Isle of Dogs (41 page)

“Thank you,” Barbie said, slipping out of her coat and revealing a rather sexy tight leather outfit that did not seem in keeping with her daintiness or soft voice. “I need the toolbox and the bag so I can work on Regina.”

Pony knew that Regina’s appearance required a lot of work, but it saddened him to think things had deteriorated to the point that tools were required. He escorted Barbie up the winding staircase to the First Family’s private quarters, where Regina was rummaging through her bedroom closet, pulling
out painter’s pants and sweatshirts and getting increasingly discouraged.

“Oh!” she said with relief when Barbie walked in and set the toolbox and bag on the bed. “I’m so glad you’re here! I can’t find anything to wear and I looked in the mirror a little earlier and scared myself. Do you really think you can make me pretty in time for the race?”

“Of course I do,” Barbie assured her as she looked out the window at the EPU troopers shoveling more woodchips into the limousine.

“That’s for Trip’s trip,” Regina explained.

“Trip-trip?” Barbie was baffled. “What’s a trip-trip?”

“No,
Trip’s
trip, not trip-trip,” Regina said. “Trip’s Papa’s new little minihorse that’s specially trained to guide blind people. Papa has to take him everywhere he goes, you see, and since I’m supervising, I did a little research on the subject and found out that minihorses do better in the car if they have woodchips.”

She paused to see if Barbie understood the point. Barbie didn’t.

“Sort of like being in a stall,” Regina offered a hint. “You know, like a litter box.”

“Oh,” Barbie said in amazement. “And here I was thinking they were planting a nice little mobile garden. Silly me. But I would think if a little horse does his business inside a limo—woodchips or not—it might prove a little unpleasant for whoever else is riding along.”

“Horse doo-doo doesn’t smell as bad as dog doo-doo,” Regina reminded Barbie. “And the minute Trip uses the bathroom, you just scoop woodchips over it and you don’t even know it’s there.”

“Then what happens when you get up in the governor’s box at the race?” Barbie worried as she opened the toolbox and began to arrange bottles of foundation, blemish cover-up, nail polish, hair treatments, and dyes, along with dozens of other cosmetics, on top of an antique walnut high chest.

“If he needs to go out, he’ll paw the door,” Regina replied. “Then I’ll take him down in the elevator and find a patch of grass somewhere. What are the scissors for? Are you going to cut my hair?”

Barbie told Regina to sit in the Shaker rocker and be still for a moment. Barbie circled her most challenging project, taking in the overall scene and deciding that Regina’s long, frizzy dark hair with its split ends had to go.

“Let me see your teeth,” Barbie said.

Regina opened her mouth wide and curled back her lips, revealing yellowing teeth that, ironically, could very well belong to a minihorse, Barbie thought.

“I brought some tooth bleach,” she said with more optimism than she felt. “So let’s put the bleach on now and give it a chance to at least begin working. As for your hair, dear, it has no color at all, really. I suppose it’s sort of a brindle—a splotchy mix of brown and black. And I think the solution is to dye it black and cut it just below your ears, layering it, of course, and this will help to soften your nose and chin.

“I also thought to bring along a nice tanning solution that you’ll put on after your salt scrub, Dead Sea soak, manicure, pedicure, and mud mask. You’ll turn a nice golden brown without exposing your skin to even one ray of damaging sun. Isn’t that exciting?”

Regina wasn’t sure. For one thing, she had not anticipated that Barbie might expect Regina to strip completely naked and allow an almost-stranger to rub salt, mud, and lotions all over Regina’s corpulent body.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Barbie said as she draped a towel around Regina’s neck and began snipping away huge clumps of hair that reminded Barbie of tumbleweeds in old Westerns she sometimes watched with Lennie. “I’m aware from our counseling session that you have a very poor self-image and hate your body, and probably are just a wee bit nervous about being naked and having things rubbed, peeled, scraped, and scrubbed over every inch of you, but you’ll be fine and just so pleased when you see the result.”

“Nothing you scrub me with will get rid of all this fat,” Regina candidly pointed out as more hair tumbled across the floor. Under ordinary circumstances, the idea of having her body so completely manipulated would have been secretly pleasant.

But Barbie Fogg wasn’t Regina’s type. Not at all. Barbie wasn’t robust enough and struck Regina as the sort who could
probably touch and knead another woman all day long and experience not the slightest tingle or desire for more. Regina doubted that Barbie had much interest in anything physical from anyone, and in that regard was probably similar to Regina’s mother, who for as long as Regina could remember had been far more interested in collectibles, such as cast-iron banks, old coffee and tobacco cans, and trivets, than in wild, erotic same-sex or opposite-sex or even self-sex.

