22

There is a strong possibility that I am dead.

* * *

It’s not so bad.

* * *

I am myself in here.

* * *

 

Some time later, whenever that might be—time has about as much meaning in this place as restraint does in Las Vegas—I find that I am unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do any of the things one normally associates with living, but somehow I know, instinctively, that I am not dead. This is a new step for me. My last will and testament has been written and rewritten in my head a hundred times since Dr. Beauregard, or whoever he is, bade me farewell, and the really sad part is that there isn’t much I have to say. Ernie gets most of my stuff; a nephew of mine in Topeka gets some pocket change and a humidifier for his asthma.

I’ve also been counting—first up to a hundred, then up to a thousand, then ten thousand, and so on. I lost track a while back, but I think I abandoned the plan somewhere around 16,800 or so. It wasn’t even making me sleepy, as I had forgotten to associate sheep with every passing digit.

Tar surrounds me on all sides. At least, that’s my current belief. It’s distinctly possible that I’m dead and just in denial or reincarnated as a lucky boy’s pet rock, but the tar explanation suits me better for the moment.

Fortunately for me, I have remembered the one interesting fact I learned during my first visit to the George C. Page Museum ten years ago: The more you struggle in a tar pit, the faster you will die. Your movements will only help suck you farther beneath the surface, and even if you’re able to live without air—a feat I seem somehow to be accomplishing—the lack of food and water will get to you eventually.

Also, fortunately for me, much of the polar ice cap has gone and melted away over the last few millennia, which means I have a distinct advantage over the saber-toothed tigers who found themselves trapped with no means of escape: a high water table. And I’m buoyant, baby.

Allowing myself to sit completely still is a difficult task, especially with an itch on my nose that refuses to go away. But if I reach up to scratch it, I run the risk of aggravating the tar and sinking farther into the pit; better to lie still, deal with the maddening prickling on my proboscis, and let the water help me rise to the surface.

I feel like an errant Monopoly piece when it comes to this dog of a case; every time I start to round Ventnor and Marvin Gardens and prepare to hit the really good part of town, something or someone sends me scurrying back to Baltic Avenue, and I have to start all over again. There’s only so much a dino PI can take, and I’m one and two-ninths of the way past my limit, a mixed fraction for God’s sake.

A bright speck of light before me—is this the tunnel that will take me to greet the ancestors? Is my Uncle Ferdy going to leap out of the grave and into the spotlight any second and start up the vaudeville act that used to bring down the house in the twenties? The light does, indeed, grow closer, stronger, more intense, but for the moment, at least, my dead relatives stay put.

Suddenly I can feel the cool night air touching parts of my bare hide, and something in me snaps. It feels like a switch has been thrown, like the fuse box has been fixed, and all of my organs turn on at once. My eyes flick open of their own accord—the bulb in the viewing area burning brightly overhead—and I let out a hacking cough, expelling a thick wad of tar from my esophagus. A deep, gasping breath follows, and my lungs expand with the most tar-and-parasite-infested air I’ve ever come across. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve tasted.

Everything is revving up once again, coming back to normal. It’s as if I was simply sleeping that whole time and needed a few moments in the morning to stretch and work out the kinks. Still, I’m not out of the woods yet. I wait until the water table has pushed me well up over the surface of the tar, being careful not to squirm around any more than necessary. My ideal plan would be to stretch my arm over the surface of the pit, grab on to the side wall, and gradually, carefully, roll myself up and out of the tar. But as I slowly reach for the nearest outcropping, I realize that it’s not going to work that way—my arms are far too short to make the trek.

The legs and toes are long enough but don’t have the proper dexterity required to do the job. Jaw is too far away from the railing to consider biting my way to safety, and I don’t relish having to wait for a flabby tourist with ice cream stains on his Sunset Boulevard T-shirt to fetch me out of this quagmire. The tail will have to do.

The only problem is, it means I have to turn on my side in order to free the dexterous slab of meat from its costumed confines. Rolling to my right like a mother hen carefully sitting on her eggs, I slowly expose my side to the tar, being careful not to stick my arm any farther in than necessary.

