by Sara Gruen
"The woman upstairs, is, um ..." He pointed hopelessly at the ceiling. "It's complicated."
Amanda opened her mouth to continue the investigation when she caught sight of Booger. "What the ...?"
She swung back to John, her eyes wide, the cigarettes forgotten. "Is this what you were talking about the other day? You already have a dog?"
"No. He's from the meth lab. He snuck into my room while the door was open. During the fire."
Amanda turned to stare at the dog. "You didn't say anything about him last night."
"I didn't know he was here. He must have been hiding in the bathroom. He climbed onto the bed in the middle of the night."
"Oh, the poor thing," said Amanda. She walked over and crouched beside the dog.
"Be careful!" John yelped. "He's a meth-lab pit bull, for God's sake!"
Amanda reached out to scratch the dog's chin. "Hey, buddy," she said softly. He rested his snout and liver-colored nose in her hand so that she was supporting the weight of his whole head. His thin tail began thumping the floor. "Poor thing," she said again. "Do you know his name?"
John swallowed loudly. "Booger."
At the sound of his name, Booger turned and licked Amanda's other hand, which was sweeping across his back and haunches. "He wasn't hurt?"
"Apparently not."
"That's amazing." Amanda stood up, wiped her hands on her thighs, and came back to John.
"Do you have any dog food?"
"No," said John.
"Is there a grocery around here?"
"There's a gas station up the street."
She turned back to the dog. "Booger, are you hungry? Do you need some dinner, Booger?"
The dog's ridiculous whiskered eyebrows rose and twitched. His pink tongue made a long tour around the exterior of his jowls, which smacked as he opened and shut his mouth. Amanda leaned over, hands on knees, and looked him straight in the eyes. She held a finger in front of his nose. "Mommy will be right back."
Mommy? John's heart lurched.
She grabbed her car keys and left.
----
Amanda returned with two cans of wet dog food and a package of plastic bowls. In the meantime, John had flushed Ivanka's cigarette butts down the toilet and opened the bathroom window.
"Dinner and breakfast," she explained, brandishing the cans. "I have to go back to L.A. in the morning." She disappeared into the bathroom. John followed, doing the math and hoping he was misinterpreting, although he suspected he was not.
Amanda ripped open the package of plastic bowls. She filled one with water and set it on the floor. "We'll get you proper bowls when we get home," she said, ruffling Booger's ears and confirming John's fears.
"You can't be serious about this," he said.
"Of course I am. You said we should get a dog. And here's a dog." She stood up and struggled with one of the pop-top cans before handing it to John. He opened it and handed it back.
"A junkyard dog. Worse--a meth-lab dog!" he said.
"A homeless dog. A sweet dog. Just look at him!"
And, indeed, Booger was sitting at their feet, back legs splayed appealingly, his expression conveying hope and adoration. His eyes followed the can's every movement.
Amanda emptied the dog food into a bowl and set it on the floor. Booger dove in, tail wagging furiously, but the bowl slid away from him each time he tried to take a bite. Amanda crouched and steadied it for him. The food was gone in seconds. When he lifted his square head, he ran his long tongue up and over Amanda's chin, lips, and nose.
"Good God!" she said, wiping her face and rising. "What was that? Road kill?" She examined the label of the empty can.
John switched tactics. "They're never going to let you put him on the airplane."
"Of course they will. I'll buy a crate. And if I don't find a PetSmart between here and the airport, I happen to know you can FedEx a horse to Hawaii."
"What? What kind of people are you hanging out with these days?"
"Heard about it the other night. An actress wanted her horse with her while she was shooting a movie and refused to show up until they arranged delivery."
"I really think you should rethink this," John said.
"Absolutely not."
"He's a meth-lab dog! What if he turns on you?"
Amanda leaned down and covered Booger's ears. "Stop saying that. You're going to hurt his feelings."
John raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed.
