5

The place: The Hills of Hollywood, one vertical mile north of the Boulevard. The time: Round about seven in the P.M. The mood: Tense. The clothing: As stylish as it is uncomfortable. I’m driving, Ernie’s complaining, and all is right with the undercover world.

“We get in, we listen to their shpiel, we find Rupert, we get out.”

“Works for me, Ern.”

“And then I get outta these goddamned silk pants.”

I shake my head. “It’s not silk—it’s linen. It’s very in.”

Ernie doesn’t care; he pulls petulantly at his Calvin Klein shirt and Armani slacks like a five-year-old dressed up for Sunday church. I drive on.

In the twenty-four hours between our marathon session down the corridors of Melrose Avenue—during which time Ernie was introduced to the wonders of all sorts of clothing whose designers do not advertise for Kmart, and whose fabrics do not trace their origins to the Poly or Ester families—and our “club meeting” with the Progressives in the Hollywood Hills, we did some more grunt work trying to track down Minsky’s babe of the week. It’s not rare that we work multiple cases at the same time. A PI’s plate is never, ever full; if it’s piled too high, we just get another set of dishes.

First step was trying to find a home address, and though this was easy enough with the help of Dan Patterson, a Bronto friend of mine on the LAPD, the rat hole that Star Josephson used to live in has been red-tagged and condemned by the Board of Health. I guess we could have gone in, tried to case the place, but great cracks had made their way down the exterior walls and across the roof of the building, like crevasses in a glacier, and the whole structure looked ready to collapse under its own weight. Unfortunately for us, even the more daredevil mammals and dinos had abandoned the joint, and roaches don’t give out forwarding addresses, so we were on our own.

We had a few pictures—Polaroids, mostly, snapped by Minsky in a fit of hormone-fueled lust—and we showed ’em around with all the vigor we could muster, eliciting gasps from old ladies and knowing leers from young gents.

“I know the tramp,” one particularly foul-smelling Compy told us. His name was Sweetums, and he was a pimp working the dino hooker trade up on Sunset. I’ve used Sweetums before, mostly to find missing girls, as he’s the kind of pimp who makes them go missing in the first place. Not your midafternoon tea kind of fellow, but he knows what he knows, and he always needs cash. Poor sap’s got a furious saffron habit, and that delicious toxin doesn’t come cheap. “I seen her cooling her heels out on the Boulevard.”

“And you tried to take her in,” I said.

“Take her in, break her in, it’s all in the game,” cooed Sweetums.

“You’re a saint. Just tell me where to find her.” I emphasized my last point with two folded twenties, and Sweetums snatched them between his teeth, shaking the bills around like a dog with a chew toy.

The pimp licked his lips and pocketed the money. “Last visit I paid her was at the St. Regis Hotel. Sweet piece of tail . . .”

“St. Regis?”

“Up on Franklin,” said Sweetums. “Rents by the minute.”

The St. Regis manager wasn’t too keen to give out info on the hotel’s guests, but it only took a sawbuck to affect hotel policy. Yes, she’d been staying in the hotel, and yes, she had a room on the third floor, but no, he hadn’t seen her in over a week. But there were no foul smells emanating from under the door, so he didn’t feel a need to contact the police, especially since she paid for an entire month up front.

By the time Ernie and I decided to sneak around the back of the St. Regis and break into the tart’s hotel room, it was nearing five o’clock and we had to get back to the office and change for the Progressive party.

“Star can wait,” Ernie pointed out. “Dames like that, they might move around, but they don’t go anywhere.”

Now, two hours later, Ernie’s probably wishing we were still tracking down the mistress, if only because he could do so in a workshirt and chinos. But not here—not now—not faced with the kind of extravagant opulence that would send a Saudi sheik running for his interior decorator.

This is not a house in front of us. I’d even hesitate to call it a mansion. It’s a gargantuan affair, white marble on top of white marble, pillars and columns and a whole sampler of Greek architecture thrown together into a single, monstrous parody of the Acropolis.