“We’ll start you on a diet immediately,” Barbie said as she snipped, snipped. “Which means you’ll need to stay clear of the buffet tables at the race, okay? A nice salad, and lots of celery, carrots, and radishes will have to tide you over, but in the meantime, don’t be so negative. You know what they say,
clothes are a girl’s best friend,
and I went to the trouble to pop by a sweet little boutique and pick out something just perfect for you.”

“What?” Regina was almost afraid to ask as Barbie began to layer strands of hair with a razor.

“Oh, it’s just the cutest thing. To die for, really. I intuited what you might feel comfortable in and what suits your overall face, figure, and personality, and came up with this simply perfect denim outfit! I couldn’t believe it when I found it! Now, hold still and try not to rock. Such a lovely rocking chair, by the way, but I don’t want to cut you with the razor as I shave the back of your neck before we do a nice waxing of your upper lip and chin, and maybe clean up your eyebrows and sideburns.

“Anyway, what I found is a pair of stonewashed overalls that have a cute skirt instead of pants, and you can wear it with this darling long-sleeved silk shirt that’s designed to look like a lumberman’s shirt, only it’s got a lace collar and will show off your bust, which will really be enhanced by the push-up bra I found. I had to guess, but you look like a forty-four D, am I right?”

“I don’t usually wear a bra,” Regina replied through a shower of shredded hair. “I hate bras and wear undershirts most of the time because nobody really sees me through sweatshirts, anyway.”

“Well, people will certainly see you tonight,” Barbie cheerfully piped. “You’ll have so much cleavage you could pack a
picnic in it! As for shoes, because no outfit is complete without them, I found an adorable pair of bright red patent leather high-top tennis shoes. Can you imagine? They have a Converse seal on the ankles made out of sequins, and white leather laces, and you’ll wear them with designer socks that are supposed to look like old-fashioned tube socks, but these are made of silk! Now let me guess, your shoe size is a twelve? And your dress size is a sixteen?”

“Men’s or women’s?” Regina asked, holding very still as Barbie worked away with the razor, cleaning up the back of Regina’s neck. “I always wear men’s stuff, so I don’t know what size I wear in women’s.”

“Don’t you worry for a minute. I’m very good at guessing people’s sizes,” Barbie promised as she stepped back to admire her work. “I suppose it’s because, as a professional counselor, I have to be good at sizing people up. There.”

Barbie held a hand mirror so Regina could admire her new hair style.

“I don’t know,” Regina said with misgivings. “It’s shaped exactly like one of those helmets the race-car drivers wear.”

“The newest rage,” Barbie beamed. “It’s called a
NASCOIF.
Isn’t that just too chic? And you’d pay a pretty penny if you got one in a salon, assuming you could get an appointment or even on a waiting list during the race season.”

“If it’s so chic, then why don’t you have a NASCOIF?” Regina wanted to know.

“Oh, my features are far too delicate,” Barbie said. “Now let’s get you in the tub.”

 Hooter was also devoting the day to getting ready for the race. She had spent hours unraveling her dreadlocks and processing her hair, which this minute was cooking under a snug head-rag as she glued on new acrylic nails that looked like long, curled American flags. Then she struggled into skin-tight black imitation-snakeskin stirrup pants, and over these she pulled on a pair of puffy silver boots that fastened with velcro and were designed to have an astronaut look.

Completing the ensemble required much careful deliberation, and she decided on a simple black tube top, and for the pièce de résistance, the beaded jacket with Kodak, DuPont, and Pennzoil logos in bright colors that she had found in the NASCAR section of a knock-off fashion boutique on East Broad Street, between the Affordable Gun Store and the Nocheck Check Cashing and Pager Shop.

A
NDY
was paying close attention to his attire as well, but not for reasons of vanity or sex appeal. He had never been to the Richmond International Racetrack and wasn’t exactly sure what a drunk NASCAR fan might wear, but he figured the less conspicuous and more heavily protected and armed he was,
the better. So he put on scuffed cowboy boots and baggy jeans that easily concealed a pistol in an ankle holster he fastened at a boot top, and over his body armor he wore a Redskins sweatshirt and leather jacket. He had been smart enough not to shave this morning, and with his stubble, ponytail wig, mirrored sunglasses, and a nine-millimeter pistol tucked out of sight in the back waistband of his pants, he felt secure in his appearance. Smoke wouldn’t recognize him. In fact, nobody would.

He had just begun the process of splashing himself with beer when his doorbell rang.

“Who the hell . . . ?” he muttered, slightly alarmed, because he certainly wasn’t expecting company. “Who is it?” he gruffly said through the locked front door.

“It’s me,” a muffled female voice replied, and at first, Andy did not place it and thought of the serial killer who had left the evidence on his doorstep.

