. "Settle down." "Somebody took him – " "You don't know that." " – and it's all your fault." "Desie, now." It But Desie couldn't have been the one who had done it. Palmer Stoat knew by her reaction to the macabre pentagram on the desk and the wall of eyeless animal faces. Desie had paled and run from the room. Later she implored her husband to hire some security guards to watch the house; she didn't feel safe there anymore. Stoat said, Don't worry, it's just some local weirdos. Kids from the neighborhood breaking in for kicks, he told her. But privately he suspected that both the glass eyeball episode and the desecration of the BMW were connected to his lobbying business; some disgruntled, semi-twisted shithead of a client ... or possibly even a jealous competitor. So Stoat had the locks on the house changed, got all new phone numbers, and found an electronics dweeb who came through and swept the place for listening devices. For good measure, he also polygraphed the maid, the gardener and the part-time cook. Desie made her husband promise to set the alarm system every night from then on, and he had done so faithfully ... With the exception of the previous night, when he'd gone to a Republican fund-raiser and gotten so plastered that a cab had to carry him home. The time was 3:00 a.m., an hour at which Stoat could barely identify his own house, much less fit the new key in the door; typing a nonsequential five-digit code on the alarm panel required infinitely too much dexterity. Still, he couldn't believe somebody had snuck in behind him and grabbed the Labrador. For one thing, Boodle was a hefty load – 128 pounds. He had been trained at no small expense to sit, fetch, shake, lie down, heel, and not lope off with strangers. To forcibly abduct the dog, Stoat surmised, would have required more than one able-bodied man. Then Desie reminded him that Boodle wasn't functioning at full strength. Days earlier he had been rushed into emergency surgery after slurping five of the glass eyeballs from Stoat's desktop. Stoat didn't notice the eyes were missing until the taxidermy man came to repair the mounts. Soon afterward Boodle grew listless and stopped eating. An X ray at the veterinarian's office revealed the glass orbs, lodged in a cluster at the anterior end of the Lab's stomach. Four of them were removed easily during a laparotomy, but the fifth squirted into the intestinal tract, out of the surgeon's reach. Another operation would be needed if Boodle didn't pass the lost eyeball soon. In the meantime the dog remained lethargic, loaded up on heavy antibiotics. "He's gonna die if we don't get him back," Desie said morosely. "We'll find him, don't worry." Stoat promised to print up flyers and pass them around the neighborhood. "And offer a reward," Desie said. "Of course." "I mean a "He'll be fine, sweetie. The maid probably didn't shut the door tight and he just nosed his way out. He's done that before, remember? And he'll be back when he's feeling better and gets hungry, that's my prediction." Desie said, "Thank you, Dr. Doolittle." She was still annoyed because Palmer had asked the veterinarian to return the glass eyes Boodle had swallowed, so that they could be polished and re-glued into the dead animal heads. "For God's sake, get some new ones," Desie had beseeched her husband. "Hell no," he'd said. "This way'll make a better story, you gotta admit." Of the surgically retrieved eyeballs, one each belonged to the Canadian lynx, the striped marlin, the elk and the mule deer. The still-missing orb had come from the Cape buffalo, Stoat's largest trophy head, so he was especially eager to get it back. Her own eyes glistening, Desie stalked up to her husband and said: "If that poor dog dies somewhere out there, I'll never forgive you." "I'm telling you, nobody stole Boodle – " "Doesn't matter, Palmer. It's your dumb hobby, your dumb dead animals with their dumb fake eyeballs. So it's your damn fault if something happens to that sweet puppy." As soon as Desie had left the den, Stoat phoned a commercial printer and ordered five hundred flyers bearing a photograph of Boodle, and an offer of $10,000 cash to anyone with information leading to his recovery. Stoat wasn't worried, because he was reasonably sure that none of his enemies, no matter how callous, would go so far as to snatch his pet dog. The world is a sick place, Stoat thought, but not Twilly Spree had followed the litterbug's taxi from the party to the house. He parked at the end of the block and watched Palmer Stoat stagger up the driveway. By the time Stoat had inserted the key, Twilly was waiting thirty feet away, behind the trunk of a Malaysian palm. Not only did Stoat neglect to lock the front door behind him, he didn't even shut it halfway. He was still in the hall bathroom, fumbling with his zipper and teetering in front of the toilet, when Twilly walked into the house and removed the dog. With the Labrador slung fireman-style across his shoulders, Twilly jogged all the way back to the car. The dog didn't try to bite him, and never once even barked. That was encouraging; the big guy was getting the right vibrations. The smart ones'll do that, Twilly thought. Even after they got to the motel, the Lab stayed quiet. He drank some cold water from the bathtub faucet but ignored a perfectly scrumptious rawhide chew toy. "What's the matter, sport?" Twilly asked. It was true he often spoke to animals. He didn't see why not. Even the bobcat with which he'd shared a tent in the swamp. 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 "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 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 "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. 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 "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. |
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