"What did you tell them?"

"Very funny."

"Well," said Twilly, "you don't look like a hooker."

"Aw, what a sweet thing to say."

"Aren't we the sarcastic one?"

"Sorry," Desie said, "but I had a shitty day. And a fairly shitty night, too, come to think of it. Where's my dog?"

"Someplace safe."

"No more games, Twilly. Please."

"I had to be sure you came alone."

"Another vote of confidence. What're you staring at?"

"Nothing."

"Blue jeans, sandals and a Donna Karan pullover – is that what streetwalkers are wearing these days?"

Twilly said, "You look great. That's what I'm staring at."

"Well, don't." Self-consciously she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, tucking it into a blue elastic band. This gave Twilly quite a lovely angle on her neck.

"What's in the shopping bag, Mrs. Stoat?"

When she showed him, he broke into a grin. It was a paperback edition of The Dreadful Lemon Sky,a box of Tic Tacs, a jumbo bag of Liv-A-Snaps and a compact disc called Back From Rio,a solo album by Roger McGuinn, the dog's namesake.

Twilly slipped the CD into his dashboard stereo. "This is an extremely nice surprise. Thank you."

"Welcome."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Desie sniffled. "Everything." She was biting her lower lip.

"I'll shut up now," said Twilly. But they weren't even halfway to Miami Beach when he noticed her left foot tapping in time to the music. Twilly thought: She'll be all right. And it was nice with her sitting beside him again.

He'd reserved two ocean-view rooms at the Delano. Desie was incredulous. "The dog gets his own?" she asked in the elevator.

"The dog snores," Twilly explained, "and also farts."

"How'd you sneak him past the front desk?"

"Kate Moss is staying here."

"Go on," Desie said.

"She and her actor boyfriend. What's his name – Johnny Damon?"

"Johnny Depp."

"Right," Twilly said. "This is Johnny's dog. Johnny doesn't go anywhere without him. Johnny and the dog are inseparable."

"And they went for that?"

"Seemed to."

"Lord," said Desie.

The elevator was lit in red but the rooms were done entirely in white, top to bottom. McGuinn was so excited to see Desie that he dribbled pee on the alabaster tile. She took a white towel from the white bathroom and got on her knees to wipe up McGuinn's piddle. The dog thought she wanted to play – he flattened to a half crouch and began to bark uproariously.

"Hush!" Desie said, but she was soon laughing and rolling around on the floor with the dog. She noticed that the surgical staples had been removed from his belly.

"He's doing fine," said Twilly.

"Is he taking his pills?"

"No problemo."

"Roast beef?"

"No, he got hip to that. Now we're doing pork chops."

Desie went to the minibar, which was also white. She was reaching for a Diet Coke when she noticed it – a plastic Baggie. She picked it up, recognized what was inside and hastily put it back, between the table wafers and the Toblerone chocolate bar. With a gasp she said, "My God, Twilly."

He plopped down helplessly on the corner of the bed. McGuinn trotted to the other side of the room and tentatively positioned himself by the door.

"Where did it come from?" Desie asked.

"Same place as the ear."

Desie closed the door of the minibar.

"Don't worry," Twilly said, "I didn't kill anything. He was dead when I found him."

"On the road?" Desie spoke so softly that Twilly could barely hear her. "Did you find him on the road?"

"Yep."

Her eyes cut back toward the minibar. "What a weird coincidence, huh? Another black Lab."

"No coincidence. I was looking for one. I drove all over creation."

Desie sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."

"Well, what the hell was I supposed to do?" Twilly rose from the bed and began to pace. "And it worked, didn't it? The Great White Hunter fell for it."

"Yes, he did."

"Right, so don't give me that what-a-poor-sick-soul-you-are look. The animal was already dead, OK? He didn't need the ear anymore!"

Desie motioned him to sit down. She joined him on the bed and said, "Calm down, for heaven's sake. I'm surprised is all. I'm not being judgmental."

"Good."

"It's just ... I thought the ear was enough. I mean, I thought it worked like a charm. Governor Dick did what you wanted, didn't he? He vetoed the Shearwater bridge."

"Well, speaking from experience, it never hurts" – Twilly shooting to his feet again – "it never hurts to add an exclamation point."

"All right."

"So there's no ambiguity, no confusion whatsoever."

Desie said, "I understand."

"Excellent. Now, we'll need a cigar box."

"OK."

"A special cigar box," Twilly said. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Would you please chill out? Of course I'll help. But first – "

"What?"

"First, I think I know somebody," Desie said, turning toward the door, "who needs a nice long w-a-l-k ... "

McGuinn's ebony ears shot up and his tail began flogging the tile.

12

"I spoke to the governor."

Jesus, that wasn't what Palmer Stoat wanted to hear from Robert Clapley; not while Stoat was tied to a bar stool, trussed up with an electrical cord in his own kitchen, the maid off for the day and a blond stranger with a stubby-barreled gun standing over him.

And Robert Clapley pacing back and forth, saying things such as: "Palmer, you are a fuckweasel of the lowest order. Is that not true?"

This, less than two hours after Stoat had phoned Clapley to break the news about the governor's intention to veto the Shearwater Island bridge appropriation. Stoat, laying it off on Willie Vasquez-Washington – that sneaky spade/spic/redskin! – Stoat claiming it was Willie backing out of the deal, busting the governor's balls to make him sign some bullshit budget rider guaranteeing minority contractors for the new Miami baseball stadium. Haitian plasterers, Cuban drywallers, Miccosukee plumbers – God only knows what all Willie was demanding! Stoat telling Clapley: It's race politics. Bob. Amateur hour. Has nothing to do with you or me.

And Clapley, going ballistic (as Stoat had anticipated), hollering into the phone about betrayal, low-life double cross, revenge. And Stoat meanwhile working to soothe his young client, saying he had a plan to save the bridge. Wouldn't be easy, Stoat had confided, but he was pretty sure he could pull it off. Then telling Clapley about the special session of the legislature that Dick Artemus had planned – for beefing up the education budget, Stoat had explained. There'd be tons of dough to go around, too, plenty for Clapley's bridge. All he had to do was build an elementary school on Shearwater Island.

"Name it after yourself!" Stoat had enthused.

On the other end of the line there was a long silence that should have given Stoat the jitters, but it didn't. Then Robert Clapley saying, in a tone that was far too level: "A school."

You bet, Stoat had said. Don't you see, Bob? A school needs school buses, and a school bus cannot possibly cross that creaky old wooden bridge to the island. So they'll just have to build you a new one. They can't possibly say no!

More silence on Clapley's end, then what sounded like a grunt – and Stoat still not picking up on the inclemency of the situation.

"I think this is perfectly doable, Bob. I believe I can set this up."

And Clapley, still in a monotone: "For how much?"

"Another fifty ought to do it."

"Another fifty."

"Plus expenses. There'll be some travel," Stoat had added. "And some dinners, I expect."

"Let me get back to you, Palmer."

Which were Robert Clapley's last words on the matter, until he showed up unannounced at Stoat's house. Him and the freak in the houndstooth checked suit. The man was short and broadly constructed, with incongruously moussed-up hair – dyed, too, because the ends were egg white and spiky, giving the effect of quills. Clapley's man looked like he had a blond porcupine stapled to his skull.