The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets (11 page)

“Mom just works in an office. She's nothing.”

“She has an artist's soul. Even if it's buried down inside. She's cool. I remember. She always had us laughing on those field trips.”

In elementary school, when her parents were still married, before her mom had to work, she went on every field trip as a chaperone. She drove or she rode on the bus and she sang songs and on the way home she would mimic the museum docent or the tour guide or even one of the teachers. Lacy's friends loved her and Lacy had been so proud of her.

A lizard darted out onto the path in front of them. Lacy started to tell Buster, but he put his hand on her thigh to keep her quiet. He saw it too. They watched. The lizard froze except for his little eyes rotating in his head looking this way and that. He pumped on his tiny legs, listening.

“So flipping alien,” Buster whispered.

The lizard twitched and looked up at them. Lacy thought of her online boyfriend, Oren, and the photos he had sent her of his pet, Cookie. Cookie was scary. This little thing was creepy too. A snake with legs. In her English class they had read the part in the Bible about how the snake had been a lizard until God took away his legs as punishment for giving Eve the apple. Lizards looked evil. Wiggly. Slimy. Green. What had Oren told her? They're not slimy. They're smart and friendly. They have personalities. She could see the tiny lizard's muscles working. She could see it breathing. Why did Oren love them? What did it say about him that he loved an iguana more than anything else in the world? It was nice that he was so attentive to her, always calling and texting and emailing, but really, when she thought about it sitting there with Buster, Oren was kind of creepy too.

Buster whispered, “Legend has it when you see a lizard it means someone from your past is thinking about you.”

“I don't know who that would be.”

“Remember that girl in fourth grade who followed you around? She started combing her hair like you and wearing the same socks? I bet she thinks about you all the time.”

“Yeah, right.” Lacy giggled, but she thought again of Oren. He was probably thinking of her. He said he thought about her constantly. She had lied to him about everything and he had believed every ridiculous story she had told him. What a jerk. The lizard darted away.

“Hey,” she said to Buster. “Hey.”

“What?”

“Thank you. Thank you for remembering everything and for saying nice things and for bringing me here.”

“I like you, little Miss Lacy. I always have.”

He turned to face her with his hand still warm on her thigh.
His eyes were the best brown. She could smell peanut butter on his breath. She had never even met Oren, but Buster she had known forever. She leaned toward him and they kissed. His lips were soft and he opened his mouth just a little. He tasted like the sandwich and marijuana. She pushed Oren out of her mind. He was in her past. He was probably thinking of her, but she was done with him. She tentatively touched Buster's tongue with hers. A first. A first kiss and a first French kiss. Not bad. He sighed happily as the kiss ended. She dove back into him for more. Kissing was good. Kissing was great. This was her first time and she was loving it. She didn't want to talk. She didn't care where they were. She just wanted to keep on kissing him. She felt it in her breasts and between her legs and in her knees. Her toes curled inside her shoes. He stopped first and she almost fell into him.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Look,” he said.

He turned his face away and she felt sick. He had a girlfriend or she was not a good kisser or she was too ordinary for him. She had not liked the glass garden enough. But she did, she did. How could she tell him?

“This place—” she began.

“We have company.”

She followed his gaze. Three young Latinos were coming down the path. Shaved heads, tattoos, serious expressions. The overweight one lagged behind. The most muscular took the lead. They weren't carrying guns or tire irons or anything Lacy could see, but who knew what was hidden in their baggy pants or under their long flannel shirts. She had nothing they might want except her cell phone and her virginity.

“Hey,” Buster greeted them.

The leader nodded. “You know this place?”

“Mr. Rodriguez is a friend of my grandfather's. I've been coming here since I was little.”

“Who's your grandfather?”

“Milton Goldstein. He had the liquor store on the corner.”

“It's not the same around here anymore.”

“Man, this is my favorite place in the world. I just wanted to show it to my girl.”

Lacy wished he hadn't mentioned her. The dark eyes slid to her, surveyed her like an ad in a magazine. She was wearing incredibly expensive blue jeans and a T-shirt. Her heeled boots were just what everybody was wearing—everybody who could afford it. Her dad paid for all her clothes. She tucked her hair behind her ear hoping her multiple piercings would count for something.

“Hi,” she said. “This is amazing.”

“See,” the leader began, “The thing is, this is our place now. And you show your girlfriend and she tells someone else and so on and so forth and pretty soon we got a problem.”

“I won't tell anyone!” Lacy spoke without thinking and then clapped her hand over her mouth.

