Anonymous Rex (3 page)

And then the scene changes, the honeydew days and butterfly skies giving way to a crimson-coated battle working its way through the entire modern dinosaur population, of Stegosaurs and Brontos slugging it out, of Trike horns sliding into Iguanodon sides, of Compys huddling in dark alleys, whining, petrified, and of a woman—a human—standing in the middle of it all, her hair full and wild, her eyes alight with passion and excitement, her fists clenched in titillation of the glorious, blazing corona of violence and fury surrounding her frail body.

I dream that I approach the woman and ask her if she would like me to take her out of this civil war, to take her away from this scene, and that the woman laughs and kisses me on the nose, as if I am a favorite pet or a teddy bear.

I dream that the woman sharpens her fingernails with an emery board, rears back on her haunches, and joins the fray, launching herself into the pile of writhing dinosaur flesh.

T
eitelbaum is waiting for me the next morning, just as I knew he would be; I can see his hulking silhouette through the glass bricks that make up his outer office wall. He never leaves that oak desk of his, even in the most dire of emergencies—no matter the crisis, the entire employee base is always compelled to convene in that tacky room, filled with the worst that airport gift shops around the world have to offer: a coconut with the Hawaiian islands painted on it. A hand towel bearing the machine-stitched inscription
I GOT CLEANED OUT IN VEGAS
. An ice cube tray with molds in the shape of the Australian continent. And since there are only two available guest chairs, most of the office staff is forced to sit on the floors, lean against the walls, or try to stand upright during his legendary epic-length speeches. It’s all so perfectly demeaning, and I’m sure that’s just the way Teitelbaum wants it.

I also wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he’s permanently wedged into his high-backed leather chair, the big … big … fatso. But that’s neither here nor there, and it’s patently unfair of me to criticize a Tyrannosaurus Rex on his weight problems. I’m sure that there’s some muscle fiber buried underneath all that flab, and everyone knows that muscle weighs more than fat. Or is it that water weighs less than muscle? Oh, hell—any way you look at it, Teitelbaum’s a big ol’ chub, and I don’t mind saying it twice. Chub!

I’ve got half a buzz going on, as I figured it wasn’t morally right or mentally sound to show up either stone-cold sober or high off my gourd, and this low-grade high suits me quite nicely. The outside world flows by at three-quarter speed, just the proper rate for me to take in all relevant details, omitting and/or ignoring any feelings of hostility. The secretaries in the outer office look up in astonishment as I pass, and I can hear my name echoing in low whispers about the cubicles. I don’t mind. It’s all swell.

TruTel is the largest private investigation firm in Los Angeles—second largest in California—and, until I fucked up royally, a regular employer of my services. In the days when Ernie was around, we’d often be called in to help on any case that needed an extra helping of tight, confidential snoop work. We got a few jobs that skirted the boundaries of the law, gigs that the company couldn’t put on the books, and it paid out real nice. Of course, if you deal with TruTel, you have to deal with Teitelbaum, and that’s another matter entirely. He loves to throw out cases to PIs and watch us claw at one another like gamecocks for the right to earn a minuscule commission, but if you want to make your way in this business, sometimes you’ve even gotta bend over and smile for a T-Rex.

Time to brave the sanctum sanctorum.

“Morning, Mr. Teitelbaum,” I say as I enter his office with a false bound in my step and lilt to my voice. “You’re looking … good. Lost some weight.” My legs are in control, my feet are in control, my body is in control.

“You look like crap,” Teitelbaum grunts, and motions for me to sit down. I gladly take him up on the offer.

From some of the gossip I heard out in the lobby, the big cheese here at TruTel, whose human guise is a cross between Oliver Hardy and a sentient mound of sweat, has spent the better part of a week engrossed in a new toy that was delivered more than eight days ago, but that he is unable to operate as of yet: Sitting on a corner of Teitelbaum’s desk is one of those devices with four metal balls attached to an overhead beam by four strands of fishing line. By pulling out an outside ball and letting it drop against the others, one can witness the miracle of Newtonian physics as the spheres click and clack back and forth for hours on end. Teitelbaum, though, who has most likely never heard of Newton, and perhaps never even heard of physics, is
still hard at work trying to figure out the exact machinations of his new plaything. He grumbles at it. He breathes on it. He bats it around with a rough, clumsy swat, his puny arms barely able to reach across the desk.

