"She's the one who told me about it. Isn't that right, Katya? Show Mr. Stoat what you learned."

"Me, too!" exclaimed Tish. Her vast bosom pushed a wake like a shrimp trawler as she sloshed across the tub to join her future twin. They spread Palmer Stoat's legs and, with merry jostling, squeezed between them.

He said, "Really, Bob."

Robert Clapley laughed. "I should get the camcorder!"

"Not unless you want to see it in pieces." Normally Stoat was more of a sport, but not tonight. Desie was heavy on his mind; also, the severed dog ear that had been delivered by the FedEx man.

Clapley said, "You need to relax, kiddo."

"I just stopped by to talk some business, Bob. I didn't mean to make an evening of it."

"Hell, we can chat later. How often in a guy's lifetime does he have a chance to get sucked off by two semi-identical six-foot dolls? I'm guessing this isn't a weekly event for you, Palmer, so please shut the hell up and enjoy. I need to make a couple calls."

Clapley climbed agilely out of the tub. Stoat could hear him talking on the phone but couldn't see over the tops of the two Barbies, each of whose head was stacked with at least one linear foot of shiny bleached hair. The women tugged and stroked and prodded at Palmer Stoat until finally, not wishing to seem the ungrateful guest, he closed his eyes and submitted. He enjoyed the moment, but not so much that he forgot his reason for being there.

By the time Clapley finished his calls, the Barbies were done, out of the tub and in the shower. Stoat floated back with his legs extended, frog-like. He pretended to gaze at the stars.

Clapley said, "How'd you like that twin sandwich?"

Stoat whistled appreciatively. "Blond sugar, like the song says."

"Yea, brother." Clapley was too trashed to dispute the lyric. "Listen, I know why you're here."

Stoat slowly righted himself, tucking his pink knees beneath him. How could Robert Clapley know! Was it possible, Stoat wondered, that the maniacal ear-mutilating dognapper had contacted his client?

Clapley said, "I believe I still owe you some money."

"Yeah, you do." Stoat was much relieved.

They moved to the den, both wearing long towels and matching terry-cloth bath slippers. Clapley sat behind a glass-topped desk and opened his checkbook.

"It completely slipped my mind," he said, "last time you were here."

"That's quite all right, Bob."

"Now ... how much was it?"

"Fifty thousand," Stoat replied, thinking: Asshole. He knows damn well how much.

"Fifty? Boy, that's a shitload of shotgun shells."

Clapley, alluding to the bird-hunting trip. That and the kinky Barbie action was aimed at hustling a discount, Stoat concluded. Well, Bobby boy, you can bite me.

Robert Clapley waited a couple beats, but Stoat retained his anticipatory demeanor.

"Right. Fifty it is." Clapley strained to sound gracious.

Palmer Stoat enjoyed watching the man write out the check. Clapley's discomfiture was manifest, and Stoat didn't mind prolonging it. An important principle was at stake; a matter of respect. Stoat considered himself a professional, and in the lobbyist trade a pro didn't tolerate being jerked around for his fee, particularly by baby-faced ex-smugglers with Barbie fetishes. Stoat had come to Clapley's condo intending to warn him of a temporary snag with the Toad Island bridge appropriation. Stoat had been prepared to let Clapley hold the balance of his fee until the situation with the extortionist dognapper got resolved. But Clapley had so annoyed Palmer Stoat with his coy cheapness – "how much was it? "– that Stoat changed his mind about the money. He'd pocket it and say nothing. Besides, if Desie left him – as she'd threatened to do if Stoat didn't meet the dognapper's demands – he would be needing the extra fifty grand (and more) for divorce lawyers.

"Here you go." Clapley capped his Mont Blanc and slid the check toward Stoat.

"Thanks, Bob." Stoat's smile could have passed for sincere. He didn't take the check immediately, but left it lying faceup on the glass desktop.

Clapley said, "Dick was right about you."

"Dick has his moments."

"So, when's he supposed to sign the budget?"

"Week or two, I expect," Stoat said.

"Fan-fucking-tastic. The sooner they can get started on the new bridge, the sooner I can slap together some model homes."

One of the Barbies walked in carrying a tray with two cognacs and two large cigars. She was wearing a blood-red catalog-style teddy with lacy bra cups. Clapley whistled when she leaned over to set down the drinks.

"Thank you, darling,"he said in a leering tone. Then, to Palmer Stoat: "Hey, how'd you like that double-barreled hummer in the hot tub?"

"Great." Stoat thinking: Christ, how many times do I have to say it? "One of the great blow jobs of all time, Bob."

"And all because she buckled down and stayed in school. You know what they say, Palmer: A tongue is a terrible thing to waste." Clapley winked at the departing Barbie, who responded with a perky four-fingered wave. After she closed the door, he said, "That was Katya. I dream of the day when I can't tell 'em apart."

"Shouldn't be long now," Stoat said, encouragingly.

They spent a few ceremonial moments clipping and lighting the cigars. Then Robert Clapley raised his glass in a toast.

"To Shearwater Island," he said.

"Amen," said Palmer Stoat.

"And good company."

"The best, Bob."

They sipped cognac and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. Clapley told a crude joke about a nearsighted rabbi. Stoat told one about a farsighted cheerleader. Again Clapley raised his drink.

"Here's to doing business again one day, you and me."

"Anytime," Stoat said, thinking: It'll be sooner than you think, dipshit.

As soon as Palmer had left for Palm Beach, Desie opened the freezer and removed the plastic Baggie containing the dog ear. She examined it with a mixture of revulsion and forensic curiosity. The ear didn't seem large enough to be one of Boodle's, but she couldn't be certain. That it belonged to a big black dog was indisputable. If that dog turned out to be hers, then Twilly Spree was a savage monster and Desie had horribly misjudged him.

Equally mortifying was her own culpability in the crime. After all, it was she who'd told Twilly about what was happening at Toad Island; it was she who'd given him the crazy idea of saving the place. Why? Because she'd wanted to see the smugness wiped off her husband's face, wanted to appraise Palmer's reaction when one of his slick fixes went awry. But how could she have known that young Twilly Spree would carry things so far?

Desie returned the dog ear to the freezer – placing it out of sight, behind a half-gallon of rum raisin ice cream – and went to draw a hot bath. At noon the maid knocked on the door and said a "Mister Ezra Pound" was on the telephone. Desie asked the maid to hand her the portable.

It was Twilly's voice on the other end. "Well, does he believe it now?"

Desie said, "I'd say so, judging by the way he hurled his dinner. Where are you?"

"Not far."

"Please tell me it's not Boodle's ear."

"The name's McGuinn, remember?"

"But it's not his ear, is it? God, please don't say you sliced off that poor dog's ear. Not over a bunch of dead toads."

Twilly said, "I didn't. I would never."

"I knew it."

"But this isn't about toads, it's about pillage. We're dealing with an immoral, unforgivable crime." Twilly sighed in frustration. "Don't you read the papers, Mrs. Stoat? Can't you see who's running the show?"

Desie said, "Take it easy." The last thing she wanted to do was set him off.

"Now I've got a question for you," Twilly said. "Why didn't you tell me the truth about your dog?"