Thibodeau stood there on the scale another few minutes, looking down at his sadly fallen build. He had fussed all he could with its knob and indicator slides. He was wearing little more than air. And the measurement beam had gone on hanging in perfect, balanced suspension at 299¼ pounds.
Not that he needed a numeric reading to appreciate the indignities he’d inflicted upon himself. It was evident from the bare, bulging pillow of flesh into which his once-taut stomach had grown, the soft rolls of flab above the hips too kindly known as “love handles,” and, most depressingly for Thibodeau, the pads of adipose tissue over his breastbone that showed early evidence of transforming into what were sometimes — in a much too crass and unkind fashion — referred to as “man titties.”
But he’d killed enough time inspecting himself. More than enough. Ricci would be on his way over from his office down the hall, and Thibodeau damned well wanted to be back inside his pants before he showed up.
His lips still pulled into a scowl, he got off the scale to put on his clothes, disconcerted by the loud, banging rattle of its beam and platform bearings as they were relieved of his prodigious weight.
Thibodeau was trying to stuff the middle button of his shirt through its hole when he heard three sharp, brisk knocks at his door.
Tom Ricci, man of action. Predictably right on schedule.
“Un instant,” Thibodeau called out, working in the recalcitrant button. “Wait just a minute—”
Ricci gave the door another quick knock, then took hold of the outer doorknob and let himself in.
Again, predictably.
His shirttails out over the open waistband of his pants, Thibodeau looked at him with an annoyance he made no attempt to conceal… and a sudden flush of embarrassment that he was hoping could be hidden.
“Thought I asked you to hang on,” he said.
Ricci stood inside the entry, turned the dial of his wristwatch toward Thibodeau.
“Don’t have a spasm on me,” he said. “We’ve got an appointment.”
Thibodeau regarded him another moment, disconcerted. Then he inhaled, holding in the breath — and his stomach — as he tucked, zipped, and hooked himself into his uniform slacks.
“Okay,” he said on his exhale. He nodded toward his desk. “Grab a seat an’ we’ll talk.”
Julia Gordian felt convinced Vivian was a shoo-in for adoption. There was still the cat test ahead, true, but she wasn’t too worried. That was pretty much a guaranteed cinch.
She stood looking out the window of the In the Money Shop at the introduction and walking area next to the center’s dusty parking lot, where Viv, a one-and-a-half-year-old grey whose career as a racer had ended after she’d broken the wrong way out of the gate in two of her first three starts, was being strolled around on a leash by her prospective rescuers, a seemingly nice enough family named the Wurmans — mother, father, and eight-or nine-year-old son — from up around Fremont. The dogs were always brought out to the people who came to look at them, as opposed to the people entering the kennels, which was how it usually worked at animal shelters. This was because, in addition to being weak and malnourished, some of the new arrivals had not yet gotten their vaccinations, were susceptible to canine diseases for which human beings might be unwitting carriers, and were therefore segregated until Rob Howell had gotten them checked out by his regular vet and approved as ready for placement. A small handful of visitors would complain about the policy, wanting to have their pick of all the greyhounds on hand, but Rob tended to send that type on their way as politely as he could — his position being that anybody who couldn’t find a dog to love among the half dozen or so he was willing to show as available candidates wasn’t qualified for greyhound ownership.
Julia supposed Rob’s criteria were about the same as those a child-care worker would apply to couples interested in adopting a baby… although she’d actually had to wonder a couple of times if his rules weren’t even more stringently set and enforced.
“You have to start the screening process the minute people leave their car,” he’d told her on her first day at work. “Look for a good fit, and don’t let your eagerness to place the dogs affect your judgment. Watch how folks act, listen to what they say, get a feel for the vibes they send out to the dogs, and the vibes the dogs send out to them. Much as I want permanent homes for our greys, they’re better off as tenants with us than in a bad home where they aren’t getting proper care.”
Watching from behind the shop’s sales counter, elbows propped on it beside the cash register, Julia had seen encouraging signs that the Wurman-Vivian vibe exchange was tuned to a harmonious cosmic bonding frequency. Vivian’s leash was now in the hands of Papa Wurman, who was smiling over at Mama Wurman, who was beaming right back at him as an excited Junior Wurman crouched beside the dog and gently stroked her sides. Viv, meanwhile, was relishing the attention. A good fit? They appeared to be striking up the very music of the spheres.
Julia realized she’d been humming a melody to herself, recognized it as the chorus to the old Broadway song “Matchmaker,” and was starting to wonder how that archaic musical strain had managed to surface from the junk bin of her post-Boomer memory storehouse when her cell phone suddenly began to tweedle.
She pulled it from the belt case clipped to her jeans, glanced at the Caller ID number on its display, and smiled as she fingered the TALK button.
“Yente’s Canine Dating Service, open sunrise to sunset,” she said. “To Life!”
A hesitant, “Excuse me?” at the other end.
Julia chuckled. Roger Gordian. A biz whiz without parallel, but more than a little humor impaired.
“Hi, Dad,” she said. “Don’t hang up, you’ve got the right number.”
“Oh,” Gordian replied. “For a second there I thought you said…”
“Just amusing myself. My boss is out back feeding the dogs, and I’m waiting to give my maiden cat test. He wants me to get the experience. We really should have given it to Viv… she’s one of our sweetest greys… before a family showed up and fell in love with her, but somebody got their signals crossed. Either they never told Rob they had a cat during their phone interview, or he forgot to make note of it, it’s been so crazy around here we can’t be sure. Either way I’ve got to deal with it.”
“Oh,” Gordian said again. A pause. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s—?”
“A cat test’s for dogs that may be going to homes where there’s already a kitty-in-residence,” she said. “You know how easygoing greys are, but problems can happen when some of them mistake cats for bunnies.”
“As in rabbits?”
“They’re used as lures on the course,” Julia said. “I think the law in most states is that track owners have to use mechanical ones, and they do during races to keep the police off their backs. But when they’re training the dogs out of sight… well, never mind, I won’t gross you out with some of the nauseating stories I’ve heard. Bottom line, we need to be sure our dogs are compatible with other pets.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean there’s a supply of disposable cats at the center.”