Beowulf, said Twilly.

Aw, thass adorable, said one of the girlfriends.

As Twilly followed the boyfriends across the parking lot toward the Cadillac with the tandem trailer, he asked if there was an extra beer in the cooler. And that was the last thing the girlfriends remembered overhearing until Twilly returned a few minutes later and took the dog by the leash. The college girls hugged "Beowulf" and crooned their smoochy goodbyes. Then they wobbled to their feet and glanced around for their boyfriends, at which point Twilly Spree lowered his voice and said: "I saw what you dipshits did to that pelican."

"Uh?" said one of the girlfriends.

The other grabbed her elbow and said, "Whadhesay?"

"Don't ever come back here," Twilly advised. "Not ever. Now go call the fire department. Hurry."

The trunk of the Cadillac was open. So was the cooler inside. The boyfriends were stretched out on the ground, faceup at a forty-five-degree angle to each other; like the hands of a broken clock. One had a fractured cheekbone, denoted by a rising purple bruise. The other had a severely dislocated jaw, also festooned with an angry raw contusion. Nearby lay two misshapen Budweiser cans, fizzing beer bubbles on the pavement. The drunken girlfriends began to wail, and from the cooler they frantically scooped bare handfuls of ice cubes, which they attempted to affix on the lumpy wounds of their drunken boyfriends. The college girls were so absorbed in first aid that they didn't notice the two water bikes smoldering ominously on the trailer, soon to burst into flames.

As much as he would've enjoyed it, Twilly Spree didn't wait around for the fire. Later, when the flashing blue police lights appeared in his rearview mirror, he concluded that the two girlfriends hadn't been quite as intoxicated as he thought. He figured they'd taken note of his pickup truck, perhaps even memorizing the license plate. It was a dispiriting turn of events, for Twilly couldn't afford to go back to jail. Not now anyway; not with the Toad Island mission unresolved. The timing of his outburst against the young pelican molesters couldn't have been worse, and he was mad at himself for losing control. Again.

The Lauderdale-by-the-Sea police officer was a polite young fellow not much older than Twilly. He stood back from the truck, peering into the cab and shining a powerful flashlight on McGuinn, who started barking theatrically. The officer seemed relieved that it was a dog and not a large dark-skinned person sharing the front seat with Twilly. He asked Twilly to step out and show his driver's license. Twilly did as he was told. He easily could have disarmed and outrun the young cop, but he couldn't abandon McGuinn. No, they were going down together, man and beast.

The policeman said: "Sir, I noticed you were driving erratically."

Twilly was elated – a routine traffic stop! "Yes. Yes, I wasdriving erratically!"

"Is there a reason?"

"Yes, sir. I accidentally dropped a Liv-A-Snap on my lap, and the dog went for it." This was the absolute truth. "At that moment," Twilly said, "I'm sure I began driving erratically."

"It's a big dog you got there," the officer allowed.

"And rambunctious," added Twilly. "I'm sorry if we alarmed you."

"Mind taking a Breathalyzer?"

"Not at all."

"Because I definitely smell beer."

"I didn't drink it. It got spilled on me," Twilly said, without elaboration.

He passed the breath test with flying colors. The young policeman got on the radio to check for outstanding warrants, but Twilly came up clean. The officer walked back to the truck and gave it a once-over with the flashlight, the beam of which settled upon an old steamer trunk in the cargo bed.

"Mind if I look inside?" the policeman asked.

"I'd rather you didn't," Twilly said.

"Whatcha got in there?"

"You'd never believe it."

"I can call in a K-9 unit, Mr. Spree. If you want to do this the hard way."

"K-9s in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea," Twilly marveled. "What are they sniffing for, bootleg Metamucil?"

A second squad car brought a trained German shepherd named Spike. Twilly and McGuinn were ordered to stand back and observe. Twilly spied the Labrador looking up at him querulously. "You're right," Twilly muttered to the dog. "I'm an asshole."

The young cop lowered the tailgate, and the trained German shepherd sprung into the bed of the pickup. One whiff at the steamer chest and Spike went white-eyed – yapping, snapping, scratching at the locks, turning circles.

"God Almighty," said the K-9 cop.

"I got the trunk at a yard sale," Twilly said. "They said it came over on the Queen Mary."'True enough.

"The hell you got in there, son?"

Twilly sighed. He approached the pickup and said, "May I?"

"Do it," said the younger cop.

Twilly flipped the latches and opened the lid of the chest. When Spike the drug-sniffing shepherd saw what was inside, he vaulted off the tailgate and bounded, whimpering, into the cage of his master's squad car. Both policemen trained their lights on the contents of the steamer trunk.

The K-9 cop, trying not to sound shocked: "What's the story here?"

"It's dead," said Twilly.

"I'm listening."

"That's just ice, dry ice. It's not dope."

"What a helpful guy," said the K-9 cop.

"There's no law against possessing a dead dog," Twilly asserted, although he wasn't certain.

The officers stared at the roadkill Labrador. One of them said: "Happened to the ear?"

"Vulture," replied Twilly.

"So, why are you driving around with this ... this item in your truck?" the younger cop asked.

"Because he's a deeply twisted fuckhead?" the K-9 officer suggested.

"I'm on my way to bury it," Twilly explained.

"Where?"

"The beach."

"Let me guess. Because Labs love the water?"

Twilly nodded. "Something like that."

The younger cop said nothing as he wrote Twilly a ticket for improper lane changing. Nor did he reply when Twilly asked if he'd ever lost a beloved pet himself.

"Look, this is notwhat you think," Twilly persisted. "He got hit by a car. He deserves a decent burial."

"Whatever." The young policeman handed him the ticket. "You can pay by mail."

"I don't blame you for being suspicious."

The K-9 officer said, "On the off chance you're telling the truth, don't try to bury this damn thing on the public beach."

"Why not? Is there a law against it?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Understand?"

The younger cop bent to stroke McGuinn's neck. "If I stop your truck again," he said to Twilly, "and there's twodead dogs inside. I'm going to shoot your ass. Law or no law."

"Your candor is appreciated," Twilly said.

After the policemen left, he drove south along A1A to Fort Lauderdale, where he parked across from Bahia Mar. He hoisted the steamer trunk out of his truck and, walking backward, dragged it along the sand. He stopped behind the Yankee Clipper Hotel and dug for more than an hour with his bare hands. No one stopped to ask what he was doing but around the steamer trunk a small crowd of curious tourists gathered, many of them Europeans. They acted as if they anticipated entertainment; a magic act, perhaps, or a busker! Twilly opened the lid to show them what was inside before he covered it up with sand. Afterward one of the tourists, a slight gray-bearded man, stepped up to the fresh grave and said a prayer in Danish. Soon he was joined by the others, each murmuring reverently in their native tongue. Twilly was deeply moved. He hugged the Dane, and then each of the other tourists one by one. Then he stripped off his clothes and dove into the ocean. When he got out of the water, he was alone on the beach.

He picked up Desie on Federal Highway, at the south end of the New River Tunnel. "A really super idea," she remarked when she got in the truck. "They think I'm a hooker, standing out here on the corner. I had a dozen guys stop and ask how much for a blow job."