“ ’Scuse me—” I say, interrupting this most scientific of procedures. “May I?” Without waiting for a response, I reach out, grasp one of the silver spheres, and drop it into action. The gadget lets loose with a steady clack-clack-clack, echoing about the stillness of the office.

Teitelbaum stares at the balls in awe, clack-clack-clack, his gargantuan jaw gaping wide open, clack-clack-clack. He had a sheep for breakfast; I can make out the fur on his molars. Eventually, the fool regains his composure, even though it’s clear he’s dying to ask me what miraculous magic I used to start the machine in motion.

“Brought it in from Beijing Airport,” he says, evading the issue of his ignorance altogether. “Cathy had some business up Hunan way.” Big ol’ lie. Cathy is one of Teitelbaum’s secretaries, and the only business she ever has—ever, ever, ever—is traveling the world fetching gift-shop trinkets for Mr. Teitelbaum so that he can feel worldly and accomplished without actually having to leave the safety, comfort, and padding of his office chair. And since Teitelbaum puts all of the plane tickets under his name, the poor girl doesn’t even rack up any frequent-flyer miles. Cathy’s current annual salary (I know, because I snuck a peek at the finance report some years back) is slightly over thirty thousand dollars, and since she’s out of town more than five-sixths of the year, Teitelbaum had to hire an additional secretary—that’s where Sally comes in—to do all of the actual paperwork that floats in and out of his grimy hands. As a result, Teitelbaum’s secretarial bill comes to more than sixty thousand dollars a year, all charged to the firm, which means that his PI hacks have to work that many more hours to pay for the extra overhead. And all so the former homecoming king of Hamilton High can buy souvenirs that he’s too stupid to operate. Lord, I hate Tyrannosaurs.

“It’s very nice,” I assure him. “Shiny.” I am glad he’s too dumb to know when I am mocking him.

“Got one question for you, Rubio,” Teitelbaum growls, leaning back in his chair, his meaty flanks spreading out, spilling over the sides. “You drunk?”

“That’s blunt.”

“It is. Are you drunk? Are you still hitting the basil?”

“No.”

He grunts, sniffs, tries to look me in the eyes. I avert. “Take out your contacts,” he says. “Lemme see your real eyes.”

I pull back from the desk, begin to stand. “I don’t have to listen to this—”

“Siddown, Rubio, siddown. I don’t give a good goddamn if you’re drunk or not, but you don’t got a choice other than to listen to me. I know people at credit departments. I know people at the bank. You got no money left.” He seems to relish this little speech; I am not surprised.

“Is there a point?” I ask.

“Point is, I don’t gotta have you in here at all!”

“Tell you the truth,” I say, “I was a little surprised—”

“You talk too much. Maybe I’ve got some money for you. Maybe. Maybe I can throw a job your way, god knows why. If—and this is a big if, Rubio—if you’re ready for it. If you’re not gonna screw it up and screw me over like last time.”

On Teitelbaum’s desk, a shudder passes through the balls, a metallic buzz, as they slow and die. Teitelbaum fixes me with a hard stare, and I reach over and start them up again for him, apparently one of my new duties as a potential employee. I just hope that starting and restarting this contraption all day isn’t the job he’s got in mind. The sad thing is, I might take it.

“I’d be very grateful for the opportunity,” I tell Teitelbaum, trying to keep the pushpins out of the syrupy drawl of my obsequiousness.

“Sure you would. Eighty hacks around this city’d be grateful for the opportunity. But I didn’t hate that Ernie of yours”—and for Teitelbaum, this is tantamount to a declaration of true love—“so I’m gonna cut you this break. Plus, I got no choice. God help me, I got nineteen idiots who call themselves private investigators in this office, and every one of ’em is tied up in some bullshit case or another, dragging out the clock so they can make a few extra bucks. In comes a case with a time limit, and look where I gotta turn—a drunken has-been with a dead-partner complex.”