"He'll be fine," said Amanda, standing and fingering the edge of the sink. She appeared to encounter something and examined her fingertip before washing her hands. She dried her hands calmly, and stood absolutely still, staring into the bottom of the sink. A prescient static filled the air, and John knew what was coming. She turned casually to face him. "So, this woman upstairs. How complicated is it?"
"Baby, you can't possibly think--"
"I don't want to think anything," she said. "But I came here unannounced and found your motel room contaminated by cheap perfume, lipsticked cigarette butts, and an unmade bed. Tell me what I'm supposed to think. What would you think?"
"I admit it doesn't look good, but--"
"No," she said harshly. "It doesn't look good."
John took a very deep breath. "Her name is Ivanka. She's a stripper."
"A stripper?" said Amanda, eyes widening further.
"No, you've got it all wrong. It's not like that. She has a connection with Faulks. She might be able to give me a lead."
"And how about you? Does she have any connection with you? Just how far are you willing to go for this story?"
"Amanda, for God's sake," he said.
She gestured toward the other room. "Explain the bed," she demanded.
"I was stashing a pit bull in the room. I put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. The housekeeper didn't come in today."
They stared at each other for what felt like a lifetime. John finally took a step toward her, cautiously, and she didn't move. When he put his hands on her cheeks, she tilted her head, but stood aloof. A moment later, she was on tiptoe, holding his head in both hands, kissing him almost violently. She pulled his shirt free from his waistband, undid his belt buckle and fly, and slid her hand down the front of his pants. John recovered from his shock, lifted her by the armpits, and carried her to the bed.
When he climaxed, he opened his eyes and found Amanda staring straight back at him, her chin lifted, her lips parted in pleasure. When he rolled off, she threw an arm over his chest. A few minutes later, after they'd both caught their breath, she whispered, "I'm ovulating."
A bolt of panic zapped through John. He reminded himself to breathe.
Sometime later the mattress creaked as Booger crawled up onto the bed behind Amanda.
----
Amanda demanded John's services twice more in short order. When she reached for him again, he said in desperation, "Amanda, I can't."
"You're turning down sex?" she said with surprise.
"I'm not turning it down. I just physically can't. I'm not eighteen."
She nestled up to him and said, "Okay. But we're doing it in the morning before I leave. Speaking of rejections--"
"I'm not rejecting anything! We just did it three times in four hours!"
"--apparently not only am I rejectable, I'm rerejectable."
"You're ... what?" he said even as it dawned on him that this was of his own doing.
"Yes. Agents who have already rejected me are finding it necessary to reject me again. What I don't understand is how they got my new address."
John lay very still.
She lifted her head. "John? Do you know how they got my new address?"
After a moment of consideration, he said, "There's a PetSmart right next to the Staples in El Paso. Not far from the airport. I'll draw you a map in the morning."
He could feel her staring at him in the dark. After a while, she sighed and laid her head back down. He had bartered Booger for forgiveness.
----
John awoke with a start at 3 A.M. He had been so distracted by Amanda's unannounced visit and businesslike focus on sex that he'd missed the second episode of Ape House Prime Time.
"Sorry," he mumbled as he turned on the light and reached for the remote control. Amanda rolled away and threw her arm over Booger, who released a satisfied groan and otherwise didn't move.
John flipped through the channels. With any luck, he'd find some kind of a summary, maybe on Entertainment Tonight. If not, he'd boot up his computer and check out the gossip blogs Topher had ordered him to emulate.
As it turned out, he did not have to look far. Faulks had arranged to have beer and cap guns delivered and switched the bonobos' television from the program they had chosen, Orangutan Island, to graphic war footage. After discovering they couldn't change the channel back, the bonobos became agitated and threw pizza and cheeseburgers at the screen before giving up and attempting to pry the television off the wall. When Lola accidentally set off a cap gun and sent Mbongo into hysterics, Sam collected them all, went out to the courtyard, and heaved them over the wall into the crowd of people, the majority of whom were not online and therefore mistook them for real guns, which was all the more alarming when several people picked them up and brandished them. This caused a near-riot, and ended with Taser-wielding policemen hauling people off in vans. The news segment ended with a statement from the Chief of Police. He'd had enough of the whole situation and was damned if he was going to let the good people of Lizard pick up the tab for this immoral circus, and by immoral he didn't mean the apes. He planned to bill Faulks Enterprises for all expenses his department had incurred in relation to Ape House.