The fat one laughed. “I can tell. She's the kind that don't shut up.”

“No, I'm quiet. I never say anything to anybody. Isn't that right, Buster? I mean people have to beg me to talk. I'm so quiet.”

Now they were all laughing, but not in a good way.

“You put up with this?” The fat one asked Buster.

“I find her endlessly entertaining,” Buster replied.

He looked at Lacy and smiled and despite her fear she could not wait to kiss him again. If they lived. If they survived long enough to get the chance.

The leader was not laughing anymore. He nodded. The quiet boy, the one who had not yet spoken, stepped up beside him. His
head was flat on top, as if hit by a cartoon anvil. He worried a pimple on his cheek as he leaned close and said something in Spanish.

Lacy scooted closer to Buster. He raised his eyebrows. They were both taking French—fat lot of good it did them.

“What're we gonna do?” The leader looked around as if the glass would answer him.

“Hey, man, I know. Let's get high.” Buster pulled his bag of pot and a little pipe from his jacket pocket.

Lacy stared at her feet. That seemed ridiculous, absurd, the last thing these guys wanted was to smoke with Buster.

“You just carry that in your pocket? Shit.” The quiet one spoke perfect English. “You are a white boy.”

“No, no. Cops hassle us hippies like it's still 1968. But this time—” Buster sort of nodded at Lacy as if he had intended to take her to the garden and get her high. “She doesn't partake, but I was hoping—you know—the magical place, the handsome guy—”

They laughed at that one.

“Let's see if it's any good,” the fat one said.

“Let's see if the hippie is any good.” The sullen one talked to his leader, but kept his eyes on Lacy. “Doesn't look like he's much good for anything.”

Kidney waited in the Tip-Top Coffee Shop on Lincoln Avenue. It wasn't a very upscale kind of place, but he chose it for its easy access to the freeway. He liked to keep his options open. He had a rule against meeting his clients at the motel where he was staying. Too dangerous. You never knew who Fish and Wildlife had their eye on.

The wood grain Formica tabletop was pitted and peeling at the corners. The coffee was okay. There were people in his business who lived the high life, who treated their clients to shark fin soup and gave their girlfriends combs made of endangered turtle shell or lizard skin boots. They were asking for trouble, begging to get busted. Still, he wouldn't mind moving up a notch next time. Nothing too fancy, but maybe a Holiday Inn instead of the No-Tell Motel where he was; maybe a real restaurant instead of this crappy place. He looked out at the gray haze blurring the horizon, making even the gas station across the street fuzzy. What was in the air? Not moisture. He figured it had to be the famous Southern California smog. The sun was barely peeking through the gloom and it was 60 degrees, tops. The birds of paradise and all the bushes outside the window were dying. He had not expected LA to be so ugly. It was all strip malls and freeways and garbage in the gutters. There were fucking homeless people standing at every intersection begging for a handout. He realized the area around the airport was not Beverly Hills, but shit, this was the home of movie stars and Disneyland. He had imagined
bright colors and warm sun. Happy tourists even in November. Maybe the people in Kantoba, New Guinea didn't have HBO or hamburgers, but it was lots prettier and the poverty didn't bother them or him. He'd only been in LA overnight and already his legs were twitching, he was so anxious to get back to the jungle. He was happiest out there collecting specimens. The jungle had a tangy, moist, exotic smell and the air was rich with a taste like almonds. The earth was black and damp and the leaves on the plants were shiny green and thick as flesh. They cried when you cut them, the water leaked from their stems like tears. And the creatures. Everywhere you looked. Bugs the size of mice. Birds as multi-colored as circus clowns. And luscious, lovely reptiles everywhere.

In each of the two jungles he frequented he had a woman waiting for him. A cinderblock house, a bed that slumped in the middle, neither of his dark skinned girls wanted expensive gifts or more than they had. It was their pleasure to serve him and it was his pleasure to be served.

He had to remind himself he was in LA for a purpose. He'd be on the plane home to Tennessee tomorrow, a few pockets lighter and a whole lot richer. Do some laundry, bang the wife, and back to the wild.

His first delivery had gone well; the client, a weird old Chinese lady with a “personal menagerie,” had been thrilled with the blue-tongued skinks. One of them was looking a little worse for wear by the time he handed it over, but luckily that was her problem now. He had her two thousand dollars in his pocket and one of the good things about illegal transactions was the no returns policy.

“Can you get me something two-headed?” she had asked.

“Are you serious?”

“Do you think me terribly macabre?” She giggled like a teenager.

