In truth, Nils Fishback didn't give a damn what happened to Toad Island or the squirmy creatures that lived there. The most breathtakingly beautiful sight he could imagine in all God's kingdom would be a cashier's check from Robert Clapley's company for the sum of $510,000, which was Fishback's preposterous asking price for his seventeen orphan lots. He would, of course, ecstatically accept half as much and be gone from Toad Island before sunset. He feigned horror when Clapley's crew started bulldozing the toad habitat, but Nils Fishback was secretly delighted. He had never been fond of the toads, especially during mating season when their high-pitched stridulations rang all night long in his skull. Second, and more important, Clapley's mechanized assault on the petite amphibians was potent public-relations ammunition for the petition drive – the man was a monster, was he not? Smushing innocent creatures by the thousands. Fishback kept a Rolodex of media contacts, for precisely such occasions. He would personally lead the TV crews across the old bridge and down the beach road to the site of the massacre, and show them where to set up their cameras. The Shearwater Island Company couldn't afford such gruesome publicity! Nils Fishback would warn Robert Clapley an hour or so in advance, giving him just enough time to call the bank and get a check cut for the escrow deposit on Fishback's property.

The only question in Fishback's mind was when to pick up the phone. If he waited too long, the toad massacre would be over and there'd be nothing left for the TV people to film. On the other hand, if he intervened too swiftly, the toad infestation would remain substantially undiminished, with the spring breeding season only weeks away.

Fishback stood up and dusted off the seat of his tattered cutoffs. He jerked two beers from the cooler; one he opened, the other he tucked under an arm. Then he ambled down the hill into the trees, where one of the big yellow bulldozers was being refueled. Fishback handed the unopened beer to the driver and said, "How long you boys gonna be at it?"

The driver grunted. "Years, pop. Get used to it."

"No," Fishback said, "I mean this part here." He waved a hand, as bony and gnarled as driftwood. "Buryin' all these damn toads."

The driver's gaze narrowed. "What're you talkin' about?"

"Check out your boots, jocko. That's toad guts, if I'm not mistaken."

The driver stepped back, wiping his soles across the pine needles. "You're fuckin' nuts," he said to the old man.

Fishback sighed impatiently. "Fine. There's no happy hoppers around here. Not a one. So just tell me how long it'll take."

The bulldozer driver glanced appreciatively at the cold beer in his hand. Hell, he thought, the old fart seems harmless enough. Probably just the racket he cares about.

"One week," the driver said to Fishback. "That's what the work order says."

"Perfect." Fishback pointed into the woods. "There's a freshwater pond a quarter mile or so down that path. Be a good place to dump some dirt. I mean lotsa dirt."

"Yeah?" The driver sounded interested.

Nils Fishback offered a conspiratorial wink. "Oh yeah," he said. "We're talking Toad Central, partner."

5

In 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."