"I'll be sure to pass that along."

After the trooper was gone, the governor poured himself some fine bourbon and sat back to reflect on simpler times, when the worst thing he had to do was sell cherry-red pinstriping to helpless widows in two-door Corollas.

13

Estella was the name.

"Would you care for a drink?" asked Palmer Stoat. Then, to the bartender: "A vodka martini for my gorgeous guest."

The prostitute smiled tolerantly. "I remember you, too."

"I'm glad, Estella."

"You were quite the chatty one." She wore a violet cocktail dress and matching stockings. "You told me about a fishing trip with George Bush."

"Yes, that's right," Stoat said. "And you said he was the most underrated president since Hoover."

"He got a bum rap in the media, Bush did. Because he wasn't a smoothy, some TV glamour boy with big teeth." Estella's lipstick was a shade or two darker than her cocktail dress. She had nice skin and wore little makeup. Her hair, however, was myriad shades of blond. "I would've done him for free," she confided, "just to say thanks, Mr. Commander in Chief, for the Gulf War. He did a helluva number on those shitbird Iraqis."

Stoat said, "Plus he's a very nice guy. Very down-to-earth." Estella slid closer to the bar. "I saw him lose a hundred-pound tarpon at the boat," said Stoat. "The line snagged on the propeller and that's all she wrote. And he was such a damn good sport about it."

"Doesn't surprise me one bit." The prostitute plucked the cigar from Stoat's mouth and took a couple of dainty puffs. "How about President Reagan?" she asked. "Ever meet him?"

Man oh man, thought Stoat. This is just what the doctor ordered. "Several times," he said matter-of-factly to Estella. "Talk about impressive. Talk about charisma."

She returned the cigar, slipping it between his lips. "Tell me some stories, Palmer."

He felt a small hand settle confidently between his legs. To hell with Robert Clapley and Porcupine Head, Stoat thought. To hell with the dognapper and the Shearwater bridge. Even Desie – where the hell had shegone today? Well, to hell with her, too.

Because Stoat was at Swain's now, buzzing sweetly in a familiar cloud of blue haze, alcohol and perfume. He leaned close to the call girl and said: "Ronnie once told me a dirty joke."

Another self-aggrandizing lie. Reagan had never spoken so much as a word to him. "Wanna hear it?"

Estella was practically straddling Palmer Stoat now, the bar stool listing precariously. "Tell me!" She nudged him purposefully with a breast. "Come on, you, tell me!"

But as Stoat struggled to remember the punch line to the joke about the horny one-eyed parrot, the bartender (who'd told Stoat the joke in the first place) touched his sleeve and said: "Sorry to bother you, but this just came by courier."

Which highly annoyed Stoat, as Estella's hand was now tugging on a part of him that craved tugging. Stoat was ready to wave off the bartender when he noticed what the man was holding: a cigar box. Even through the smoke Stoat recognized the distinctively ornate label, the official seal of the Republic of Cuba, and of course could not suppress his excitement.

Pulling away from the call girl, even as her fingers worked on his zipper. Reaching across the bar for the cigar box, assuming it to be a gift from a grateful client. Thinking of how many years he'd been trying to get a line on this particular blend. Already imagining the best place to display the box in his bookcase, among his other treasures.

Stoat taking the box with both hands and noticing first that the seal had been broken, and, second, that the box seemed too light.

Setting it on the polished oak bar and opening the lid – Estella watching, her chin on his shoulder – to find no cigars inside the box, not a single one.

Only the paw of an animal; a black short-haired dog paw, severed neatly at the bone.

"What's that?" The prostitute craned to see.

Stoat was dumbstruck with disgust, the lunatic once again violating his sanctum.

"Lemme look," Estella said, releasing the tab on Stoat's zipper and extending the same inquisitive hand – she was a nimble one, Stoat had to admit – for the cigar box.

"Don't," he warned, too late.

Now she had the ghastly curio out of the box, turning it first one way and then another; tracing her painted fingernails around the velvety paw pads, playfully flicking at the sharp dewclaw.

"Palmer, is this some sorta joke? This can't be real."

Stoat clutched lugubriously at his drink. "I gotta go."

"Wow." Now Estella the prostitute was stroking the severed paw gently, as if it were alive. "Sure looks real," she remarked.

"Put it back, please. Back in the box."

"Holy Christ, Palmer!" In newfound revulsion she dropped the furry thing. It fell with a sploosh, stump-first into his brandy; lifeless doggy toenails hooking on the rim of the glass. Palmer Stoat snatched up the Cuban cigar box and made for the door.

Desie asked to see where he had buried the dead Labrador.

Twilly said, "You don't believe me."

"I believe you."

"No, you don't."

So they drove all the way back to Lauderdale. McGuinn rode in the bed of the pickup. The rush of seventy-mile-per-hour wind on the interstate made his ears stand out like bat wings. Desie said she wished she had a camera. Every time she spun around to look at the dog, Twilly got an amber glimpse of her neckline in the sodium streetlights. He liked the fact she wanted to see for herself about the other dog. Of course she would – after all, she was married to a compulsive bullshit artist. Why would she believe anything said to her by any man?

The beach behind the Yankee Clipper was nearly deserted, cast in a pinkish all-night dusk by the lights of the old hotel. The breeze had stiffened, and with it the splash and hiss of the surf. Twilly led Desie to the grave.

He said, "I suppose you want me to dig it up."

"That won't be necessary."

McGuinn sniffed intently at the fresh-turned sand.

"Ten bucks says he pees on it," Twilly said.

McGuinn cocked his head, as if he understood, and began circling a target zone.

"No!" Desie snatched up the leash and tugged the dog away from the grave. "This is so sad," she said.

"Yes."

"Didn't it creep you out? Cutting off the ear and the paw – "

"It's getting late, Mrs. Stoat. Time for you to go home."

"I left my purse at the Delano."

"We'll mail it to you," Twilly said.

"With my car keys and my house keys."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. My birth-control pills."

And I had to ask, Twilly thought. He nearly dozed off on the drive back to Miami Beach. Up in the hotel room he decided on a scalding shower, to rouse himself for more driving. From the bathroom he called to Desie: "Phone your husband and tell him you're on the way."

When Twilly came out, he found her in the white bed with the white covers pulled up to her throat. She said, "I'm afraid I got sand in your sheets. What time is it?"

"One-fifteen."

"I think I want to stay."

"I think I want you to stay."

"You're in no shape to drive."

"That's the only reason?"

"That's what I'm telling myself, yes."

"All right, stay. Because I'm in no shape to drive."

"Thank you," Desie said. "But no sex."

"Furthest thing from my mind."

Then McGuinn jumped on the bed and began licking her chin. Twilly said, "I could demand equal time."

"He's just a dog," said Desie. "You're a crazed felon."

"Move over."

That's how they spent the night, the three of them under a blanket at the Delano; Desie sandwiched in the middle. She awoke at dawn to husky dog breath, McGuinn's bullish head on the pillow beside her. Desie tried to turn over but she couldn't – Twilly's face was buried in the crook of her neck, his lips pressed softly against her skin. She didn't know it but he was dreaming.