Anonymous Rex (41 page)

A
year has passed, and the private investigation firm of Watson and Rubio has become the private investigation firm of Rubio and Wetzel. It took a few months, but I finally allowed the sign painters to take Ernie’s name down from the outside window, though I made them leave it on the door to what was once his office. I look at it every day. Glenda and I are running at the top of our games, working overtime to get to all the cases that are thrown our way. We actually have to turn assignments away now, but each one we say
no thanks
to hits me sharp, like a hunger pang, as if reminding me that there was once a time when I had nothing in the fridge but a cherry tomato and a stack of basil.

Speaking of basil and its wicked cousins, I’m attending regular Herbaholic Anonymous meetings, and my sponsor, an Allosaur who used to be addicted to celery salt, of all things, is the shortstop for the Dodgers, so I’m always getting free seats behind home plate. It’s been 213 days since my last herb, and I’m due to get my next gold star within the week. Little goals, little steps, but that’s the way to rebuild a life.

The so-called Council investigation into the McBride/Vallardo/Burke/Holden affair was squelched by an order from invisible higherups who were anxious to avoid a full-scale catastrophe, and I wasn’t
about to go sticking my skinny hide on the line for this crap yet again. The worry was that the dino population wouldn’t be able to handle the implications of what had occurred—the idea that someone so powerful had infiltrated their society at such an elevated level—and might riot, commit suicide, or drive the stock market down. Whatever the case, my dealings in the affair before the National Council were brief, and I only had to go to Cleveland twice to deliver my depositions.

Dan’s funeral, held only a few days after I returned from New York, was a lovely affair, with all of his buddies from the force showing up to wish him farewell. We had ice cream and Cheetos at the wake. I spent much of the time drowning in my own sorrow, for any number of related reasons, so I guess I wasn’t able to provide much comfort to the other guests, but it was sure nice to have them around to comfort me.

Privately, Teitelbaum eased up on the blacklisting once he got the full story of my time in New York, and now grudgingly contracts out some of his work to the firm. He continues to bust my balls, and, if anything, has only increased the size of his nutcracker. Probably had his secretary Cathy pick one up in Frankfurt. His public reaction to my involvement with the McBride affair was to dock me two weeks’ pay for going outside the boundaries of my job and then give me two weeks’ worth of bonus money for bringing recognition to TruTel. Let’s hear it for treading water.

I’ve got a new car and my town house is out of foreclosure, and there’s enough money in the bank to last me through any rough spots I might hit, but still I come home every night, sit in front of the television set, eat a warmed-up piece of left-left-leftovers, and read my mail.

Bill—DWP. Bill—cable. Bill—spring water. Letter from a friend of mine in Oregon, asking me if I got the last letter he sent. Offer from MasterCard, a huge credit limit, all I have to do is sign on the dotted line. Another letter, this one from an old client, complaining that she can’t get me on the phone at the office anymore, I’m so darn busy, and would I just call her already, she’s got a case for me. Something about a reservoir and water rights for the LA basin. And a picture postcard, the vibrant colors poking out from the stack of mail, grabbing
my attention. The photo is a long shot of a quiet, peaceful beach with soft, silken sand, an ocean of pure blue, and a sky to match.
A GREETING FROM COSTA RICA
, reads the flouncy yellow lettering printed in bas-relief across the top. I flip the card over.

There is nothing written on the back, save for my name and address, a heart over the
i
’s in Vincent and Rubio. Instead, in the box where the body of the letter should go, are some strange ink markings—three long vertical stripes, curving slowly, carefully up and around five smaller streaks, these dotted with what look to be half-formed fingerprints. I sniff the card, pressing it tightly against my nose, and believe that I can smell the sand, that I can smell the surf, that I can smell that fresh stroke of pine on a crisp autumn morning.

My gaze falls toward a full-length mirror situated at the end of the hallway. I am unguised, and I soak in a long look at my teeth, my hide, my ears. At my nose, my tail, my snout, my legs. At what makes me different from almost every other creature walking the face of this planet.

I let loose with my claws, flashing them out into the open. Long, curved, retractable.

Those are claw prints on the postcard, claw prints mixed with the early formation of some stubby human fingers. I can see it all so clearly now, these marks made by dipping a set of claws in ink and pressing them hard against the heavy stock paper. One set of adult prints, one set of baby prints. There is nothing else to clue me in, nothing else inscribed on the entire card, but this is all the message I need.

I throw the rest of my dinner in the garbage disposal, turn off the television, and head to the bedroom, unable to wipe away the smile that has crept, unannounced, onto my face.

Thanks, first and foremost, to Barbara Zitwer Alicea, the greatest literary agent in the known universe (and an all-around wonderful person), without whom this book would be in a very different form and still collecting dust on a shelf in my home. And T-Rex-sized thanks to Jonathan Karp, my editor at Random House/Villard, who saw something bright and glittering buried in the tar pits of my novel and helped me to drag it out and clean it off.

Thanks, also, to those who read the book at its inception and were never anything but constructive with their criticism, and to friends and family who were always ready with help and support: Steven Solomon, Alan Cook, Ben Rosner, Julie Sheinblatt, Brett Oberst, Michele Kuhns, Rob Kurzban, Crystal Wright, Beverly Erickson, and Howard Erickson.

Eric Garcia is a twenty-six-year-old writer from Miami. He attended Cornell University and the University of Southern California, where he majored in creative writing and film. He lives near Los Angeles with his wife, Sabrina, and their dachshund, Oliver, and is currently at work on his second novel,
Casual Rex
. He can be reached at
www.anonymousrex.com
.