“You seeing this?” I ask Ernie, but all he can do is stare, slack-jawed, at a home that, even by LA standards, is fantastically ostentatious.

We drive up to a large wrought-iron gate set off to one side of the house, and a uniformed guard emerges from a large white door. The setting sun bounces off the marble, reflecting a steady stream of light into my eyes, throwing the guard into sharp relief.

“Can I see your invitation, please?” he asks, and though I’m dazzled by the sunlight, I’m aware enough to catch the scents of popcorn and model airplane glue coming from his direction.

Ernie produces the flyers and hands them to the guard, who inspects them casually and reaches behind him for a button. “You’re cleared. Just go right on into the main house.”

The main house. “You mean—this isn’t—this thing here—”

“This is the guardhouse,” he says. “And sometimes a ballroom. But mostly the guardhouse.”

Suffice it to say that the main house is to the guardhouse what the planet Jupiter is to my ass. Contemplating its size is like attempting to get your brain around the concept of infinity—not much point, and it’s only going to wind up in a migraine. It’s nice to see that they’ve kept the architectural parody going, and that this Goliath of a domicile would be right at home in ancient Athens, provided, of course, that they hadn’t spent all their money fighting off the Spartans.

Ernie and I park the car amid a cornucopia of makes and models—there’s two hundred cars here if there’s a dozen, and still the lot is barely half full—and trudge our way up a set of stairs set into the side of a hill.

“I wanna know where they get this money,” says Ernie, panting a bit from the climb.

“Where’d they get it?” I say. “Hell, I wanna know where I can get a piece.”

Even before we reach the front door—twenty feet high, shining alabaster, brass doorknobs the size of my head—and even before it opens for us of its own accord—swinging wide, no creaks, no rustles, just a smooth, simple glide—and even before we step into a hallway filled with archaeological treasures and works of art I am sure no human has ever seen before—original portraits by Modigliani, Rubens, Pollock, all dino masters—Ernie and I pick up on the array of scents twisting and braiding around one another into an olfactory licorice whip, streaming out of the house, bursting from beneath the doors, the windows, squiggling out from behind the insulation. The smells come at us with force, as if exploding from within, shoved along their way.

“Welcome, brothers,” comes a soft voice as Ernie and I step into the hallway, our shoes clacking on the marble floor below. “May I take your belongings?”

A thin female Ornithomimus holds out her hand, beckoning us closer. “We came empty-handed,” I apologize. “Shoulda brought a gift, right? I’m lousy at party etiquette.”

The Ornitho laughs, her cheeks bouncing fetchingly. “By belongings, I mean your guises. May I take them?” She points to a sign above her head: PLEASE CHECK YOUR COSTUME AT THE DOOR.

I issue a game little laugh, but my partner is not amused.

“Can’t believe you made me buy this crap,” Ernie grumbles as we undress in a shuttered room next to the guise check. “You set me up with all this silk and leather and fancy shoes, and we ain’t even supposed to wear our guises here, let alone this shit. Almost a grand for one outfit, and it’s wasted.”

“You’ll have it for the next time.”

“Ain’t gonna be a next time, I promise you that. After tonight, I bonfire this garbage.”

We disrobe, then begin the real task of removing our costumes. Ernie and I help each other with the G-series, and quickly remove the rest of the trusses and buckles ourselves. My mask is sticking a little, the epoxy I applied yesterday morning a bit too strong for the job, and it takes a thin layer of my own hide with it as I rip the fake face away.

Ernie might be getting up there—though he’s never admitted his age to me, he’s at least fifteen years my senior, I’d bet—but back in his natural form, you wouldn’t sense anything over-the-hill about the guy. His Carnotaur muscles are quite evident beneath his dark brown hide, and I know he’s not squeamish about using them when the droppings hit the fan.

