idea how to access the Internet, I’m sure I would find that Jaycee Holden had long ago taken the closest off-ramp from the information superhighway. She became a virtualnonentity after that unseasonably warm February afternoon, almost as if she had somehow taken all vestiges of her life with her on her journey into nowhere.
I’ve heard of stranger things.
On the other hand, McBride’s life is all laid out in public record—newspapers, magazines, the works. At least, the last fifteen years of his life; before then, there is a gaping void, but that’s not surprising. Most articles about the deceased dino mention that he and his wife were originally from Kansas, but none of them elaborated on his life there other than to say he was orphaned at an early age and was raised by a family friend. At some point, he met his lovely wife Judith, they moved to New York, entered the social and business scene, built up a Fortune 500 company specializing in bonds, acquisitions, and the occasional hotspot nightclub, and Wham! a mogul is born. From there on in it’s all society pages and financial records, both of which have the capacity to bore me to tears within minutes.
I’m heading out of the Records Room at City Hall, eager to grab a quick bite of dinner at one of New York’s luxurious falafel carts, when I come across a set of stairs leading down to the county morgue. I know this place—know it too well, perhaps. Nine months ago, this was the spot of my first altercation with the denizens of New York. I suppose I made some sort of habit out of pestering the coroner’s assistant for information on Ernie’s death, though all I ever got for my trouble was a rude rebuff and a roughing up by the security guards. I believe there were some threats involved, and perhaps a physical altercation of some sort. And though the exact details of those days are hazy—that was around the time when I began the One True Binge, and my body was filled with so much basil I was practically a walking greenhouse—I’m straighter now than I was then. Only two sprigs of the stuff today, and one teaspoon of oregano, and I’m ready to ask pertinent, probing questions in a nonthreatening manner.
“No, no, no—not you again—” whimpers the coroner’s assistant, backing away as I stroll through the swinging double doors of the morgue. “I’ll call the guards, so help me, I’ll do it.”
“Good to see you,” I say, holding my hands out in an open, peaceful gesture that works best with canines and some of your dumber humans. No significant odors coming my way, which means this kid’sno dino—with this kind of fear, the kind that’s turning his frail body into a mini-earthquake, any one of our kind would be shooting off pheromones like a schnauzer in heat.
“You’ve got—I’ve got a number to call, I can have you thrown out—”
“Am I hurting you?”
“Don’t—please—”
I slow down, spell it out for him: “Am—I—hurting—you?”
“No.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. “Am I threatening you?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Correct. And I won’t. I’m here on official business this time, up and up.” I take out the TruTel identification card that I snatched off a receptionist’s desk and toss it to the assistant. He falters backward, as if I’ve just lobbed a grenade in his direction, but eventually he leans over the desk and stares at the card, fingers hovering just above the surface. He seems mollified. Petulant, but mollified.
“You broke my nose,” he says. “They had to reset it.”
“It looks better,” I lie. I can’t remember what the old one looked like.
“My girlfriend likes it. She says it makes me look tough.”
“Very tough.” I certainly don’t recall a skirmish involving enough force to break bones, but anything can happen on a basil bender. “No rough stuff this time. Promise. To be honest, I’m looking for your boss again. He can’t still be on a vacation.” Last time, he split town
I’ve heard of stranger things.
On the other hand, McBride’s life is all laid out in public record—newspapers, magazines, the works. At least, the last fifteen years of his life; before then, there is a gaping void, but that’s not surprising. Most articles about the deceased dino mention that he and his wife were originally from Kansas, but none of them elaborated on his life there other than to say he was orphaned at an early age and was raised by a family friend. At some point, he met his lovely wife Judith, they moved to New York, entered the social and business scene, built up a Fortune 500 company specializing in bonds, acquisitions, and the occasional hotspot nightclub, and Wham! a mogul is born. From there on in it’s all society pages and financial records, both of which have the capacity to bore me to tears within minutes.
I’m heading out of the Records Room at City Hall, eager to grab a quick bite of dinner at one of New York’s luxurious falafel carts, when I come across a set of stairs leading down to the county morgue. I know this place—know it too well, perhaps. Nine months ago, this was the spot of my first altercation with the denizens of New York. I suppose I made some sort of habit out of pestering the coroner’s assistant for information on Ernie’s death, though all I ever got for my trouble was a rude rebuff and a roughing up by the security guards. I believe there were some threats involved, and perhaps a physical altercation of some sort. And though the exact details of those days are hazy—that was around the time when I began the One True Binge, and my body was filled with so much basil I was practically a walking greenhouse—I’m straighter now than I was then. Only two sprigs of the stuff today, and one teaspoon of oregano, and I’m ready to ask pertinent, probing questions in a nonthreatening manner.
“No, no, no—not you again—” whimpers the coroner’s assistant, backing away as I stroll through the swinging double doors of the morgue. “I’ll call the guards, so help me, I’ll do it.”
“Good to see you,” I say, holding my hands out in an open, peaceful gesture that works best with canines and some of your dumber humans. No significant odors coming my way, which means this kid’sno dino—with this kind of fear, the kind that’s turning his frail body into a mini-earthquake, any one of our kind would be shooting off pheromones like a schnauzer in heat.
“You’ve got—I’ve got a number to call, I can have you thrown out—”
“Am I hurting you?”
“Don’t—please—”
I slow down, spell it out for him: “Am—I—hurting—you?”
“No.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. “Am I threatening you?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Correct. And I won’t. I’m here on official business this time, up and up.” I take out the TruTel identification card that I snatched off a receptionist’s desk and toss it to the assistant. He falters backward, as if I’ve just lobbed a grenade in his direction, but eventually he leans over the desk and stares at the card, fingers hovering just above the surface. He seems mollified. Petulant, but mollified.
“You broke my nose,” he says. “They had to reset it.”
“It looks better,” I lie. I can’t remember what the old one looked like.
“My girlfriend likes it. She says it makes me look tough.”
“Very tough.” I certainly don’t recall a skirmish involving enough force to break bones, but anything can happen on a basil bender. “No rough stuff this time. Promise. To be honest, I’m looking for your boss again. He can’t still be on a vacation.” Last time, he split town
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