With my mammal bum exposed to the open air, I reach back and attempt to unsnap the G-3 series of tail buckles with only one hand. I was especially adept at this in my younger days, only it wasn’t my own buckles I was undoing at the time. The task is made more difficult by the layers of clothing and fake skin between my digits and the strap, as well as the omnipresent threat of the thick molasses of death waiting to gobble me up whole.

My tail suddenly springs loose, the open buckle flapping around inside my polysuit. If I get out of this pit, it’s going to look like I’ve got a load in my pants, but no matter; I’d rather be embarrassed than dead any day of the epoch. Now all it takes is a few more snaps at the waist skin, a gentle tug to the hips—

And my tail is free, a small part of me natural and Progressive all over again. Working quickly and assuredly, I elongate my tail as far as it will go and wrap the tip around a chunk of rebar poking out of the Pit wall. Rather than try to force myself up all at once, I use my tail like a fishing rod, reeling it around and around the bar, slowly dragging my body out of the tar and onto dry land.

Wasting no time, I get my tail in on more action, using it as a balance as I leap up and out of the tar pit and into the safety of the viewing area. I reguise myself rapidly, tucking the tail back into its confines and loosely fastening the buckle in place before bounding into the park, a tar baby with vengeance on his mind.

It’s all starting to come together now—the murders, the rituals, the doctor who really isn’t. I may need some assistance on this one—at the very least, I need someone to bear witness to my knowledge—and since Ernie’s still laid up in Hawaii, I need to get to Jules, and I need to get to her fast. But as I lurch into the parking lot, my thighs sticking together—now I know how Oprah feels—there’s a curious lack of Lincoln where my Lincoln should be, with nothing but a pool of oil to remember her by.

Okay, now it’s personal.

With my car stolen, there’s no way to get up to Hollywood short of public transportation, and I strongly doubt that our friendly neighborhood bus drivers will let the Swamp Thing come on board, even if he has the required eighty-five cents, which I believe I do not. A taxicab is out of the question as well, if only because they’re about as frequent in Los Angeles as trust-fund babies driving Pintos, and if I lift the handset of a public telephone in order to call one, I may become stuck to it for good.

Walking it will be, then, squishing along as fast as my crude-oiled legs will take me. If someone were to come along and scrape my shins, they could power Manhattan for weeks. I stick to alleys and shadows, hoping to avoid contact with any other forms of life. On my way into Hollywood, I pass a mongrel sipping God-knows-what out of an old soup can; the pitiful critter looks up, takes in an eyeful, and promptly scurries away, fearful of losing his Most Decrepit status to a shuffling, panting dino.

But the trip is taking me forever, and this is not my only destination of the night. I’ve managed to make it up near Beverly Boulevard, surprised to find the streets not quite as desolate as they should be this time of evening. A steady stream of streetwalkers prowl the sidewalks, wobbling on three-inch heels, tucking glitter skirts up and in so that the average hemline comes to somewhere just below the neck.

They reek of strong perfume—not the somewhat appealing, somewhat repulsive feminine musk that a lot of human women give off, but a cannonball of potpourri shot directly at the sinuses—and I have to cover up my nose in order to block out the stench.

But it’s that smell, the eau de whore, that sets off a series of rapid-fire thoughts in my mind. Soon enough, I’ve got the semblance of a plan, and my sniffer is released back into the open once more to do its dirty work.

Bringing in the cool night air, I let my schnoz filter through the stronger, bigger bullies of human-made perfumes, searching for the one scent that might be cowering down in the olfactory region as if to blend into the crowd. As I travel up La Brea, I know I should locate it soon enough, if only because this is her usual stomping grounds, and tonight is prime time for eager johns. Unless, of course, she’s already retired to the Chateau for the evening. . . .

Every step is another deep breath, another cleansing exhale. Every non-dino smell rejected out of hand, not what I’m looking for tonight. Not what I’m looking for any night.

And then, faint but sure, there it is. Pine, autumn air. That’s it—that’s the basic odor. Quickly then, refining it further, separating the wheat from the chaff, and soon it’s a perfect olfactory portrait: bubble gum and sod.