We hand our guises over to the Ornithomimus, and she carefully places them on a row of hangers, one for each series in the costume, tagging them all with the same number so as to keep the set together. I’m number 313, and Ernie’s number 314.

Carefully, she places the hangers holding our costumes onto what looks like a dry-cleaning rack behind her and presses a blue button set into the wall. Two tall, thin doors swing wide and the rack begins to move, the hangers going with it, disappearing into a room beyond. For a second, I can make out row after row of human skins hanging in orderly fashion like a ghastly war experiment, limbs drooping limply to the ground. Then the doors close, the Ornithomimus sits back down, and we’re directed down the hallway and to our right.

It’s a ballroom like any other, no big deal, nothing impressive, except this one is inside a house and larger than all the apartments I’ve ever lived in put together. About three hundred dinosaurs mill about unguised, a veritable slime-fest of pheromones choking the air, staining the walls, the ceiling. Gonna be hell for whatever team of housekeepers has to clean this place out Monday morning.

I see Raptors and Stegosaurs and Brontos and Ankies and Hadrosaurs and pretty much every one of the sixteen species that survived the Great Showers sixty-five million years ago, and though I can’t find a Compy in here at the moment, I’m sure I’ll come across one when I least expect—or want—to do so.

And standing among it all, fifty feet tall if it’s an inch, a center-piece to make all other centerpieces hide their heads in shame: the perfectly preserved, expertly assembled, fossilized body of an ancient ancestor. It’s a T-Rex—an original—a party-goer who showed up at the door sixty million years too early and couldn’t subsist on cocktail-hour nibbles for that long. The modern dinos in the room mill around the dead giant as if it’s not even there, barely giving the skeleton any notice. Odd—I thought these freaks worshiped the ancestors. Shouldn’t they be bowing? Chanting? Offering up a virgin or two?

Making my way through the stifling crowd, I notice something missing, though it takes me a second to put my finger on it: no plates. There’s always appetizers at these functions, and more often than not I find myself trying to balance delicate cocktail conversation with a goblet of water (or wine, at human events) and a plate full of toast and spread. Here, the dinos have the drinks, but they don’t have the food. Across the room, near the dance floor, I see a Hadrosaur carrying a covered silver tray. I approach.

“Care for an appetizer, sir?” he asks, and I nod hungrily.

I expect the waiter to whip off the cover with a flourish, but all he does is open a small slot at the top of the tray and look at me expectantly.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” I say. “I’d like something to eat.”

“Yes, sir,” he drawls, “and that’s why I’ve opened the slot.”

“Isn’t it easier to just take off the cover?”

Surprise and confusion on his face, one of those looks I get from witnesses sometimes when they think I’ve had a few too many blows to the head. “Goodness, no, sir. They would escape.”

Escape? I’ve never seen a cocktail wiener with feet before. Enough with this. I reach out and shove my hand down that hole—

And into a writhing pile of spaghetti.

I yank my hand back with enough force to send the tray smashing to the ground, the cover popping off with a furious clatter. A mess of small black snakes, each no more than a half-dollar around, varying in length from six to twelve inches, slither out of their confines and quickly spread throughout the ballroom in all the cardinal directions, eliciting a cavalcade of carnal shrieks and screams. The waiter fixes me with a hard stare.

“Why did you have to go and do that, sir? Now we’ll have a feeding frenzy on our hands.”

And indeed we do. While a few of the other dinosaurs in the room are acting much as I did—jumping backward, avoiding the beasts at any cost—the majority of them are snatching up the critters with their bare hands and shoving them into their mouths, past their jaws, swallowing them whole if need be. Laughter and roars of culinary ecstasy fill the air, and I find myself ashamed for having been rattled by what isn’t even a rattler. They’re garden snakes, nothing more, and despite our tenuous genetic link, none of my brethren have any qualms about digesting the buggers wholesale.

Ernie comes up behind me, mumbling through his lips. “Good party,” he says.

I turn to find a small, green tail—still wiggling, mind you—poking out from between my partner’s lips. I hold back my strong desire to cringe.