“Thank you?”

“Look, I need assurances here. The last time you went out on a case, you went over the line—”

“It won’t be like last time,” I interrupt.

“I gotta have assurances. Assurances that what I say goes. No backing out on orders, no screwing around with the cops. I tell you to drop it, you drop it. Are we on the same page here?”

“It won’t be like last time,” I repeat.

“I’m sure it won’t.” Now his tone softens imperceptibly from granite to limestone. “I understand how it was for you. Ernie, killed on the job like that. Work with a guy for ten years—”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve years, it gets you. I got that. But it was an accident, nothing more, nothing less. The guy got hit by a taxicab, they’re all over New York—”

“But Ernie was careful—”

“Don’t start that shit again. He was careful, yeah, but not that time. And running around bothering the cops, flapping your lips about crazy conspiracies, doesn’t get you any love.” He pauses, waits to see if I will speak. I choose not to. “It’s over, done with. Kaput.” Teitelbaum purses his lips, face screwing up like he’s mainlined a lemon. “So what I need to know is, are
you
over it? All of it—Ernie, McBride …?”

“Over it? I mean, I—I’m not—I’m not—they’re dead, right? So …” No, I want to scream, I’m not over it! How the hell can I be expected to forget about my partner, to let the death of my only friend go down unsolved? I want to tell him that I snooped before and given the chance, I’d snoop again. I want to tell him to damn the Council rectification and damn whatever blacklist I’ve been put on, that I’ll keep searching for Ernie’s killer until my last breath wheezes past my lips.

But that was the Vincent Rubio of the last nine months, and anger and resentment haven’t gotten that Vincent anything other than sixteen pounds of collection notices, imminent foreclosure, and a costly basil habit. I’ve got no money, I’ve got no time, and I’ve got nobody left to turn to. So I brighten up my best grin and say, “Sure. Sure, I’m over it.”

The Tyrannosaur silences the clack-clack-clack of the metal balls with one withered finger and stares me down. “Good. Fine.” Silence hisses through the room. “On a related note, you hear about any Council fines?”

“I’m not on the Council anymore, sir.” And when I was, Teitelbaum was always pressing me for information. He took it as a major slight that an employee of his held a seat on the Southern California Council, that I had the ability to form policy that would affect his daily life. It was one of those little tidbits that kept me going. “They … they voted me out after the New York incidents.”

He nods. “I know you’re off, they had me testify at the meetings. But you still got friends—”

“Not really,” I say. “Not anymore.”

“Goddamn it, Rubio, you must have heard something about the fines.”

I shrug, shake my head. “The fines …”

“On McBride—”

“He’s dead.”

“On his estate. ’Cause of the human thing.”

“The human thing,” I echo. I know exactly what he’s talking about, but refuse to let on.

“Come on, Rubio,” he says, “you were on the Council, you knew what was going on. McBride, having an affair with that … that …”—his shoulders, if you could call them that, shivering in disgust—“that
human
.”

He’s right as rain, but I can’t let him know that. Raymond McBride, a Carnotaurus who had burst onto the dino scene out of midwestern obscurity and then risen to great financial standing in a few short years, had indeed engaged in multiple affairs with a series of human women. This is not conjecture; it is fact. We know this from an array of sworn statements given to Council members at official auxiliary hearings, along with ample physical evidence in the form of clandestine photographs clicked off by J&T Enterprises, the largest PI firm in New York and, coincidentally, TruTel’s East Coast sister company.

A consummate playboy, McBride had always been known for wooing the females of our species with incredible success despite his intact and lengthy marriage, and the resultant branches of his family tree have been rumored to spread from coast to coast, possibly into Europe. He owned an apartment on Park Avenue, a house on Long Island, and a “cottage” out here in the Pacific Palisades, not to mention
the twin casinos in Vegas and Atlantic City. His features, sharp and classically Carnotaur in nature, were masked daily by a team of professional obscurers who knew how to easily make even the most reptilian of dinosaurs appear perfectly human, a task that takes the rest of us countless hours of pain and frustration. Raymond McBride’s life was blessed.