“Who’s me?” he asked.

“Hammer.”

“Wow,” he said in surprise as he opened the door. “I’m sorry I sounded rather unfriendly, but I had no idea it was you. I mean, I didn’t at first. So I almost didn’t recognize your voice, because I . . .”

The blood didn’t seem to be flowing to his brain as he looked her up and down. Hammer was dressed like an Outlaws motorcycle gangster, all in black studded leather, black Dingo boots, and a Harley jacket. Slung over her shoulder was a Harley tote bag that no doubt contained a small arsenal. She had hardened her handsome face with gaudy layers of make-up, and her hair was teased.

“Don’t give me a hard time,” she said right off as she walked inside the house. “The last thing I want to look like is a cheap motorcycle slut, but I had to do something. I’m just worried about our arriving by helicopter looking like this,” she added as she took in his disguise. “And we can’t get any undercover troopers out to Tangier because the only pilots I have are you and Macovich, and both of you are busy, and the ferries aren’t running because of the goddamn restrictions the governor has imposed because of your Tory Treasure essay. That’s why I decided to drop by right away and ask you to
consider if maybe we should reconfigure what we’re doing.”

She followed him into the dining room, and they sat in his makeshift office. As Hammer noticed the computer, printer, filing cabinets, and piles of research materials, it gave her a strange feeling to realize this was the secret headquarters of Trooper Truth, even though she knew very well who Trooper Truth really was and where he worked and lived. It oddly occurred to her that even she had begun to bond with the fantasy writer and to wish she could meet him.

“This is ridiculous,” she said.

“I know,” Andy agreed. “I look pretty stupid and I’m sorry I smell like beer and haven’t shaved, and you’re probably right. A state police helicopter may not fit with our disguises.”

“What I meant was, it’s eerie sitting in the place where you write your essays. I feel as if I’ve just walked behind the curtain and discovered the Wizard of Oz or am in the Bat Cave or something. And I must say, a part of me is very disappointed because I think I must have started believing in Trooper Truth, too. Oh good God, don’t tell me I was becoming a fan!” She shook her head and sighed. “I must be losing my mind. In the first place, I’m a fan of no one and think being a fan of anything or anyone is irrational and silly. Why would a rational human being inflate someone to Mount Olympian proportions, think they’re a god, and hang up posters of them?

“How does it make sense for someone to adore and even want to go to bed with a perfect stranger?” she went on as Andy stared down at his hands, ill at ease and hurt that she had, perhaps, liked Trooper Truth better than him. “I guess what this means is there are probably thousands, if not millions, of perfect strangers out there who read Trooper Truth and worship him and entertain sexual fantasies about him,” Hammer continued. “I know Windy certainly feels that way, only in her case, she’s convinced that Trooper Truth is at least eighty years old and has to use a walker. I guess the gig is up,” Hammer announced by slapping her hand down on the table.

“What gig?” Andy replied with a hint of pain and anger. “There’s no gig and never has been. It doesn’t matter what nom de plume I use or if I use one at all. I’m still the one who has written the essays. I
am
Trooper Truth!”

“Trooper Truth doesn’t exist,” Hammer said.

“All right, let me ask you this,” Andy said, trying to regain his composure. “If you never thought of me as Trooper Truth, then who was Trooper Truth to you? Did you have some fantasy about him, huh?”

“We need to disengage ourselves from this pointless, inane conversation right this minute,” Hammer said. “We’ve got a major operation about to happen and need to focus on that, for God’s sake.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he said in a steadier tone. “It truly doesn’t matter to me that you are or aren’t a fan of Trooper Truth or anyone, including me. I’m not a fan of anybody, either. Never have been,” he added as the telephone rang.

“Wooo! We got us a real problem, Brazil,” an excited Macovich said over the line. “The guv don’t want to take the helicopter to the race!”

“You’re kidding,” Andy said. “Why the hell not? You’ll just have to talk him into it. Tell him for security reasons he must flyin. . .”

“It won’t work. Seems like he’s all of a sudden got it in his head he’s gotta have a big litter box for this little horse he just got. I think that damn ugly pool-shark daughter had something to do with it. I ain’t never heard something so stupid in my life, but there’s nothing we can do. He’s got troopers to fill the back of his limo with woodchips and we can’t talk him out of it. So he and the First Family are going by limo and that’s final. I got to drive him. I’m real sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“But what about Smoke and the road dogs?” Andy protested. “What are they going to do when the helicopter doesn’t show up to take them to the race? And they’ve got Popeye!”

“All I know is they’re supposed to meet me at the MCV helipad, and I ain’t gonna be there.”

“Shit!” Andy exclaimed as he slammed down the phone.