“That a snake?” I ask.

“Newt,” he mumbles, and finishes it off with a hearty swallow. “Been a while since I had fresh meat.”

As the last remaining appetizers are rounded up and summarily digested, Ernie and I take a spin around the room, scoping out the crowd, sniffing for familiar scents.

“He’s not here,” Ernie tells me.

“You remember what he smells like?” I’m surprised. As far as I know, the last time Ernie and Rupert saw each other was well over five years ago.

“Coffee, maybe . . . dessert tray . . . Can’t say as I definitely remember,” says Ernie, “but I know I’d recognize the boy if I smelled him. Hell, he spent half a year living at our place after he got back from that god-awful India trip. Smelled like curry for a few months—I remember that for sure, so I should be able to pick it up.”

A trio of dinos scurry out of a pair of swinging double doors and begin setting up audio equipment at the back end of the dance floor. A microphone, some speakers, and a host of electrical cables snake out from beneath eighteen-inch risers, which are quickly bolted together to form a makeshift stage. It’s all very Woodstock, and I feel the strong urge to flick a lighter and scream out a song request. Minutes pass, and Ernie wanders off for more food. Meanwhile, I’m watching these Raptor roadies go to town when I feel a tap on the rough hide of my shoulder.

“This turf’s covered, Rubio. You’re steppin’ over the line.”

The voice isn’t familiar, but the tone certainly is. Ooze on top of grease with a generous helping of smarm. I turn, trying to fix some type of grin to my face. It’s the kind of thing he’ll expect, and though I don’t care whether or not I alienate the guy, I’ve got too much business to attend to without catering to his whining.

“Sutherland,” I say, catching a strong whiff of that burnt-milk-and-spoiled-egg scent with which this rival PI is unfortunately saddled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I got cases, see,” he says, drawing out his lines in a horrific Cagney impression. “I got a job to do, and to do it right.”

“Can the nightclub act,” I suggest, “and stick to the day job.”

He drops the accent and asks, “Your partner here?”

I nod over toward Ernie, who gives Sutherland a perfunctory nod and raises another newt—this one struggling, kicking, not ready to meet his reptilian maker—in salutation.

“So,” I ask, “what’s the story? You’re on a job . . .?”

“Undercover work,” he whispers. “Real hush-hush. I get a lot of the big jobs now, you know.”

Now that he’s hot-to-trot with the boss man’s sister, sure he gets the big cases, despite the fact that Sutherland is probably one of the least-qualified private investigators I’ve ever come across. This guy couldn’t find Go on a Monopoly board.

“So Mr. Teitelbaum thinks I’m a great detective . . .” he rambles on, “. . . and wants to start talking—get this—partner.” He emphasizes this last part with a tight forehead scrunch, a difficult move when the area above your eyes isn’t much other than a few bony plates fused into a marginally flexible mass. Ankylosaurs have difficulty expressing emotion visually. Think Al Gore. “So long as I finish off this case right.”

“So that’s why you’re here. For this big case.”

“Right. But it’s real secret, so keep it under wraps, willya?”

“What am I gonna say?” I ask. “You didn’t tell me about it.”

“Exactly.” He looks relieved.

“I mean, it’s not like some kid got mixed up in this Progress thing, went all nutso and broke off ties with the outside world, and the family came to the office and wants someone to break ’em out. . . .”

Suddenly crestfallen, cheeks blanching of color, shoulders drooping into sharp slopes of defeat, Sutherland slams a fist into his open palm. “Goddamnit! God—damn—it! I knew Teitelbaum would send another team in, I goddamned knew it!”

“No, no, he didn’t—”

“Now we gotta split the fees, right? You’re taking half—your partner gets the other half—damn it all . . .”

“Hey, hey—”

I’m sorry, but Mr. Sutherland can’t be reached right now. He’s lost in the depths of self-pity. Please leave a message. “Look—you take it, Rubio. I don’t need to be here. I’m no good at this—”

“Lower your voice and quit whining.”

