Т Паркер - Where Serpents Lie

“Be careful of the wee-wee,” he said. He expected security to lock onto him at this point. Things felt wrong.

“Come on, Lauren,” said the old gray-haired, idiotically dressed daddy boy.

Hypok moved toward the pet store. Another Lauren, he thought. Chloe, Lauren, Jessica, Joy, Tiffany, Charlie: when will Americans stop naming their daughters after perfumes?

On to the pet store now, Hypok carrying Loretta under his left arm, scanning the shoppers for Items — a little redheaded siren by the bookstore; a plump temptress walking with its plump mother, same chunky legs, a miniature version of the physical mold it’d come from; a sultry, pouting Item of perhaps twelve — too old, but that looked brazenly at him as he passed by and he caught the aroma of perfume and shampoo coming off it. Into the store, a brief notification of the clerk concerning his intentions, then to the collar rack, way down at the bottom where the smallest ones hung upon display hooks and he brought out a pink, a yellow and a blue for Loretta to sniff as if the tiny fool really cared what color she wore. He picked a light blue one that sort of fit, though a long piece of it protruded beyond the buckle when it was snug enough not to slip over and off Loretta’s head. He picked a leash to match it. In the food section he found a small box of puppy treats for very small dogs. At the cash register he paid with one of the twenties given to him by the harpy at the animal shelter, the bill a limp but direct descendant of the crisp hundreds paid to him by a perverted cop who couldn’t live without pictures of himself and girls not yet into puberty. What a world. The woman at the checkout counter was big and horsy looking, perhaps nineteen. When she smiled she looked like John Elway with long hair. She pet Loretta with an enormous freckled hand.

“She’s so cute.”

“For my daughter, Nan.”

The Denver QB stared hard at him. Ready to call an audible at the line, Hypok imagined.

“Are you on TV?” she asked Hypok.

“No, I’m in advertising. Billboards, actually.”

“You look like some one I know.”

“And you look like someone I know, too, but I can’t think who.”

“Probably that football player,” she said, smiling and looking down. “That’s what all the guys say, anyway.”

“Say good-bye, Loretta.”

“Loretta! That’s my mom’s name. ’Bye, Loretta!”

Back into the evening now, the darkness complete, the lights of the shops bright and alluring as diamonds, the dog collared and leashed, flouncing back and forth in front of him. Past the gleaming storefronts and the central courtyard, past the benches and the planters and the fish pond, through the booths again, winding through Fashion Island like a snake on a prowl, alert to danger and opportunity, attuned to every odor on the breeze and every nuance from the bodies of the mammals all around him, Hypok himself the head of the serpent, the ultraviolet eye, the heat pit sensor, the aroma-gathering tongue, the collating brain in a secret hunt among the privileged and prosperous, the harried and the careless, the vain and the ignorant, the innocent and the pure.

He stopped at the intermittent fountain, a kid pleaser at all times of the day and night. His brain panted.

Hypok receiving: two twelve-year-olds unattended and perilously brash looked his way with admiring eyes, old as they were it sent a ripple of electricity up his back. A tandem stroller for two-year-old twins in pink, just a hair too young. A petite Indian girl in a sari, dark and mysterious as the Ganges of which Hypok was reminded, picturing crocodiles taking down Hindu bathers in diapers and turbans.

Then, his senses all ratcheted up a full degree and his breathing shortened as a five-year-old pigtailed seductress in overalls and black tennies spotted Loretta and angled straight toward her, its hair tawny brown in the lights, its arms thin, its face a littoral of light and shadow but a mask of pure happiness to be sure, white teeth and red lips and eyes dark as tidepools at midnight — an Item so absolutely perfect and compelling that Hypok’s breath shallowed out to almost nothing, snagging against his throat like a skiff on a Key West flat, and he breathed in deeply now and fumbled for his cinnamon drops as he knelt and fed out leash so Loretta could wobble out to greet this radiant, approaching Item.

He watched the Item sit cross-legged, with Loretta climbing all over its lap. The Item grabbed the puppy’s head gently, steadied it while looking into Loretta’s face, then kissed her on the nose.

“You smell good!”

Its voice was thin and high and very clear, made you feel like you were breathing mountain air, or amyl nitrite poppers.

“Her name’s Loretta,” he managed.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Expand lungs. Relax.

The Item looked at him for the first time, and Hypok knew that its first reaction to him would make it gettable or not. He waited like a disciple for a miracle, or a revelation from his master. Then, an ocean of warm optimism rolled through him when it smiled and said, “Mine’s Ruth.”

Ruth! A genuine name! The Book of Ruth!

“Here,” he said, “you can offer her a reward.”

“What did she do?”

“She’s being nice to you.”

Hypok cracked open the box of doggie treats and held one — shaped like a tiny hot dog — out toward the Item. It leaned forward, still sitting, still smiling, and took the biscuit.

Loretta got a whiff of it and jumped toward the Item’s hand, then tried to climb its arm.

“She’s hungry!”

“Hold the treat over her head, tell her to sit, and tug gently on the leash.” Hypok felt the warm, surging seas inside him starting to settle and solidify. The breeze against his ears suddenly felt cool and instructional: get it to the van. “Tug gently on the leash.”

When Loretta felt the tug, she wheeled left, then right, trying to locate her torment. Then she stopped, looked up at the Item’s lowering hand and leaped, snatching the treat midair and dropping it to the ground. She whirled around, trying to find it through all her hair.

“ Ohhh! ”

“That’s all right, Ruth. She’s got a lot to learn. Just like her brothers and sisters.”

“How many puppies do you have?”

“Well, there’s Mommy, Daddy and five others. Loretta is the happy one, because she knows she’s staying with me and her parents. The others are sad. So I left them in my car.”

“Sad why?”

“I’m taking them to the shelter. Hopefully, they’ll find homes, but you never know. Puppies understand that kind of thing. They understand when they’re safe and when they’re not.”

“Ohhh. That’s sad.”

“It’s very sad. It breaks my heart, actually. So I stopped here to get a box of treats for them all. I’m just looking for excuses not to drive to that animal shelter.”

“I wish I could take them.”

“I doubt your parents would be very happy about that.”

“No. We have a cat.”

“Where are your mom and dad, by the way?”

Ruth looked at him, then turned and pointed to a crowded restaurant lobby. The place was packed — people standing outside, inside, everywhere. “Getting dinner to go.”

It looked like a long wait.

“Which ones?” he asked.

“Oh, they’re in there somewhere. We do this every Friday. They let me watch the fountain because it takes so long, and Daddy can have wine, but he can’t bring it down here.”

Loretta had rolled onto her back while the Item scratched the dog’s hairy little belly.

“You know, I’ll bring the box out, and you and your mom and dad can at least look at the others,” he said. “No harm in that, I guess. Who knows?”