The black dog! It was like a damn Disney flick, a plucky hound swimming to the rescue, dragging him to the top for air ...

Except it wasn't a dog bringing him up. It was Desie, one arm behind his head, holding him upright while she adjusted the pillows. The first thing Twilly saw when he opened his eyes was the pale cleft at the base of her neck. He leaned forward to kiss it, a deed that (judging by the pain) split open his chest.

Desie was smiling. "Somebody's feeling better."

"Lots," Twilly gasped.

"Don't try to talk," she said, "or smooch."

She pecked him on the forehead; not a good sign. They always pecked him on the forehead right before they said good-bye.

"I'm sorry about everything," he told her.

"Why? I was there because I wanted to be."

"You leaving?"

She nodded. "Hot-lanta. Spend some catchup time with the folks."

"I love you," Twilly said blearily, though it was absolutely true. It was also true he would fall in love with the next woman who slept with him, as always.

Desie Stoat said, "I know you do."

"You look incredible."

"It's the Demerol, darling. I look like hell. Get some rest now."

"What about that man ... "

"Oh!" Desie tweaked his ankle through the blanket. "You'll never guess who he is!"

When she told him, Twilly acted as if he'd been mainlined with pure adrenaline. His head rocked off the bed and he blurted: "I know that name! From my mother."

"Clinton Tyree?"

"The whole story! She thought he was a hero. My father said he was a nut."

Desie said, "Well, he hit on me in the helicopter."

"See? That proves he's sane." Twilly flashed a weak smile before sinking back on the pillows.

"He also expressed an extremely low opinion of my husband. He said a school-yard flasher would be a step up."

Twilly chuckled. A nurse bustled in to fiddle with the drip on his IV bag. She told him to get some sleep, and on her way out favored Desie with a scalding glare.

"I spoke to Palmer this morning. Just to let him know I'm OK," Desie said. "He sounded happy as a clam. He's going hunting this weekend with Governor Dick and – guess who else – Robert Clapley. I suppose they're celebrating Shearwater."

Twilly grunted curiously. "Hunting for what? Where?"

"Honey, even if I knew, I'd never tell." Desie wore a sad smile. She traced a finger lightly down his cheek. "All that crazy talk about killing somebody – you keep it up, hotshot, you're headed for an early grave. Call me selfish but I don't want to be around when it happens."

Twilly Spree spoke out of a fog. "Have faith," he said.

Desie laughed ruefully. "Faith I've got. It's good sense I'm dangerously short of."

When she stood up to go, Twilly saw she was wearing a new sundress: sea green with spaghetti straps. It put a knot in his heart.

"I need a favor. It's McGuinn," Desie said. "Could you keep him until I get squared away? My mom's deathly allergic to dogs."

"What about Palmer?"

"Nossir. I might not get much out of this divorce, Twilly, but my husband is notkeeping McGuinn. Please, can you take care of him?"

"Sure." Twilly liked the dog and he liked the idea of seeing Desie again, when she came to collect him. "Where is he now?"

"With Lieutenant Tile and you-know-who. The motel where I'm staying won't take pets." Desie picked up her purse. "I've got a flight to catch. Promise me one more thing."

"Shoot."

She put one knee on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to kiss him; a proper kiss this time. Then she whispered, "Don't make love to anyone else in front of the dog. He'll be so confused."

"Promise." Playfully, Twilly tried to grab her straps, but she slipped away.

"Be good. There're four humongous cops outside your door with nobody to pound on."

Twilly tried a feeble salute. He could barely lift his arm.

"Good-bye, hon," Desie said.

"Wait. That other guy, Gash ... "

Her eyes hardened. "Freak accident," she said.

"It happens." Suddenly Twilly was very sleepy. "Love you, Desie."

"So long, tiger."

caller: Hep meh! Peezh!

dispatcher: Do you have an emergency?

caller: Yeah, I gah a emoozhezhee! I gah a fugghy boo-gozer oh meh azzhhh!

dispatcher: 'Boo-gozer'? Sir, I'm sorry, but you'll have to speak more clearly. This is Levy County Fire Rescue, do you have an emergency to report?

caller: Yeah! Hep! Mah baggh is boge! Ah bing zzhaa eng mah fay! I ngee hep!

dispatcher: Sir, do you speak English?

caller: Eh izzh Engizh! Mah ung gaw zzha off! Whif ah gung!

dispatcher: Hang on, Mr. Boogozer, I'm transferring you to someone who can take the information ...

caller: Ngooohh! Hep! Peezh!

dispatcher two: Diga. Donde estas?

caller: Aaaaaagghh!!!

dispatcher two: Tienes un emergencia?

caller: Oh fugghh. I gaw die.

dispatcher two: Senor, por favor, no entiendo nada que estas diciendo.

caller: Hep! ... Hep!

26

As a car salesman Dick Artemus encountered plenty of pissed-off folks – furious, frothing, beet-faced customers who believed they'd been gypped, deceived, baited, switched or otherwise butt-fucked. They were brought to Dick Artemus because of his silky demeanor, his indefatigable geniality, his astounding knack for making the most distraught saps feel good about themselves – indeed, about the whole human race! Regardless of how egregiously they'd been screwed over, no customers walked out of Dick Artemus's office angry; they emerged placid, if not radiantly serene. It was a gift, the other car salesmen would marvel. A guy like Dick came along maybe once every fifty years.

As governor of Florida, this preternatural talent for bullshitting had served Dick Artemus exquisitely. Even his most virulent political enemies conceded he was impossible not to like, one-on-one. So how could it be, Dick Artemus wondered abjectly, that Clinton Tyree alone was immune to his personal magnetism? The man did notlike him; detested him, in fact. Dick Artemus could draw no other conclusion, given that the ex-governor now held him by the throat, pinned to the wood-paneled wall of the gubernatorial dining room. It had happened so fast – dragged like a rag doll across the table, through the remaining tangy crescent of Key lime pie – that Dick Artemus had not had time to ring for Sean or the bodyguards.

Clinton Tyree's brows twitched and his glass eyeball fluttered, and his grip was so hateful that the governor could not gulp out a word. That's the problem, Dick Artemus lamented. If only this crazy bastard would ease up, maybe I could talk my way out of this mess.

In the tumult Clinton Tyree had lost his shower cap, and his refulgent bullet-headed baldness further enhanced the aura of menace.

Looming inches from the governor's meringue-smudged nose, he said: "I oughta open you up like a mackerel."

It hurt Dick Artemus to blink, his face was so pinched.

"Nothing must happen to disturb my brother. Ever,"the ex-governor whispered hoarsely.

Dick Artemus managed a nod, the hinges of his jaw painfully obstructed by the brute's thumb and forefinger.

"What exactly do you believe in, sir?"

"Uh?" peeped Dick Artemus.

"The vision thing. What's yours – tract homes and shopping malls and trailer parks as far as the eye can see? More, more, more? More people, more cars, more roads, more houses." Clinton Tyree's breath was hot on the governor's cheeks. "More, more, more," he said. "More, more, more, more, more, more, more ... "

Dick Artemus felt his feet dangling – the madman was hoisting him one-handed by the neck. A terrified squeak escaped from the governor.

"I didn't fit here, Dick," Clinton Tyree was saying. "But you! This is your place and your time. Selling is what you do best, and every blessed inch of this state is for sale. Same as when I had your job, Dickie, only the stakes are higher now because there's less of the good stuff to divvy up. How many islands are left untouched?"