“I should have been a doctor. That’s what my mother wanted me to be.”

“Sutherland—Sutherland! Shut up and listen to me.” Amazingly, he does so. I’ve noticed that we’re drawing a crowd, so I pull the hack off to one side and lower my voice to a loud whisper. “We’re not here for Teitelbaum.”

The beginnings of relief. “You’re not?”

“No. And we’re not on your case. We’ve got a private matter, probably similar to yours, but not the same thing. You can keep your stupid fees.”

“I have a mortgage to pay,” he says, a semblance of color—appropriate shades of brown and green—returning to his face.

“I know you do.”

“I have kids.”

“I know.” They are ugly made flesh. “They’re adorable.”

“Oh. Oh. Oh, good. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. Go get a glass of water and have a seat. Put your head between your legs, take deep breaths.” I pat the PI on the back and urge him toward a nearby waiter. “Grab a newt, I hear they’re delish.” Sutherland trots off, and I can’t help but chuckle a bit.

Ernie walks over and I clue him in; he shakes his head in resignation. “See, kid, we ain’t so special. I betcha half the dinos in here are dicks on the job. Wherever you got confused kids, you got parents willing to shell out dough to look for ’em.”

The roadies in the corner have just about finished setting up and plugging in all the audio equipment they’ve lugged out onto the dance floor, and it’s not long before a tall, muscular Iguanodon strolls onto the stage, long neck spikes glistening in the spotlight, the wooden risers creaking beneath his considerable weight. His hide is a deep emerald green with not a miscolored fleck on it, and though I don’t usually feel complexion envy, I can’t help but stare in awe at the sheer natural beauty of those scales.

A tap on the microphone, the requisite squeal, and in a resoundingly deep voice, the Iguanodon says, “Welcome, brothers and sisters.”

“Welcome!” comes the overwhelming reply, the shouts buffeting me in all directions. I notice that a good quarter of us remain silent, bouncing back and forth on our feet, unsure of what to do. Recent converts and potential inductees, I would imagine.

“If everyone would take a seat . . .” And with this, the majority of dinosaurs in the room plop onto the floor without ceremony, and I’m shocked to find that the marble doesn’t crack and buckle beneath the sudden assault.

“Please,” says the Iguanodon, speaking directly to those of us who remain on our feet. “Anywhere is fine, no chairs are needed here.”

Shrugging, Ernie and I take our positions on the floor. It’s relatively cold, but nothing new to me—my desk chair is broken at one armrest, and dumps me onto the office hardwood once every few days. Most of the time I’m too lazy to drag myself back into the seat, so I do the rest of the day’s work from that position instead.

“Before we begin,” continues the Iguanodon, “I’d like to welcome and congratulate all of you who were at our convocation last week and decided to return and learn more about yourselves and your ancestry. I’d also like to welcome those of you who are joining us for the first time. It’s a long journey from where you are now to where you could be, but it’s the most rewarding, fulfilling journey you can take.” Seems I’ve heard that somewhere before.

“My name is”— and here he gives one of those elongated, strained growls that has no mammalian equivalent whatsoever— “but until you get the hang of it, feel free to call me Samuel.

“We’ll have punch and more to eat after the talk today, so be sure to stick around and get to know your fellow dinos. We’re nothing as one million, but everything as one.” I consider asking for a clarification on that point, but Ernie bats my hand down even as it rises of its own accord.

And now, as the Iguanodon steps down off the riser, a spotlight illuminates a Velociraptor musical trio set up on the opposite side of the dance floor. They’re wielding instruments the likes of which I’ve never seen before, and, as they begin to play, I realize that I’ve never heard the likes of it, either. There’s a long, stringed instrument that could pass for a bass, but its composite elements are nothing more than a stick and what looks like an elongated tendon or ligament. Some sort of conch shell, easily ten times larger than average, serves as a blaring horn, and a set of flat rocks, expertly banged upon by the largest of the dinosaurs, serves to create a rhythm. They all croon together, a series of growls and whoops coming across as lyrics, and though it’s easily the most horrific cacophony I’ve ever heard, though the crowd is barely even swaying back and forth, I can feel an electric hum of intensity growing within them. They love this stuff. This younger generation has no taste; someone should introduce them to the blues.