He explained what was going on, and it pained him to see the anguish flicker across Hammer’s face as she realized that Popeye might not be saved and their entire plan had just crashed and burned. Smoke and the road dogs were still at large unless she could think of a way to lure them into a trap.
Now it was unlikely they’d show up at the race.

“If they wait for the helicopter and it doesn’t come, they’re going to figure out that something’s up,” Hammer said, dejected. “They’ll figure out that Cat has probably been grabbed by us and we’ve got half the state police force waiting for them at the racetrack. All because of a goddamn minihorse!”

Andy was silent. Both of them knew that it was Andy who had planted the minihorse in the governor’s mind by suggesting it on the Trooper Truth website.

“I don’t know what to say, I’m . . .” Andy started to say.

“It’s too late for apologies,” a crestfallen Hammer replied. “And you don’t need to apologize anyway, Andy. It’s not your fault. I was the one who went along with this Trooper Truth charade, never realizing the repercussions it might have. I just hope Popeye . . . Well,” she said, her voice breaking. “I just hope she doesn’t suffer . . .” she blurted out in grief as tears welled in her eyes. “Damn it all!”

“Wait a minute,” Andy said as an incredible but simple idea occurred to him. “Donny Brett flies a four-thirty!”

“Who?” Hammer asked as she dug in her Harley bag for a tissue and handcuffs clanked against a pistol.

“You know, number eleven! He’s got six wins so far this year, including Martinsville and Bristol, and the reason I know about his bird is Bell has used it in a lot of ads. It’s painted with Brett’s colors and he always arrives at the races in it, so it’s probably sitting at the racetrack helipad even as we speak. Yes!” Andy’s thoughts flew so fast he was scarcely making sense. “Family of one of the drivers. That’s it! And we’ll just show up at MCV in Brett’s helicopter and fly that son of a bitch Smoke and his road dogs ourselves!”

“But how the hell are we going to get whatever-his-name-is-Brett to let us use his helicopter at this late hour?” Hammer said. “It’s impossible.”

“Simple,” Andy replied. “We walk into the fantasy and turn fiction into fact.”

“Now is not the time to talk like a writer!” Hammer warned as she blew her nose.

“You can be up front with me in the left seat and pretend to be my girlfriend,” Andy relayed his plan as it unfolded inside his head.

“And who will you be?”

“I’ll go as Donny Brett’s brother,” Andy said. “What we’ve got to do is let Smoke and his road dogs think Macovich couldn’t make it to pick up the so-called Jolly Goodwrench pit crew and got Brett to help out. We’ll pick up the assholes, have undercover guys everywhere, and the minute we land, we’ll nail them. Now come on. We’ve got to get to the racetrack.”

The only way that was going to be possible, in light of traffic jams that spanned virtually the entire Commonwealth as a hundred and fifty thousand NASCAR fans fought their way to the racetrack, was for Andy to overfly the gridlock in a state police helicopter. Then he and Hammer would hurry to find Donny Brett, who had always been described as an all-American boy and family man who collected police badges and guns. Brett also believed in security, and when Hammer and Andy pushed through the crowds and showed up at Brett’s luxurious trailer on the racetrack grounds, big men blocked the door and looked as if they didn’t mind hurting overly enthusiastic fans and stalkers.

“We must have a word with Mr. Brett,” Hammer announced.

“He’s resting, so please go away,” one of the bouncers said in an unfriendly way.

Hammer’s wallet was in the back pocket of her leather pants, attached to a chain, and she flashed her badge as she said in a low voice, “We’re state police involved in a huge undercover operation. Lives are at stake!”

Andy dug into his jeans and flashed his badge, too.

“We don’t want to disturb Mr. Brett and realize he needs peace and quiet before he gets into his car and hopefully wins the race, but we must see him,” Andy explained.

“I sure as hell hope he wins, too,” the second bouncer said. “He gets pretty upset when he don’t win, and he always likes to get a little shuteye and meditate before he races. But let me tell him what’s going on and we’ll see what he wants to do.”

“You’re joking, right?” Donny Brett said moments later when the motorcycle mama and her redneck younger boyfriend were escorted inside the plush trailer. “I’m not
doubting you’re cops, but you must think I’m pretty stupid to let you or anybody else just fly off in my chopper. And how would I get out of here after the race?”

“We can get you the state police four-thirty,” Andy said to the handsome, famous driver, who looked rather sleepy and unassuming when he wasn’t wearing his colors. “As soon as the governor is safely returned to the mansion in his motorcade, an EPU trooper named Macovich will fly here and pick you up. I promise.”

Brett considered this for a moment as he popped open a Pepsi.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “So what does the state police bird look like? What kind of paint job does it have?”

“The state police paint job,” Hammer replied.