Hypok continued down the 55 to the 405, heading for Fashion Island, an outdoor mall in Newport Beach that had a pet store. He could kill two birds with one stone: get Loretta outfitted properly, and troll for Items right there in the mall until security threw him out for having a dog. If he explained he just bought the dog at the store, it might buy him a little leeway. Fashion Island was a ritzy place, not as crowded with kids and moms as a run-of-the-mill suburban mall, but it had some things going for it: (1) parking places very close to some of the store entrances, (2) dozens of entrances/exits as opposed to the limited number — usually four to six — found in an indoor mall, (3) the pet store, (4) an outdoor, relaxed, adult-oriented atmosphere that distracted parents with products and made them lax, (5) healthy, nutritionally advantaged Items, and (6) plenty of single guys around for cover. This time of day wasn’t a good one for Fashion Island, Hypok conceded, but if he didn’t have any luck by six-thirty, the movie theaters, amusement parks, stadiums and entertainment arenas would be heating up by then, as well as all those wonderful fast-food restaurants that featured playgrounds for the kiddies.
He cruised the parking lot near the Robinson’s/May store, a prime place to be if he got lucky. Circling the two best rows for the third time, Hypok suddenly felt a jolt of anger passing through him: a tensing of his muscles, a dimming of his vision, a huge desire to strike or throttle something living — the dog next to him, for instance — then it was gone as quick as it came on and he calmed himself with another swig of warm tequila as he waited for a fat-assed Japanese luxury sedan to vacate a space so he could pull in.
He ran a tender hand over Loretta’s tiny hairy head. She shivered. He licked his finger and offered it to her. Lick, lick. Ohhh...
Out of the van, lock the door, Loretta held to his side like a football. Just a few steps and he was into the sensual cloister of the mall, all perfume and product and groomed human beings, corporate America pandering to the bored and prosperous, Hypok’s natural instincts isolating the blonde with the stroller; the frizzy-haired brunette with a daughter on each hand checking the curios in the From Russia with Love booth; the portly third-world nanny guiding a young son and daughter behind a speeding mother who was already through the doors of the Express store offering 33 percent off swimwear and a buy-two-get-one-at-half-price deal on “summer casuals.” Hypok noted the five-year-old Item (red dress, ribbon in hair) nearly a hundred yards ahead of him; the seven-year-old (pink shorts, pink blouse) trailing its father into a department store; the four-year-old (denim pants and matching oversize jacket) standing alone by the leather sandal booth and looking very enticing indeed. He approached. He stopped about ten feet behind it. He set down Loretta and started cooing at her. She wiggled, jumped up to lick him, then began to wander away with a precarious sideways puppy canter that brought a smile to Hypok’s face.
“Loretta!” he ordered calmly. “Come back here, little girl!”
The four-year-old turned as if on command — they often responded to a masculine voice at that age, especially if their parents were already divorced — and it looked quickly at Hypok, then at Loretta. Its face broke into a smile bright and warm as a Death Valley sunrise. It slapped over to Loretta in its little sandaled feet and bent down, oversized jacket covering most of its pale, chubby legs. Dinosaur Band-Aid, lower right calf, freshly applied, no peripheral dirt buildup yet. Loretta was jumping up to lick the Item. Her tail wagged over her back. Hypok sighed and walked over to them, taking a knee a few feet away to watch the precious Item/canine encounter. He looked directly at them from behind his sunglasses, showing no interest at all in who — if anyone — might be the Item’s keeper. Loretta sprang up and down like a ball attached to a rubber band attached to a paddle. She scooted away. The Item lunged after her and fell to its knees: white thighs, a flash of something whiter between them. Loretta wiggled toward it. Hypok knelt on one knee with his left elbow resting on his kneecap and a hard, ferocious heat annealing his guts. Something of Valeen and Collette in this one, he thought, in the way its eyes shine. He doubted if this Item had the unabashed carnal curiosities of his older sisters at age, say, ten, but that was hardly the point. There were ways around that little problem. Then, the almost inevitable happened. Hypok sensed it before he saw or heard it, and he knew exactly what it was. Suddenly, a large intrusive figure barged into his field of vision and squatted down next to the Item and Loretta. It was like a dark cloud passing over the sun. Human male: forty-something, polo shirt, shorts and deck shoes, no socks, one of those come-late-to-familihood dads who were a whole lot more vigilant about their brood than the twenty-something kids who started early. He was actually gray haired. He looked at Hypok with a neutral expression, nodded, then reached out to the puppy. Loretta dropped her flag of a tail and cowed, then approached him reverently. He pet her. She peed. Hypok moved up and forward and swept the still dribbling Loretta up into his arms. He smiled down at father and Item.
“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 someone 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!”