John assumed Faulks was hoping the bonobos would get drunk and do horrible things to each other, as chimpanzees had been known to do. In fact, after the cap guns were tossed and the channel changer once again became responsive, the bonobos discovered the beer, had a short, happy orgy, and then sipped quietly in front of I Love Lucy. Mbongo was the only one to go back for a second. He took it to the beanbag chair, flopped onto it, and crossed his legs, his gut pooching out in front of him as he tipped the bottle to his lips. He looked like the ubiquitous uncle at Thanksgiving, passing the time watching football while waiting for the turkey to appear. They were completely oblivious to the human riot going on just beyond their walls.
It was like the sign John and Amanda had seen on the way to Ariel's wedding: GUNS 'N' WAFFLES. Faulks's mistake had been in thinking that bonobos shared the human predicament of being part chimp and part bonobo, and never knowing which side was going to rise to the surface.
31
John Thigpen looked haggard. He was also an hour late, which Isabel found surprising since he'd sounded so happy to hear from her.
"Hi," she said, swinging the door open. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to show up."
He glanced at his watch and seemed stunned by what he saw. "I'm sorry," he said. "I had a busy night. And morning." He stood awkwardly in the doorway, and Isabel realized she had not yet invited him in. It felt strange, receiving a man in her bedroom. It probably felt strange to him too, particularly as he was married.
"Come in," she said. "Please. Make yourself comfortable." As he walked to the couch, she saw his eyes light on the gas station receipt upon which he'd written his name and number.
Isabel closed the door and stood in front of it, twisting her fingers. "Do you want some coffee? I've got one of those little machines."
"No. Thanks. I'm fine."
Isabel turned the desk chair around so it was facing the couch and sat down. John was staring at her, and she realized that of course he must be shocked by how changed she was. She turned her face so he could see her profile. "See?" she said, running her finger down the bridge of her nose. "It's not bad. It's just not mine. Well, I guess it is now, technically."
Thigpen blinked a few times, then raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing in uneven spikes. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. I'm kind of out of it today."
"That's okay," she said.
"Can I get that coffee after all? Do you mind?"
"No, not at all," she said. She was actually grateful for an excuse to leave the room. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting while the coffee brewed. The last time they'd met, she thought they'd had a rapport. Today things felt weird. Was this a mistake?
The coffee machine finished with a sputter and a hiss.
"Cream? Sugar?" she called out.
"Black is fine," he said.
She took it out to him. He stared into the mug, holding it with both hands, and took a deep breath.
"Look, before we start there's something I need to get off my chest." He paused, and glanced up at her.
Isabel's pulse quickened. In her experience, nothing good ever followed those words.
"I left Francesca De Rossi with the impression that I work at the L.A. Times. I do not. I am with the Weekly Times. I didn't lie, exactly, but I did fail to correct her, for which I am now extremely embarrassed. The Weekly Times is a gossip rag of the very worst caliber, and although I'm doing my best to insert some sort of journalistic integrity, I don't know how successful I'll be. Put it this way--my editor told me to limit the three-headed alien babies in my pieces, but that's my only real restriction."
He stared into her eyes, his lips pulled taut, and his skin so gray she thought he might be holding his breath.
Was that all? He was embarrassed about where he worked? Isabel wanted to laugh with relief, although she did understand--Isabel knew the Weekly Times. Her mother had subscribed to it. Probably still did.
"So what happened at The Philadelphia Inquirer?"
"Cat Douglas is what happened."
"Ha! Why am I not surprised?" She slapped the top of the desk.
