Sick Puppy by Carl Hiaasen Page B

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.
    Stoat slept past noon and woke up to a grim hangover and a silent house. Spears of sunlight slanted harshly through the Bahamas shutters. Stoat buried his face in a pillow and thought again of the voluble prostitute at Swain’s. To meet someone with genuine political ideals was a rarity in Stoat’s line of work; as a lobbyist he had long ago concluded there was no difference in how Democrats and Republicans conducted the business of government. The game stayed the same: It was always about favors and friends, and who controlled the dough. Party labels were merely a way to keep track of the teams; issues were mostly smoke and vaudeville. Nobody believed in anything except hanging on to power, whatever it took. So, at election time, Palmer Stoat always advised his clients to hedge generously by donating large sums to all sides. The strategy was as immensely pragmatic as it was cynical. Stoat himself was registered independent, but he hadn’t stepped inside a voting booth in fourteen years. He couldn’t take the concept seriously; he knew too much.
    Yet it was refreshing to hear the call girl go on so earnestly about the failure of affirmative action and the merit of prayer in public schools and the dangerous liberal assault on the Second Amendment. None of those subjects affected Palmer Stoat’s