He wasn't sure what macabre meant, but if it was crazy he was with her.

“I have everything,” she went on. “The entire reptile genus is represented in my home zoo. Now I need something unusual.”

The unusual didn't live long in the wild. In fact, the only freaks he ever saw were dead. “I'll see what I can do,” he said. “It'll be expensive.”

“You know me,” she giggled again. “Made of money.”

She had actually been flirting with him. She was seventy-five, if she was a day. He shook his head. He absolutely could not tap that, no matter how much he wanted to see that zoo of hers. Little withered Chinese tits, thighs sagging like the bedroom curtains. Plus, then she'd want special favors, special prices. Nope. This was business and later tonight he'd find someone young and hot to help him celebrate.

He ordered another cup of coffee. Two of his chameleons had died on the trip, but the rest had gone to Dr. Herp's Emporium just off the Venice Beach main drag. Kidney didn't know what to expect, but it turned out to be a sweet little place and he was glad to make a new client. The Doc looked like a brainless surfer, right down to the flip-flops and puka shells, but he was very happy with the chammies and impressed by their quality. Then he showed Kidney his secret room where he kept an incredibly rare
Anomochilus weberi
, known to the common folk as a Weber's dwarf pipe snake. Kidney's mouth had literally watered looking at the little thing. It was only about a foot long and black with pinkish spots.

“One of nine that's ever been found alive,” Doc said.

“Where'd you get it? You go to Sumatra?”

“Traded for it. Let go an entire clutch of
Nephrurus Wheeleri Cinctus
and a cage full of my favorites.”

Kidney was impressed. “Would you sell it?”

“You can't afford it. No one can. Maybe Bill Gates.” The Doc had laughed. “No, dude, I wouldn't part with him for love nor money. Just look at him.”

Together they had watched the snake do basically nothing for about fifteen minutes. That was the thing about snakes, they didn't do much. It was one big reason Kidney liked them. He had a puppy when he was a kid. It never sat still, then it ran out in the street and got hit by a woman in a car who had a fit and yelled at him about it. Like it was his fault.

Kidney patted the Doc on the back. “That's something.” He vowed to put Sumatra on the list for his next trip. “I'm gonna try to find one.”

“Good luck, dude. Great surfing in Sumatra!”

The black-headed pythons were still at the motel digesting their lizard lunches. They were rare, but their beauty was nothing compared to the Doc's secret snake. That morning he had thought he would be sad to sell his bevy of pythons, but now he was anxious to be rid of them. The delivery was for late this afternoon. It was a special deal. The guy had serious cash. Kidney had agreed to drive them to the guy's house up above Sunset Boulevard, in the nice part of town. He wanted to shower and put on a fresh shirt before that. Now he was waiting for Oren and his money. Oren had texted he was on his way. With the forty-five hundred dollars Oren was paying him, he could finance a trip to Sumatra. He could buy Oren a good-looking female iguana for two hundred bucks in Florida on the way back. Oren would never know the difference and capturing an
Anomochilus weberi
would make him the fucking Michael Jackson of reptile collectors.

An official looking SUV drove past before he could read the insignia on the door. Kidney craned his neck to watch it go. He had to be vigilant. He was careful, but anything could happen. Dr. Herp's place was pretty public and Kidney had walked in with a
big camera bag. He was smart; he also carried a manila envelope of photos that he left behind. They were downloaded, printed, and color copied, but he never told anyone he was a good photographer. He left the pics behind every time he did a delivery. He was very, very careful, but sitting in the coffee shop, the thought of jail made his bowels constrict and his throat go dry. He was older and not pretty by any standards, but he knew jailhouse rape was about power and control. He would pay whatever fine the Feds asked, have his passport revoked, leave his wife, run away and live in Mexico forever, as long as he didn't have to go to jail. Fish and Wildlife was cracking down. Reptile trafficking ranked second behind drugs for the amount of money that changed hands. It was a six billion dollar a year business and that meant the Feds hated it. And why? Kidney tapped the tabletop in frustration. ‘Cause he was making money and they weren't. They pretended they were worried about the animals. If they only looked at the facts, they'd see he was helping the reptile population by protecting some of them from their natural predators and making them available for breeders. To say nothing of the people who could never travel to Borneo or Peru on their own. Oh God! Jail! They were gonna legalize marijuana. Why not reptiles? When Kidney was a little bean, his pop had gone to Australia for work and come home with a pygmy python. Pop had spent the equivalent of ten bucks and carried it home on the plane in a glass jar as a gift for his son. Now transporting any reptile from Australia was verboten.