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Synopsis

Vincent Rubio is a private eye, working the angles in Los Angeles with his partner, Ernie. They've got the usual problems bills, bum cases, woman troubles. But being dinosaurs is not a problem, as long as their latex disguises fit properly.

Not all dinosaurs agree. Some have joined a mysterious back-to-basics movement led by a beautiful and beguiling Velociraptor to help dinosaurs find themselves, let their tails hang out, and roam about as they really are. When a member of this cult dies under suspicious circumstances, Vincent and Ernie must investigate, while simultaneously handling the case of the missing Mussolini the theft of a rare and priceless item treasured in the dinosaur community.

Excerpt

Improvisation is the modus operandi when you work with Ernie Watson. "You doin' okay, kid?" he asks me, and all I can do is mumble back a reply -- shag piling pressing up and into my mouth, my nostrils--as I'm momentarily assaulted by the stench of six thousand pairs of shoes and one incontinent household pet. "Stay down -- I almost got the damn thing."

As an insistent burglar alarm whines away in the background, Ernie fumbles with the system's plastic keypad, doing his best to shut the contraption up, or at least send it to a better place. Ten seconds have passed, and in twenty more we're as good as bait for the neighborhood security patrol. Fortunately, they don't carry weapons. At least I think they don't carry weapons.

"The code," I say. "Put it in already."

"I did -- "

"You didn't. It's still beeping."

"I did. And it's wrong. The code's wrong."

A leap to my feet -- Bruno Maglis today, clearly the inappropriate attire when one is breaking and entering, but at eight a.m. this morning I expected a non-felonious workday -- and I'm beside my partner in a beat, punching in the code over his protestations. Ernie's a crack PI, but it doesn't change the fact that his eyesight's slowly dropping off the low end of the scale -- last time, he insisted to the ophthalmologist that the reading chart was mocking him, by God -- and most likely he's simply hitting the wrong numbers.

There: 6-2-7-1-4-9-2. Just like it said in the Rolodex on the new hubby's desk. We found the code scrawled down as a phone number listed for a Mr. Alvin Alarming, and you can bet the farm it took the stellar mind of a T-Rex to come up with that brain-twister. I take my time and carefully depress the numbers on the keypad in their proper sequence.

The beeping continues. Twenty seconds down. This ain't good.

"Hey," I say, "the code's wrong."

Ernie fixes me with a cold, familiar stare. I grin. "Damn," Ernie mutters, "he musta changed it."

"Maybe she changed it -- "

"No." Simple, monosyllabic. I don't argue.

Fifteen seconds. My gaze slides toward the doorway we came through, then out to the driveway and the suburban streets beyond. No security patrol so far, but that doesn't preclude an imminent arrival. The time has come to beat a hasty retreat, exit stage left, mission aborted. I was getting hungry, anyhow.

But before I can grab Ernie by the lapel of his blue bowling shirt and haul him out of the building and down to Pink's for a chili dog with extra onions, he's somehow managed to tear off the face of the keypad, exposing the simplistic guts of this seemingly complex security system. Wires spill out like loose spaghetti, electricity snapping through the open gaps, and Ernie shoots a queasy glance in my direction. "Get down, kid," he says. "And stay there."

No argument here. Over a decade of snoop work with the guy, I've learned that when Ernie gets that pained, cramped look -- that I've-just-licked-a-human grimace -- it's time to listen up and listen hard. I drop to the floor.

An array of stunted claws flash out from Ernie's suddenly exposed paw, latex human fingers flapping loosely off the wrist. A flick of the forearm, a sweep through the air, and those four sharp razors slice their way up and through the assortment of high-tech wizardry bolted to the wall. Sparks fly, showering Ernie in a wash of miniature fireworks, but he stands his ground and holds tough despite the burn marks spreading across the surface of his polysuit.

The alarm, if anything, grows louder.

Moving with some real urgency now, Ernie grasps a severed wire in each hand and twists the two exposed ends around each other into a single sparkling braid.

Light. Hissing. A small explosion, perhaps.

And silence. The distinct smell of sulfur hangs in the air. Wires and buttons and lights and computer chips lie in a small mountain of rubble on the foyer carpeting, and I have to stamp out the smoldering mess with the bottoms of my designer shoes in order to prevent a small fire. The things I do for this job . . .

But Ernie is triumphant, arms aloft, the latex fingers on his left hand clutching the exposed claws of his right, jumping up and down like the winning pugilist after an early-round knockout. There's glee in that little dance, in that smile spreading across his face. I know that smile. There's no getting past that smile. That's pure Ernie.