Another spot, this one green, swings up the wall and holds on a set of double doors high above the stage. There’s no balcony there, just a closed portal set into the wall. I’m surprised I hadn’t noticed these before, but my attention had mostly been diverted toward the floor since the snake incident, on the off chance that one of the appetizers had escaped and would be looking to make a home somewhere on me. The band’s number picks up in tempo and volume—rocks banging louder, horn honking harsher—and the tense passion in this crowd rises.

A whisper from my left. “She’s coming . . .”

And the doors fly open, slamming into the wall behind with tremendous force. The dark corridor beyond is suddenly filled with the green spotlight, and then, a second later, a ravishing female Raptor leaps to the edge of the doorway, balancing precariously thirty feet above the ballroom floor. From here, I can make out the long, delicate lines curving through that supple body, the graceful swan curve of the neck, the tremendous definition in the underclaws, the meaty slab of a tail, and that shining, almost iridescent hide soaking up the rays from the spotlight and blasting it back out at the crowd, blinding us with its brilliance.

Before I have a chance to mumble my amazement, the Raptor raises her snout to the sky and lets loose with a bone-chilling wail, the corners of her mouth turning up, up, and out, teeth snapping at the ceiling, tongue waggling through the air. The crowd, as one, leaps to their feet and begins a furious round of applause as the Raptor flexes those powerful yet delicate leg muscles and leaps away from the wall, falling toward the dance floor below. I can’t bear to watch.

But it’s a perfect landing as she uses her tail to take the brunt of the force, and a moment later she’s standing at the microphone, soaking in the crowd’s adulation.

“Welcome,” she says, her voice feminine yet oddly deep, a tightly spun web of varying tones. “Welcome, brothers and sisters.”

“Good entrance,” Ernie mumbles to me.

“For those of you who don’t know me,” says the Raptor once the crowd has quieted down and returned to their seated positions, “my name is Circe, and I’ve been on the road to Progress for many years now. It’s been a hard path, but a fulfilling one, and I believe I am closer to the ancestors now than I have ever been before. I believe that we can all be closer to the ancestors now, if we can only believe in ourselves and in our shared history. We can all learn to Progress from where we are now.”

Circe motions toward Samuel, the Iguanodon whom we’d seen earlier, and he wheels over a large television set attached to a familiar-looking machine.

“Ancestrograph,” I mutter to Ernie, and he nods.

The crowd had begun to murmur, with either approval or disdain, I can’t tell which, as Circe retracts her claw and places the first delicate finger of her right hand into that dark little hole. The Iguanodon presses the appropriate buttons, and the contraption spins to life, working whatever voodoo and hoodoo it needs to do to come up with that nonsensical number. Soon, Circe’s fluids are transferred to the vacuum tube, and the lights, meters, and needles start their crazy little dance.

Hush from the crowd. They’re holding their breath. If they pass out, maybe I can raid the kitchen and find some real food.

After a burst of static, the thirty-six-inch television screen lights up with the pronouncement on Circe’s purity: 96.8% DINOSAUR NATURAL.

A new thunderous round of roars and howls echoes throughout the ballroom, and I can only hope that either the walls are soundproofed or whatever neighbors live within a few miles of this home are under the impression that MGM is filming an Out of Africa sequel nearby.

“Please, please,” says Circe, clearly basking in the glow of admiration while still maintaining a distinct air of humility, “take your seats, take your seats. I have a story to impart to you. I want to tell you all how we came to be where we are today.”

“This oughta be a doozy,” says Ernie, and we settle in for a good listen.