Krimmler did not, as it turned out, shoot off any of his own body parts. He went for the .357 exactly once, dislodging it from his waistband and knocking it all the way down his baggy right pants leg. It landed with a clunk on the flimsy floor of the construction trailer, where it was retrieved by the smiling bald-headed bum with the racing flag around his waist.

"You rascal," the bum said to Krimmler.

"Gimme that!" Krimmler exclaimed.

The bum tapped the bullets out of the cylinder, then handed the empty gun to the engineer.

"Good way to shoot off your pecker," the bum remarked.

"What do you want!"

"I'm looking for a young man, a woman and a dog. A black Labrador retriever."

Krimmler said, "What is this! Don't tell me you work for Mr. Clapley, too?"

The bald bum began twirling the long, grungy-looking braids of his beard. Some sort of shrunken-looking artifact was attached to each end.

He said, "The Lab might be missing an ear. Other parts, too."

"I'll you tell you the same thing I told that other guy," Krimmler said. This bounty hunter was even bigger and worse-dressed than Mr. Gash. He also had a bad eye, which made him appear even more unstable.

"I don't know where your boy is," Krimmler said, "or his goddamned dog, either. If he's not camping at the beach, he's probably at the b-and-b. Or maybe he left the island. Tourists sometimes do, you know."

The bum said, "I don't work for Clapley."

"I knew it, you asshole!"

"I work for Governor Richard Artemus."

"Right," said Krimmler, "and I'm Tipper Gore."

"One question, sir."

"Go fuck yourself," Krimmler said, "but first go take a bath."

That's when the bum slapped Krimmler. He slapped him with an open hand – Krimmler saw it coming. Slapped him with an open hand so hard it knocked Krimmler unconscious for forty-five minutes. When he awoke, he was naked and halfway up a tall pine tree, wedged loosely in the crotch of three branches. The scratchy bark was murder on his armpits and balls. His jaw throbbed from the blow.

The sky had clouded and the wind had kicked up cold from the west. Krimmler felt himself swaying with the tree. On a nearby limb sat the bum in the racing-flag skirt. He was sipping a cream soda and reading (with his normal eye) a paperback book.

He glanced up at Krimmler and said: "One question, sir."

"Anything," Krimmler said weakly. He had never been more terrified. The treetops undoubtedly were full of goddamned squirrels, mean as timber wolves!

The bum said, "What 'other guy'?"

"The one with the snuff tape."

"Tell me more." The bum closed his book and put it in the pocket of his rain jacket, along with his empty cream-soda can.

"He had a tape of some poor slob dying. Getting stabbed to death by his girlfriend. Live, as it happened." Krimmler was scared to look down, as he was afraid of heights. He was also scared to look up, for fear of seeing one of those squirrels or possibly even a band of mutant chipmunks. So he squeezed his eyes shut.

The bum said: "What'd this other guy look like?"

"Short. Muscle-bound. Bad suit, and hair to match."

"Blondish?" the bum inquired. "Spiked out like a hedgehog?"

"That's him!" Krimmler felt relieved. Now the bum knew he was being truthful, and therefore had no compelling reason (other than Krimmler's general obnoxiousness) to push him out of the tree. The bum rose to stretch his arms, the pine bough creaking under his considerable weight. At the sound, Krimmler opened his eyes.

The bum asked, "What's the guy's name?"

"Gash," Krimmler replied. A chilly raindrop landed on his bare thigh, causing him to shiver. Another drop fell on his back.

"Last name or first?"

"Mr. Gash is what he called himself."

"What did he want with the young man and the dog?"

"He said Mr. Clapley had sent him. He said the kid was a troublemaker. I didn't ask him what he meant." The rising wind made the pine needles thrum. Krimmler clawed his fingernails into the bark. "Can you please get me down from here?"

"I can," said the bum, hopping to a lower branch, "but I don't believe I will."

"Why the hell not! What're you doing!" "

Gotta go," the bum informed the quaking Krimmler. "Bath time."

22

The man in the zippered shoes said, "I've killed my share of dogs."

"I don't doubt it," said Twilly.

"Kitty cats, too."

"Oh, I believe you."

"And one time, some jerkwad's pet monkey. Bernardo was his name. Bernardo the baboon. Came right out of his halter and went for my scalp," the man said. "They say monkeys are so smart? Bullshit. Dogs're smarter."

"Yeah," said Twilly.

"But I'll shoot this one, you try and get cute."

"Well, he's not mine."

"What're you saying?" The rain was flattening the spikes in the man's hair. He held his right arm straight, the gun trained on the Labrador's brow. "You don't care if I pop this mutt?"

Twilly said, "I didn't say that. I said he doesn't belong to me. He belongs to the guy who sent you here."

"Wrong!" The man made a noise like the buzzer on a TV game show. "He belongs to a major asshole named Palmer Stoat."

"Didn't he hire you?"

The man cackled and made the sarcastic buzzer noise again. "Would I work for a fuck-head like that? Ha!"

"What was I thinking," Twilly said.

"Mr. Clapley's the one that hired me."

"Ah."

"To clean out the troublemakers. Now, how about you get a move on. Call the damn dog and let's go," the man said, "before we get soaked. Where's your car?"

"That way." Twilly nodded down the beach.

"Your lady friend?"

"Gone." Twilly thinking: God, I hope so. "We had a fight. She split."

"Too bad. I had some plans."

Twilly changed the subject. "Can I ask you something?"

"My name is Mr. Gash."

That's when Twilly became aware that the man in the brown zippered shoes intended to kill him. The man would not have offered his name unless he knew Twilly wouldn't be alive to repeat it.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Long as your feet keep moving," said the man.

They were walking along the windswept shoreline, Twilly with McGuinn at his heels. Mr. Gash followed a few feet behind. He was taking care not to get his shoes wet in the surf.

"Why are you pointing the gun at the dog," Twilly said, "and not at me?"

"Because I saw how you hauled ass up here when you thought Fido was in trouble. You care more about that dumb hound than you do about yourself," Mr. Gash said. "So I figure you won't try any crazy shit long as I keep the piece aimed at Fido's brain, which I'm sure is no bigger than a stick of Dentyne."

Twilly reached down and scratched the crown of McGuinn's head. The Lab wagged his tail appreciatively. He seemed to have lost interest in the strange-smelling human with the gun.

"Also," said Mr. Gash, "it'll be cool to watch you watch the dog die. Because that's what has to happen. I gotta do Fido first."

"How come?"

"Think about it, man. I shoot you first, the dog goes batshit. I shoot the dog first, what the hell're you going to do – bite me in the balls? I seriously doubt it."

Twilly said, "Good point."

His legs felt leaden and his arms were cold; the temperature was dropping rapidly ahead of the weather front. The salt spray stung, so Twilly kept his eyes lowered as he walked. He could see Desie's footprints in the sand, pointing in the same direction.

Mr. Gash was saying: "I got tape of a hellacious dog attack. Chow named Brutus. The owner's on the phone yelling for help and Brutus gets him by the nuts and will not let go. The 911 operator tells the guy to, quick, try and distract the dog. So the poor fucker, he dumps a pot of Folger's decaf on Brutus and the last thing on the tape is this scream that goes on forever. Damn dog took everything! I mean the whole package."