Sick Puppy

"Yeah. Whatever." What a whacked-out imagination she has, Stoat thought. He'd had no idea.

Desie stiffened beside him. "So you think I'm out of my mind? Isn't that what you just said?"

Palmer bowed his head and gingerly massaged his tender temples. "Look, Des, let's please finish talking about this tomorrow. I'm having a tough day's night."

His wife groaned in exasperation and rolled over.

Robert Clapley celebrated in his own special style. He returned with his share of the dove kill to the oceanfront condominium his company owned in Palm Beach. There he cooked the birds in a light wine sauce and lovingly served them to Katya and Tish, whom Clapley half-whimsically referred to as Barbie One and Barbie Two. Katya was from Russia; Tish was from the Czech Republic. They were both five ten and weighed approximately 130 pounds. Clapley didn't know their last names, or their true ages, and didn't ask. He had met them six months earlier on South Beach, at an all-night party thrown by a bisexual German real estate tycoon. The women told Clapley they were models and had come to Miami for new career opportunities. Steady fashion work was hard to come by in Eastern Europe, and the pay was lousy compared with that in France or the States. Robert Clapley thought Katya and Tish looked a bit flashy for big-time modeling, but they were plenty attractive enough for him. The fellow who'd thrown the party had taken Clapley aside and confided that it was he who had purchased the transatlantic plane tickets for Katya and Tish, and half a dozen other women who were exceptionally eager to come to America. The man had chosen them from an array of more than one hundred who had appeared on an audition videotape mailed to him by a "talent agency" in Moscow.

"But don't get the wrong idea. Bob. These girls are notcommon prostitutes," the man had assured Clapley.

No, Katya and Tish were not common. Within a week Clapley had installed them in one of his part-time residences, the sixteenth-floor Palm Beach condo, which featured a seven-jet Jacuzzi, a Bose sound system, and a million-dollar view of the Atlantic Ocean from every room. Katya and Tish were in heaven, and demonstrated their gratitude to Clapley with ferocious ardor. Occasionally they would go out to actual modeling tryouts, but for the most part they filled their days with swimming, su

Robert Clapley had been the youngest of five children, and the only boy. At some point in an otherwise unremarkable childhood, young Bob had developed a somewhat u

What did he so adore about the plastic dolls? Their pneumatic and shapely flawlessness, to be sure. Each Barbie was dependably perfect to the eye and feel. That Clapley's obsession had an eccentric sexual component, there was no doubt, but he would have argued on the side of harmless fantasy over perversion. And indeed he treated the toy Barbies with the utmost veneration and civility, undressing them only long enough to change (or iron) their exquisite miniature outfits. I

So strong was their desire to remain in the United States (and retain twenty-four-hour spa privileges at Robert Clapley's condominium tower), that Katya and Tish weren't completely unreceptive to his ambitiously twisted proposal. Matching the hair was a cinch; the blond hue of Clapley's choosing came in a brand-name bottle. The surgery, however – to begin with identically sized breast implants – was the cause of some trepidation for the two women.

There's absolutely nothing to worry about! Clapley insisted. America has the best doctors in the world!

Ultimately, Katya and Tish were persuaded to go along, cajoled and flattered and spoiled as they were by their enthusiastic young host. And Clapley was enthralled to observe the concurrent transformations, each cosmetic refinement bringing him closer to his dream of living live-in Barbies. No, it wouldn't be long now!

He sat at the head of the di

And Stoat, like every man who'd recently met Katya and Tish, undoubtedly would lean over to his host and whisper: Wow, Bob, are those really twins?

And Robert Clapley would smile and answer the way he always did.

No, but they will be soon.

Vecker Darby's house blew up and burned down while Twilly Spree was asleep. Twilly would notice the photograph in the newspaper two days later, and sleep just as soundly that night. "Justice," he'd mutter to McGui

They were parked in palmetto scrub off a dirt road near Zolfo Springs when Vecker Darby came into their lives. It was close to midnight. Presumably, Desirata Stoat was home in Fort Lauderdale with her worthless dick-head of a husband, and Twilly found himself thinking about her. He was sitting in the rental car with an empty pizza box on his lap. McGui

Twilly had the radio turned up loud for Derek and the Dominoes, so at first he didn't hear Vecker Darby's flatbed truck. Certainly he didn't see it, as Vecker Darby was driving without headlights. Twilly was drumming his fingertips on the pizza box and wondering if, in retrospect, he'd been too hasty in his decision to ditch Mrs. Stoat in Bronson. Not that she would run to the cops; he had a strong feeling she wouldn't. No, what bothered Twilly was how he sort of missed her. She was good company; plus, she had a lovely laugh. The dog was terrific, a real champ, but he didn't light up the car the way Desie Stoat did.

I wonder if I'll ever see her again, Twilly thought.