Flamethrower - Maggie Estep [54]
“Hi,” Ruby said loudly.
The man nearly fell out of his chair. He scrambled to his feet and stared at Ruby with his mouth half open.
“What is it?” he asked as if expecting incredibly bad news.
“Could I get a room?” Ruby ventured.
“A room?” The man seemed incredulous.
“Yes. For one night.”
“That’s forty-nine ninety-nine,” the man threatened.
“Do you take Visa?” Ruby asked, pulling out her credit card.
“Yeah,” the man said, eyeing the card as if he expected it to be declined.
Ruby wondered if she looked that disreputable. More likely she had the aura of a city dweller, and in a lot of people’s minds, living in cities indicated criminal inclinations.
After running Ruby’s card through the machine, the old man turned around to gaze at the room keys dangling from hooks on the peeling green wall. He eyeballed Ruby once more before settling on the key to room number seven.
“You’re not Joe Murphy’s wife are you?” the man asked.
“Not that I know of, no.” Ruby couldn’t resist having a little fun.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the old guy barked.
“I don’t know any Joe Murphy, and I’m not married,” Ruby said.
This seemed to placate the old geezer.
“Checkout’s at eleven,” he told her.
“I’ll be out long before then,” Ruby promised, noticing flecks of spittle near the man’s thin, bluish lips. “Have a lovely night,” she added.
Ruby drove over to the parking spot in front of room seven, locked the car, and walked the few steps to her room. She was about to fit her key in the door when she saw a caramel-colored dog lying in the grass a few feet from her room door. When Ruby looked at him, the dog looked her right in the eye and started thumping his tail. He was a puppy with feet nearly as big as the rest of him. Ruby squatted down and extended one hand, palm up. The puppy ran over, licked her hand, and started wiggling so violently Ruby thought he might break. It was a he. No more than a few months old, maybe thirty pounds, with a black muzzle and a flashy splash of white on his chest.
“Hello,” Ruby said, smiling at the dog. She remembered reading that dogs had been domesticated so long they understood human body language better than humans did. The puppy interpreted Ruby’s smile as a good thing and tried to lick her face.
Ruby looked around, expecting to see the puppy’s people somewhere, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, nor were any lights showing in the windows of the other rooms. Ruby didn’t know what to do, so she opened the door to her room. The puppy rushed in and jumped onto the bed. She sat down next to him and let him lick her cheek. She realized that she was one step away from taking the puppy home with her to Brooklyn and that she should make sure the dog didn’t belong to some forlorn child who was home weeping her eyes out.
“Make yourself at home. I’m going to make inquiries,” Ruby told the young dog. He tilted his head and wrinkled his brow.
As Ruby walked to the door, the puppy jumped off the bed and followed her.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” she said. The puppy had glued himself to her though, and when she opened the door, he went out. Ruby scooped him into her arms and held him as she walked to the motel office.
The old man was asleep again. Feet propped up on the desk. Ruby stood there, with the puppy in her arms, staring down at the old geezer. She was tempted to play some sort of prank on him. Tie his shoelaces together, put his hand in a bucket of hot water, something. The old guy must have felt her mischief. He opened his eyes and sat up.
“Huh?” He started blinking wildly.
“Whose puppy is this?” Ruby asked.
She watched the old guy fumble for a pair of bifocals.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“This puppy