"Fucking olive oil," Robert Clapley growled. "And I meanfucking olive oil."

"What else they were taking," Stoat asked, "besides the rhino powder?"

"Hash, ecstasy, God knows what – trust me, you'd need a moon suit to go in their bathroom." Clapley laughed mirthlessly. "Some asshole they met at the spa sent up some Quaaludes. When's the last time you ever sawan actual Quaalude, Palmer? You can't find that shit in a pharmaceutical museum."

The men moved to the bay window that overlooked the sundeck, where Katya and Tish floated toe-to-toe in the Jacuzzi, with their eyes closed. Today they did not look much like Barbie dolls. They looked like whored-up junkies. In fact they were so blotched and bloated and unappetizing that Palmer Stoat almost felt sorry for Robert Clapley – almost, but not quite. This was, after all, the same prick who'd called him a turd fondler; the same prick who'd threatened him and brought that psycho Porcupine Head into his home. Therefore it was impossible for Stoat to be wholly sympathetic to Clapley's predicament.

"Where does it stand now. Bob? Between you and the twins."

"Limp is how it stands," Clapley said. Nervously he tightened the sash on his bathrobe. Stoat noticed a fresh scab on one earlobe, where once there had been a diamond stud.

"Here's the thing. The last couple days were wild, real carny stuff," said Clapley. "Truth is, the rhino horn didn't do a damn thing for me except ruin a perfectly good bourbon. But the girls, Palmer, they think it's some kind of supercharged jingle crack ... "

"But they were stoned, anyway."

"The point is," Clapley said, raising a hand, "the point is, they think it was the rhinoceros powder that gave 'em the big wet high. They believe,Palmer, and that's ninety percent of what dope is about: believing in it. And these are not – let me remind you, pardner – these are not the most sophisticated ladies you'll ever meet. They escape from a dull, cold, miserable place and end up in beautiful sunny South Florida, a.k.a. paradise. Everything's supposed to be new and exciting here. Everything's supposed to be better. Not just the weather but the drugs and the cock and the parties. The whole nine yards."

Through the tinted glass Stoat studied the two nude women in the tub, their impossibly round implants poking out of the water like shiny harbor buoys. The bright sun was brutally harsh on their facial features; puffy eyelids, puffy lips. Their sodden, matted hair looked like clumps of blond sargassum – Stoat could see by the dark roots it was time for refresher dye jobs. He heard Clapley say: "They want more."

"They used it all up?"

Clapley nodded grimly. "And now they want more."

"Bob, that shit is extremely hard to come by."

"I can imagine."

"No, you can't. You have no idea."

"Problem is, they're supposed to get their chins done next week," Robert Clapley said. "I've got the top chin guy in the whole goddamn world flying in first-class from Sao Paulo. But the girls – get this – first thing this morning they announce: No more sex and no more surgery and no more Barbie wardrobe until we get rhino dust. That's what they call it, rhino dust."

"How adorable." Palmer Stoat, stroking his own artificially sculpted chin. "My advice, Bob? Deport these ingrates straight back to the motherland, then get on with your life."

Clapley looked pained. "You don't understand. I had plans for these two. I had a timetable."

"Bob, you can always find new Barbies to climb your little staircase to heaven. Florida's crawling with 'em."

"Not like these. Not twins."

"But they're notreally twins, for Christ's sake – "

Robert Clapley seized Stoat's arm. "I have too much invested here. And not just time and money, Palmer. This is an important project to me. They" –jerking his head toward the hot tub – "are important to me."

A project, Stoat mused. Like customizing Chevys.

"Christmas," Clapley was saying. "We're right on schedule to be finished by the Christmas holidays – everything, head to toe. That's how close we are."

"They're hookers, Bob. They'll do whatever you tell them."

"Not anymore." Clapley wheeled away from the window. "Not without the rhino dust."

Palmer Stoat followed him into the living room. "I'll make some calls. I can't promise anything."

"Thank you." Clapley sagged into an over-stuffed chair.

"But I'm not responsible for what might happen. They could croak smoking that stuff. They could fall down dead right before your eyes. Where'd they get such a damn fool idea?"

"TV probably. For some reason they decided to put the shit in a pipe. They were sucking it out of a glass pipe. Then they were sucking on me – "

"Enough. I get the picture," Stoat said.

"Then Spa Boy showed up and they were sucking on him, and he was sucking on them ... " Robert Clapley clicked his teeth. "Oh, it was a regular tropical suckfest, Palmer. You should've been here."

"No thanks. I had my own excitement."

"Yeah?" Clapley gave a halfhearted leer.

"That's what I need to talk to you about. The dognapper."

"What now?"

"He sent me a paw," Stoat said, "in a Cuban cigar box."

Clapley grunted. "To go with the ear? Man, that's cold."

"Here's what else, Bob. He's got my wife."

"Still? I thought – didn't you tell me he let her go?"

"He did," said Stoat. "But he got her again."

"How, for God's sake?"

"Who knows. Point is, he's most definitely got her."

"Plus the dog?" Clapley asked.

"That's right."

"Damn." Clapley looked exasperated. "What a sick fucking world. Sick, sick, sick."

"Speaking of which," said Palmer Stoat, "your charming Mr. Gash – where might he be, Bob?"

"Shearwater Island, last I heard. Hunting for the sicko dognapper."

Palmer Stoat said, "Call him off, please."

"What for?"

"I don't want him anywhere near my wife. Call him off until this puppy-slicing freak lets her go."

"What if he doesn't let her go?"

"He will," Stoat said. "Governor Dick vetoed your twenty-eight-million-dollar bridge. It was in the papers this morning."

The veto was a very sore subject with Clapley. "You're damn lucky to be alive," he reminded Palmer Stoat.

"I know, I know. The point is, Bob, that's all the dognapper guy asked for – the veto. So now he'll think he won."

Clapley fidgeted impatiently. "And you're saying this twerp is as good as his word. Some demented fruitcake who's mailing you chunks of your pet dog – him you trust. Is that about the size of it?"

"Look, I want him out of the picture as much as you do. Once Desie's free, then Mr. Gash can go do his thing and you can get on with Shearwater. Just give it a couple days, that's all I'm asking. Until she's home safe and sound."

"The dog, too?" Robert Clapley said. "Or should I say, what's left of the dog."

Stoat ignored the snideness. "When does Mr. Gash usually check in?"

"When there's a result to report."

"Next time he calls – "

"I'll be sure to relay your concerns," Clapley said, "and in the meantime, you'll make inquiries about purchasing another rhinoceros horn."

Stoat nodded. "If I find one, it won't be cheap."

"When did perfection ever come cheap?"

Clapley smiled wearily. "Do your best, Palmer." A commotion arose from outside, on the deck. Clapley hurried to the door, Stoat at his heels. The two Barbies were fighting in the Jacuzzi, throwing punches and shrieking in two thickly dissonant tongues. As Clapley waded haplessly into the hot tub, Palmer Stoat could not help but reflect once more on the seedy, disturbing downturn his own life had taken. Here he was, standing in the scorching sun like a eunuch servant, obediently holding a silk robe for a man – his own client! – who had filled both pockets with dolls. Not only dolls but a tiny hand mirror and makeup kits and a hairbrush, too!