And there she is, strutting her stuff for the clientele who drive by with their windows down and their libidos out, shaking her costumed rump for all to see. Body tightly packed into a red mini-mini, a sleeveless number with a skimpy top and nearly nonexistent bottom. Silver stilettos, makeup caked, fake fingernails as long as her heels and capable of some serious dorsal damage. She’s by herself, walking all alone past shadowy side streets and empty storefronts.

I sneak around a back alley and come up right behind this hooker I know so well. “Star,” I whisper in her ear, “it’s time to pay the piper.”

Before she can react, before she gets a chance to alert the other ladies of the evening that anything is amiss, I clap my hand around her mouth and pull her back into the darkness of the alleyway. She tries to bite down on my fingers, but the tar gets stuck in her mouth, and she spends the next two minutes spitting out the foul substance.

“I’ve been looking for you,” I say, keeping my voice low but firm. “You’re a hard bird to catch.”

“The fuck are you?” she spits.

“My name’s Rubio, we met once before. Nice little party at your place.”

“Yeah, so, like I said—who the fuck are you?”

“Don’t like that answer? Okay, how ’bout this: I’m the guy that’s gonna keep you from spending the next year breakin’ rocks in the hot sun. Betcha there ain’t a lot of johns down at County. A few Janes, I’d imagine . . .” It’s this kind of bad-cop, bad-cop confrontation I could really get into; too bad they only come along once a year or so.

“Keep talking,” she says, suddenly interested.

“I believe you have my client’s penis.”

She tries to shake off my grasp—“What? I don’t—”

“A very valuable penis, I’m led to understand. A Mussolini.”

“You can’t prove it—”

“And I don’t have to,” I tell her. “For that matter, I don’t want to. You don’t worry about that. All I’m asking of you is a favor. If you do it, I stop looking for you, and I make sure Minsky stops looking for you, too. I know you like that . . . thing, and it’s all yours if you do what I ask.”

“And you’ll protect me from the cops?”

“Just on this,” I tell her, making clear my intentions. “Anything else, you’re on your own. But maybe I can put a good word in for you down at the station. I know some people.”

I give Star a few moments to think it over, but there’s no easier decision than this. “Whaddaya want?” she asks, softening up a touch.

She has a pen in her purse, and I grab a pamphlet from the street advertising some new punk band up at one of the Sunset clubs. “Bend over,” I say, and Star willingly assumes the position. She begins to lift her dress, allowing me access—

“Keep your goddamn skirt on,” I shout, then lower my voice again. Softer: “I’m not interested in—look, I don’t want sex, I just want to write a note.”

“That’s it?” she chirps, and for a split second, I can see the little girl that once held sway over this young mind and body. An innocent relief spreads across her features, softening her eyes, her grin. Then it’s all gone, and the streetwalker sneer returns to her ruined face. “So I can keep the dick, right?”

“Right. I write the note, you deliver it, we’re even.”

A hastily scribbled letter to Jules, detailing all I know and all I think I know and a hasty plan of action for the evening. If I don’t come back from this little journey, I want to make sure someone goes to the Council, the cops, to anyone who can bring these bastards down. Folding the letter into fourths, I tuck it deep into Star’s purse and make her swear not to peek. I’m guessing that she probably will anyway, but she won’t understand half of it. I can only hope that Jules does.

That taken care of, I send Star and her Mussolini on their way and plot a course for my next destination: a certain piece of neoclassical architecture nestled up in the Hollywood Hills. And this time, I hope to be coming back with a few party favors.

* * *

 

It’s been hard going, my feet directed, as they are, on the sticky side of the street, but with every passing mile, the tar has worn thinner, the trip grown easier. A digital display outside a bank I passed on the way into the Hills told me it is nearly five o’clock in the morning, which means I must have been lying dormant in the tar pit, not moving, not breathing, for just over two hours. Can’t think about that now.

