"Did you tell that to the governor?"

"Oh sure. He said he'd loan me his MAC-10." Robert Clapley drummed the table impatiently. "What the hell's the matter with you? No,I didn't tell the governor."

Clapley informed Stoat that he, too, was a dog lover at heart. He would go along with the veto scam so that Stoat's Labrador retriever might be saved, and also to buy Mr. Gash some time to get a bead on this lunatic kidnapper.

"But I'm not building any elementary schools on Shearwater Island, not with my hard-laundered money. I made this crystal clear to our friend Governor Dick, and he said not to worry. He said it's all for show, the school item, and nobody'll remember to check on it later, after the bridge is up."

Stoat said, "The governor's right. They'll forget about it."

"So we'll get this little problem straightened out. I'm not concerned about that," said Clapley, "but I am disappointed in you, Palmer. After all I've done for you, the dove hunt and the free pussy and so forth ... "

"You're right, Bob. I should've told you as soon as it happened."

"Oh, not telling me was disappointing enough. But on top of it all you try to rip me off ... that takes kryptonite balls! Not just blaming Rainbow Willie for the veto but exploiting the dog situation for your own gain – I mean, that's about the lowest thing imaginable."

Stoat said, miserably, "I'm sorry." He should have had a backup plan; should have guessed that the hotheaded Clapley might contact the governor directly; should have known that Dick Artemus would've ignored Stoat's instructions and taken Clapley's phone call, Clapley being a platinum-plated campaign donor and Dick being an obsequious glad-handing maggot.

"I thought it was all bullshit, until I saw the ear." Clapley pointed solemnly toward the freezer. "I thought, Hell, Palmer's gotta be making it up, that weirdness about the dog ear. A fifty-thousand-dollar line of bullshit is what I figured. But you weren't, making it up."

"I'm afraid not."

"Which makes it worse. Which makes youworse," Clapley said. "Worse than the worst of turd fondlers, is this not true?"

Stoat, dull-eyed and slump-shouldered: "What do you want from me. Bob?"

"Fifty thousand bucks' worth of fun," Clapley replied without hesitation. "Let's start with a cheetah for the wall. I remember you told me about a place where I could shoot one. A place right here in Florida, so I wouldn't have to fly to Bumfuck, Africa, or wherever."

"Yes. It's called the Wilderness Veldt Plantation."

"Where you got your black rhino!"

"Right," Stoat said.

"So how about let's go there on a cheetah hunt. All expenses paid by you."

"No problem, Bob." Stoat thinking: Easy enough. One phone call to Durgess. "It'll take a little time to set up," he told Clapley, "in case they don't have a cat on the property. Then they'll have to order one."

"All the way from Africa? That could be months."

"No, no. They get 'em from zoos, circuses, private collectors. Two-day air freight. Three tops."

Robert Clapley said, "I want a goody."

"Of course."

"A prime pelt."

"Guaranteed." Stoat was dying for a drink and a cigar at Swain's. Something to kill the reek of fear, and also the aftertaste of rodent. Maybe Estelle the Republican prostitute would be there to listen to his tale of terror.

"A cheetah would be fantastic, really fantastic," Robert Clapley was saying.

"I'll call you soon with the details."

"Terrific. Now, what else?"

Stoat shook his head helplessly. "What else do you want?"

"Something for the Barbies. Something special."

Stoat sagged in relief. "I've got just the thing." Opening a cupboard and removing the opaque Tupperware container; popping the lid and showing Clapley what was inside.

"Is that what I think it is?" Clapley wasn't pleased. "I hauled all kinds a shit in my day, but I never used the stuff. As a matter of policy, Palmer."

"It's not dope, Bob. It's rhinoceros horn. Powdered rhinoceros horn."

"Wow." Clapley, leaning closer, using a pinkie finger to touch the fine grains. "I heard about this," he said.

"The Barbies will love you for it. And love you and love you and love you." Stoat winked.

"No shit?"

"Magical erections, amigo. I want a full report."

Stoat inwardly congratulated himself for remembering about the rhino powder. Now he and Clapley were back to being buddies, almost. Clapley closed the Tupperware and tucked it like a football under one arm. Palmer Stoat felt a wave of liberation as he escorted him to the door.

"What exactly do I do with this stuff?" Clapley was saying. "Snort it or smoke it, or what?"

"Put some in your wine," Stoat advised. "You drink wine? Sprinkle some in there." That's what the Chinese man in Panama City had instructed.

"But how much? How much should I use?" asked Clapley.

Palmer Stoat didn't know the answer; he'd forgotten to question Mr. Yee about dosages. So Stoat told Clapley: "Normally I'd say a table-spoon, but for you, two. One for each Barbie."

Clapley laughed. "Well, I dotry not to play favorites."

"Exactly!" Now Stoat was laughing, too.

"Good night, Palmer. Sorry if Mr. Gash gave you a fright, but it's important to get these things out in the open."

"Speaking of which" – Stoat, giving a worried backward glance over his shoulder – "I almost forgot, Bob. What about that damn rat?"

"Oh, you keep it," said Clapley amiably. "It's yours."

Contrary to popular assumption, Lisa June Peterson was not sleeping with her boss. To be sure, she had been hired by Dick Artemus with that in mind. The three names, the long straw-blond hair, the impeccable Tri Delt credentials from Florida State – she was everything the new governor desired in a junior staff assistant. But his lubricious plans for Lisa June had been derailed by her unexpected and dazzling competency, which made her too valuable to be a mistress. Dick Artemus was not a brilliant man but he appreciated talent, especially talent that made him look good. Lisa June was meticulous, quick-thinking and intuitive, and she advanced quickly to the important position of executive assistant – gatekeeper to the governor's office. Nobody got a personal audience with Dick Artemus unless Lisa June Peterson checked off on it. No phone call reached the governor's desk without ringing first at Lisa June's. And, consequently, it was largely because of her that Dick Artemus's office appeared to run smoothly.

He would have been disappointed to know that Lisa June Peterson's fierce and protective efficiency had nothing to do with loyalty. She was assiduous and responsible by nature. It was not the rare honor of working for a governor that had drawn her to the job but rather a keen and calculating curiosity. Lisa June wanted to learn how government really worked, wanted to know who held the true power, and how they'd gotten it. She was looking down the road – long after Dick Artemus had returned to his Toyota tent jamborees in Jacksonville – to a day when she herself could be a serious player, putting to good use all the tricks she'd learned, all the contacts she'd made while baby-sitting Governor Dick ...

"Where do you see yourself, hon?" he'd ask her now and then.

And she would answer: "Someday I'd like to be a lobbyist."

Dick Artemus would crinkle his face as if he'd just stepped in dog shit, as if lobbying was the most loathsome job in the universe. Lisa June Peterson was always tempted to say something sarcastic about the lustrous ethical standards of your average car salesman ...

But she held her tongue, and took the calls. For someone who professed to despise lobbyists, the new governor counted plenty of them as friends. And they were (Lisa June was the first to admit) a mostly purulent lot. Neggy Keele, the NRA's seedy point man in Tallahassee, sprung instantly to mind. So did Carl Bandsaw, the pinstriped hustler who represented sugarcane growers and phosphate miners. And then there was sweaty-faced Palmer Stoat, the boss hog of them all. No cause was too abhorrent for Stoat – he'd work for anybody and anything, if the price was right. In addition to the requisite lack of a conscience, Stoat had been blessed with a monumental ego; he was openly proud of what he did. He considered it prestigious, the fixing of deals.