Sick Puppy by Carl Hiaasen Page A

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