On my way through a poorly tended backyard—this must be where the rich white trash of the Hollywood Hills hang out—I snatch a few clothespins off a laundry line and shove them deep down into my tar-filled pockets. There is a serious doubt in my mind as to whether or not they’ll ever make it out of these pants again, but if the need arises, I’ll pull with all my might. The Hills provide a bit of cover, and I find myself sneaking through more and more backyards in order to remain hidden behind the trees and shrubbery. Along one small stretch of land, it almost feels like I’m back on the Progressives’ island, caught in that jungle once again.

Up ahead is the Progressive compound, and inside are the players in tonight’s performance; little do they know I am no longer an understudy. But the curtain’s going to fall early unless I can figure out a quick, painless way into the theater. There are sure to be sentinels posted somewhere on the grounds, and I only hope that my current state of camouflage—tar black is in this year—will do the job.

A low brick wall is the only perimeter, but I look before I leap, making sure there isn’t a pit of snakes or a rabid guard gorilla on the other side. Nothing would surprise me when it comes to this group.

No snakes, no gorilla, no booby trap of spikes and monsters. Sticking to the trees, I make my way across the acreage, marveling once again at the sheer extent of the land. Fifty, sixty, a hundred acres might be a postage-stamp lot out in Iowa, but in the Hollywood Hills it’s practically enough to split off from the union.

In time, the main house comes into view, the blazing white columns and archways beginning to wake up to the first light of dawn, preparing to sparkle and blind the hell out of anyone who has the misfortune to look in their direction, a perfect blend of architecture and protection. The parking lot is filled with cars of every make and model, each space filled and those in between squeezed as tight as they can go, double-parked to the limit. Makes the overfill lot at the Hollywood Bowl look like the Serengeti.

Much like our entrance into the palace back on the island, sneaking into the mansion is a heck of a lot easier than, say, crashing Spago’s post-Oscar bash, and results in many fewer bruises—don’t ask, don’t ask. Soon enough I’m slipping down the main hallway, sticking to the shadows, keeping my eyes and nose open and ready. There’s a great tumult emanating from within the main ballroom, and a cacophony of smells intertwined with the noise. But that’s not where I’m going. Not yet, anyway.

Footsteps behind me, clomping down the hall, and I fall back into a darkened niche, pressing my body up against the marble walls. Cold. I control the shivering with a good, solid tongue bite, and watch as a couple of dinos in guise—two businessmen, it looks like, three-piece suits and all—stroll purposefully toward the ballroom. As they walk, the two begin to undress, first removing their human clothes, quickly followed by their human skin. A mask is lifted, latex straining against the epoxy, then snapping free, the Hadrosaur beneath flipping his flexible beak into place a moment later. Tails are unfurled, horns released, and soon I’m walking behind two natural dinos, pacing them from thirty feet back.

“. . . said they’ll be ready in Europe,” one is saying. “Same time we are here.”

“On his signal, though—”

“—of course, of course, not without his signal.”

And they duck into the ballroom—filled to capacity, my nose tells me. Barring the one time I was erroneously placed in the dino immigration ward down in San Diego, I’ve never been in one location so tightly packed with our species before. There’s a dino density of massive proportions in that ballroom—they must be packed in snout-to-tail in there—and I hope the walls are strong enough to prevent a leak.

I come upon that familiar hallway, and at the end of it, Circe’s room. This is my lounge, Circe told Ernie and me less than one week ago. I come here before large events, to . . . prepare, if you will. Well, we’ve got a large event brewing downstairs, and my guess is it won’t be just Circe preparing inside this room. Of course, there’s only one way to find out.

Embedded in the wall next to the door is a finger-hole of very familiar proportions, and I know what I have to do. There is no doubt in my mind that these locking systems, the Ancestrograph, and the rest of the mockery of mechanics utilized by this group, are a scientific crock of shit, technically speaking. Dinosaur natural is a term created by the few in order to scare the many, but that’s as far as it goes. Yet there is also no doubt in my mind that they do measure increased pheromone production, a magic trick the higher-echelon Progressives have learned to do on command, without smoke, mirrors, or lovely assistants.

Now it’s my turn. David Copperfield, outta my way.