"Nice job," I say. "You gonna fix that before we go?"

Ernie shrugs. "Don't know how."

"So there goes the covert entry."

"Yep. There it goes."

"You got a kick outta that, didn't you?" I ask.

A short laugh, almost a choke, as Ernie turns his head, avoids making eye contact. "I sure as hell ain't sad, kid."

We move farther into the house.

Tight hallways and small, sectioned rooms are the norm in this wood-paneled home, a restored throwback to the cobblestone-wall and modular-furniture days of the late seventies. The rooms practically pulse with disco backbeat. A vaulted ceiling rises above the main living area, in which a Steinway grand piano lies dormant, a thin layer of dust having settled across the keys.

"She still play?" I ask.

"How the hell should I know?"

"I thought maybe you -- "

"No."

Rows of framed photographs hang side by side in the main hallway, some of them old, most of them recent, all of them dinos in disguise. In the back of one group shot -- a family reunion, I gather, from the striking clan resemblance -- I believe I can make out a familiar guised face, a familiar squat body. No time to check, as Ernie's already through the hall and into a bedroom.

"What are we looking for?" I ask. Ernie's on his knees by the side of a California King Craftmatic adjustable bed, hurriedly rummaging through a battered oak nightstand. Books and old receipts fly onto the floor as my partner digs through the drawer with an intensity bordering on frenzy. This is not a careful archaeological expedition, to say the least.

No answer. I tap Ernie on the shoulder, and he barely flinches. "What are we -- "

"I'll know it when I see it," he says.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and it nearly sinks to the floor under my meager weight. I don't even hear the creak of springs, as they must have given up the long, hard battle some time ago. This must be the side that the new husband sleeps on; T-Rexes, frame notwithstanding, are not known to be light snoozers.

Ernie has successfully transferred the entire contents of the nightstand's upper drawer to the floor, and as he starts in on the lower one with the same troubled deliberation, I realize I'm going to be in for a long evening. Once my partner gets his mind set on something, there's little short of a cannonball or a side of mutton that can stop him.

"I'll go stand guard," I offer.

"For what?"

"In case they come back."

"They're at the opera."

"Maybe they'll leave after the third quarter," I say, and Ernie waves a hand in my general direction. I take this as my cue to leave, destination already in mind. A squadron of little demons resting inside my belly are clamoring for their evening feast, scratching at the lining of my stomach with their pitchforks, and I can't deny the monsters for much longer. The kitchen, therefore, is the first stop.

Clean. Sparkling. And well appointed. I am a particular fan of the Sub-Zero fridge: easy to open, and, thanks to its excellent layout, easy to raid. Being careful not to disturb the other contents, I pluck a leftover leg of lamb from the bottom shelf, snag a bottle of hot mustard, and make my way to the kitchen table. The demons intensify their poking and prodding, and my stomach growls in protest.

A munch, maybe two, and then it's no more time for food as a pair of lights swing across the peach curtains that line the front windows of the house. Headlights, I'm sure of it, accompanied by the unmistakable purr of an import automobile.

"Ernie!" I call out, achieving new dino land speeds as I race down the hall. "We've got a problem -- "

But he's engrossed in the same project as before, this time rummaging through an old bureau set against the far wall. In the few minutes since I'd left him, a miniature tornado must have localized itself in this bedroom: the floor is covered with knickknacks and loose sheets of paper, strewn about in every direction. "I think I'm onto it," Ernie says, oblivious of the F5-size mess he has created.

"Not anymore, you're not onto it," I tell him. "They're here."

"I know," he says wistfully. "I smelled her two minutes ago."

Even though the inhabitants of that car must have been ten blocks away two minutes ago, I have no cause to doubt Ernie's schnoz in cases such as this. Still, we have to vamoose. I grab Ernie by the shoulder, but he shrugs my hand away and continues digging.

I can hear two pairs of feet clomping up the front walkway, and now I, too, can smell them -- one scent strong, musky, thick, and cloying, a bargain-basement cologne; the other is full of lilac and warm oatmeal.

And now the key is turning, opening the lock in the front door, and it won't be long before the rightful owners of this house walk into their foyer and step directly into a homeowner's nightmare represented by a pile of charred plastic and silicon that used to be their primary means of defense against intruders great and small.

"Ernie, we can't wait around -- "

Front door creaking, opening, a matter of milliseconds...

Copyright © 2001 by Eric Garcia

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