John shot her a quick smile. "And then I moved to L.A., where there are no real reporting jobs."
"Why L.A.?"
"My wife's job."
"What does she do?"
"She's a writer."
"Anything I'd know?"
"She published a novel a little more than a year ago. The River Wars. But now she's working as a scriptwriter."
Isabel sat forward. "I read that!"
"Really?" John's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Yes, at the hospital. I loved it. Is she working on another?"
"Like everything else, that's complicated, but for now she's working on a television series."
"And you're working for a tabloid."
"Yes, and Cat Douglas has my old story and appears regularly on the front page of the Inquirer."
Isabel leaned back against the desk and crossed her legs. She felt a smile seep across her face. "Well, now I'm going to give you something that she really, really wants."
John Thigpen closed his eyes in relief. "Thank you," he said, his voice cracking.
An hour later, after solemnly swearing to protect his sources at all costs, he left in possession of the abstracts and briefs Joel had extracted from the PSI database, as well as a promise that Isabel would forward the emails proving that Peter Benton had sold the language software to Faulks the moment she got them from Celia.
----
"Who is it?" Isabel called as she approached the door. John Thigpen had left a quarter of an hour before.
"It's me," said Celia.
Isabel put her eye against the peephole and scanned the area outside her door. Celia stood there alone, hands in pockets, looking around. There was something decidedly forced about her nonchalance.
"He's with you, isn't he?" said Isabel.
"Who?"
"Your green-haired friend."
There was a long pause. "No," Celia said, tilting her head and cupping the back of her neck with her hand, like she was trying to crack it.
"He is! I can tell," Isabel said sternly. "He can't come in here."
Celia sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine, I'll send him downstairs."
"I hardly think
he's welcome there either. Frankly, I'm surprised they let him as far as the elevators."
Celia disappeared around the corner. After some muffled discussion, she reappeared.
"Is he gone?" asked Isabel.
"Yes," Celia said wearily. "Can I come in now?"
Isabel opened the door, poked her head out, and craned her neck in both directions, bobbing to see around Celia. "Where did he go?"
"He's waiting for me at the bar. It's darker than the restaurant. And he's wearing a hat." Isabel swung the door open and Celia came in. She went immediately to the couch and threw herself lengthwise across it. "For what it's worth, he came to apologize."
"It's not me he should be apologizing to."
"I know, but I thought Pigpen was going to be here. Anyway, you shouldn't be so hard on Nathan."
"Why not?" said Isabel. She walked over and pushed Celia's legs off the couch to make room for herself.
Celia arranged herself upright and dropped her combat-booted feet on the coffee table.
Clunk. Clunk.
Isabel opened her mouth to protest about filth and germs, but since the table was already contaminated, she decided to just douse it later with hand sanitizer.
"Because you did exactly the same thing," said Celia.
"What are you talking about?"
"To Larry-Harry-Gary. You threw his food. At Rosa's Kitchen. Remember?"
Isabel stood absolutely still, her mouth open. Finally, she dropped onto the couch, eyes locked on the desk in front of her. "Oh my God. You're right."
"He wants to apologize. He got the wrong impression the other night when some of his friends thought Pigpen was being denigrating to women. Hey, can you give me his number? Pigpen's, that is?"
"I'm not giving out his number! At least not without asking him."
"Will you ask him?"
Isabel sighed. If she hadn't just been reminded of what she had done to Gary Hanson's curry, she wouldn't even consider it. "Maybe," she said.
"Okay!" Celia hopped up and went to the desk. She leafed through the newspaper for a few seconds. It was USA Today, the one left in front of Isabel's door each morning by the hotel. The story of the cap-gun riot outside the walls of Ape House was on the front page.
"You can take it if you want," Isabel said. "I've already read it."
"So you don't want to join us for lunch?"
"I just ate," she lied. Even if she had also been guilty of throwing someone's food, she wasn't ready to break bread with Nathan.