With Ernie out of the picture, I’ve got to do this thing myself. Squeezing my finger inside the hole, I try to free my mind of mammalian thoughts. Mortgage payments are the first out my mental window, followed quickly by the rampant spread of computer viruses, my dry-cleaning bill, and the Lakers’ hopes in the postseason. All I want to think about is running, eating, sleeping, sex. Jumping, hopping, roaring, sex. Fighting, winning, prancing, sex.

I close my eyes and take myself back to that fern jungle, that place where the past surges into the present, where the Jurassic bursts through the walls and makes itself known, where my feet sink into the soft earth and my cry is a death knell for all the lesser creatures. I try not to feel the cold steel around my finger, growing colder with every second, sucking out my juices. I try to keep it warm, moist, a hot summer day seventy million years in the past, every tree and every bush and every leaf a natural part of my body, warming me, keeping me on my toes—open movement, never constricted, never constrained, loose and running free. My eyes opening, taking in the vibrant, natural colors, unblemished by smog and smoke and gas, my ears drooping back, angling upward to hear the calls of the Pterodactyls, my feet curling inward to feel the long, slimy bugs crawling between my toes, thousands of legs working over my bare hide. A herd of Compies—not crude, not crass, but a pack of simple, beautiful creatures—scampering over the lush, verdant landscape.

And I’m on the run, alone and alive, at liberty to move how I want to move, eat how I want to eat, kill how I want to kill, the consummate hunter with a belly full of hunger and the claws to satisfy it—streaming over the open land, head set against the wind, eager like never before to begin the chase, to begin the hunt, to begin—

The hole suddenly spits out my finger like a kid expelling his rutabagas across the kitchen table, and for a moment I’m stuck in both worlds, the prehistoric world and the modern, superimposed on each other, an acetate overlay atop a brilliant Kodachrome print. The hallways are filled with twenty-foot flowers, the door crawling with thirty-pound beetles. A marble Allosaur statue twenty feet away has filled out with flesh and muscles and skin and a roar that echoes out across the hills and down into the basin.

Boom—with a flash, the jungle shatters into a million pieces before my eyes and dissolves into nothingness, and I’m left in front of an open doorway in the heart of a mansion in the Hollywood Hills. For a moment, I almost think I can perceive the remnants of my own scent—if I whiff the air just right, I believe I can get that Cuban stogie coming through. But I know that such a thing’s not possible, and it’s foolish to even think it at this stage of the game. As it stands, I was able to produce enough pheromones to get the door open on my very first try; it’s good to be an overachiever, but let’s take this Progress thing one step at a time, Vincent.

As I enter the lounge, I make sure to leave the door open behind me. Those inside are bound to be a mite upset at my presence, and I don’t want to foreclose the possibility of a hasty retreat. I’ve never had a showdown without Ernie by my side.

The 1970s beanbag theme has remained the dominant motif, unfortunately, but a thick mahogany desk and wide-backed leather chair on the far side of the room—the power side of the room, as management consultants would say—belie the design presence of someone other than Circe. A silhouette on the wall doesn’t budge an inch as I step into the room, clear my throat, and announce, “I know what you’re doing. Ernie knows what you’re doing, too, as do a few friends of mine at the LA Times.” This last part is a bluff, but it’s always good to bring up the media at times like these. “I suggest you give it all up now, come with me, and if you help out with the investigation, the Council might be lenient with you.”

No answer from the chair, save for a—a giggle? Is that laughter?

“I’m glad you think this is a joking matter,” I say, a portion of my confidence draining out through my feet and disappearing into the cracks in the floor. “Because gun smuggling, kidnaping, and murder are all federal offenses, and that’s before we bring the Council into it. They’ll want to hear about—”

“Who did I murder?” comes a low, even voice, still tinged with a side order of good humor. “Who exactly did I kill?”

“Rupert Simmons for one,” I blurt out. “Try that on for starters.”

“Did I? Now, that’s odd . . .”

And with that, the chair spins around—he must have known I was here, must have been setting up this chair-spin gag for the last ten minutes just to mock me, the crazy son of a bitch—and I’m suddenly face to face with the reason I took on this goddamned case in the first place.

“I’d say I look pretty good for a dead guy,” grins Rupert. “Don’t you think?”