Improvisation is the modus operandi when you work with Ernie Watson.

"You doin' okay, kid?" he asks me, and all I can do is mumble back a reply -- shag piling pressing up and into my mouth, my nostrils -- as I'm momentarily assaulted by the stench of six thousand pairs of shoes and one incontinent household pet. "Stay down -- I almost got the damn thing."

As an insistent burglar alarm whines away in the background, Ernie fumbles with the system's plastic keypad, doing his best to shut the contraption up, or at least send it to a better place. Ten seconds have passed, and in twenty more we're as good as bait for the neighborhood security patrol. Fortunately, they don't carry weapons. At least I think they don't carry weapons.

"The code," I say. "Put it in already."

"I did-- "

"You didn't. It's still beeping."

"I did. And it's wrong. The code's wrong."

A leap to my feet -- Bruno Maglis today, clearly the inappropriate attire when one is breaking and entering, but at eight A.M. this morning I expected a non-felonious workday -- and I'm beside my partner in a beat, punching in the code over his protestations. Ernie's a crack PI, but it doesn't change the fact that his eyesight's slowly dropping off the low end of the scale -- last time, he insisted to the ophthalmologist that the reading chart was mocking him, by God -- and most likely he's simply hitting the wrong numbers.

There: 6-2-7-1-4-9-2. Just like it said in the Rolodex on the new hubby's desk. We found the code scrawled down as a phone number listed for a Mr. Alvin Alarming, and you can bet the farm it took the stellar mind of a T-Rex to come up with that brain-twister. I take my time and carefully depress the numbers on the keypad in their proper sequence.

The beeping continues. Twenty seconds down. This ain't good.

"Hey," I say, "the code's wrong."

Ernie fixes me with a cold, familiar stare. I grin. "Damn," Ernie mutters, "he musta changed it."

"Maybe she changed it-- "

"No." Simple, monosyllabic. I don't argue.

Fifteen seconds. My gaze slides toward the doorway we came through, then out to the driveway and the suburban streets beyond. No security patrol so far, but that doesn't preclude an imminent arrival. The time has come to beat a hasty retreat, exit stage left, mission aborted. I was getting hungry, anyhow.

But before I can grab Ernie by the lapel of his blue bowling shirt and haul him out of the building and down to Pink's for a chili dog with extra onions, he's somehow managed to tear off the face of the keypad, exposing the simplistic guts of this seemingly complex security system. Wires spill out like loose spaghetti, electricity snapping through the open gaps, and Ernie shoots a queasy glance in my direction. "Get down, kid," he says. "And stay there."

No argument here. Over a decade of snoop work with the guy, I've learned that when Ernie gets that pained, cramped look -- that I've-just-licked-a-human grimace -- it's time to listen up and listen hard. I drop to the floor.

An array of stunted claws flash out from Ernie's suddenly exposed paw, latex human fingers flapping loosely off the wrist. A flick of the forearm, a sweep through the air, and those four sharp razors slice their way up and through the assortment of high-tech wizardry bolted to the wall. Sparks fly, showering Ernie in a wash of miniature fireworks, but he stands his ground and holds tough despite the burn marks spreading across the surface of his polysuit.

The alarm, if anything, grows louder.

Moving with some real urgency now, Ernie grasps a severed wire in each hand and twists the two exposed ends around each other into a single sparkling braid.

Light. Hissing. A small explosion, perhaps.

And silence. The distinct smell of sulfur hangs in the air. Wires and buttons and lights and computer chips lie in a small mountain of rubble on the foyer carpeting, and I have to stamp out the smoldering mess with the bottoms of my designer shoes in order to prevent a small fire. The things I do for this job...

But Ernie is triumphant, arms aloft, the latex fingers on his left hand clutching the exposed claws of his right, jumping up and down like the winning pugilist after an early-round knockout. There's glee in that little dance, in that smile spreading across his face. I know that smile. There's no getting past that smile. That's pure Ernie.

"Nice job," I say. "You gonna fix that before we go?"

Ernie shrugs. "Don't know how."

"So there goes the covert entry."

"Yep. There it goes."

"You got a kick outta that, didn't you?" I ask.

A short laugh, almost a choke, as Ernie turns his head, avoids making eye contact. "I sure as hell ain't sad, kid."

We move farther into the house.

Tight hallways and small, sectioned rooms are the norm in this wood-paneled home, a restored throwback to the cobblestone-wall and modular-furniture days of the late seventies. The rooms practically pulse with disco backbeat. A vaulted ceiling rises above the main living area, in which a Steinway grand piano lies dormant, a thin layer of dust having settled across the keys.

"She still play?" I ask.

"How the hell should I know?"

"I thought maybe you-- "

"No."

Rows of framed photographs hang side by side in the main hallway, some of them old, most of them recent, all of them dinos in disguise. In the back of one group shot -- a family reunion, I gather, from the striking clan resemblance -- I believe I can make out a familiar guised face, a familiar squat body. No time to check, as Ernie's already through the hall and into a bedroom.

"What are we looking for?" I ask. Ernie's on his knees by the side of a California King Craftmatic adjustable bed, hurriedly rummaging through a battered oak nightstand. Books and old receipts fly onto the floor as my partner digs through the drawer with an intensity bordering on frenzy. This is not a careful archaeological expedition, to say the least.

No answer. I tap Ernie on the shoulder, and he barely flinches. "What are we-- "

"I'll know it when I see it," he says.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and it nearly sinks to the floor under my meager weight. I don't even hear the creak of springs, as they must have given up the long, hard battle some time ago. This must be the side that the new husband sleeps on; T-Rexes, frame notwithstanding, are not known to be light snoozers.

Ernie has successfully transferred the entire contents of the nightstand's upper drawer to the floor, and as he starts in on the lower one with the same troubled deliberation, I realize I'm going to be in for a long evening. Once my partner gets his mind set on something, there's little short of a cannonball or a side of mutton that can stop him.

"I'll go stand guard," I offer.

"For what?"

"In case they come back."

"They're at the opera."

"Maybe they'll leave after the third quarter," I say, and Ernie waves a hand in my general direction. I take this as my cue to leave, destination already in mind. A squadron of little demons resting inside my belly are clamoring for their evening feast, scratching at the lining of my stomach with their pitchforks, and I can't deny the monsters for much longer. The kitchen, therefore, is the first stop.

Clean. Sparkling. And well appointed. I am a particular fan of the Sub-Zero fridge: easy to open, and, thanks to its excellent layout, easy to raid. Being careful not to disturb the other contents, I pluck a leftover leg of lamb from the bottom shelf, snag a bottle of hot mustard, and make my way to the kitchen table. The demons intensify their poking and prodding, and my stomach growls in protest.

A munch, maybe two, and then it's no more time for food as a pair of lights swing across the peach curtains that line the front windows of the house. Headlights, I'm sure of it, accompanied by the unmistakable purr of an import automobile.

"Ernie!" I call out, achieving new dino land speeds as I race down the hall. "We've got a problem-- "

But he's engrossed in the same project as before, this time rummaging through an old bureau set against the far wall. In the few minutes since I'd left him, a miniature tornado must have localized itself in this bedroom: the floor is covered with knickknacks and loose sheets of paper, strewn about in every direction. "I think I'm onto it," Ernie says, oblivious of the F5-size mess he has created.

"Not anymore, you're not onto it," I tell him. "They're here."

"I know," he says wistfully. "I smelled her two minutes ago."

Even though the inhabitants of that car must have been ten blocks away two minutes ago, I have no cause to doubt Ernie's schnoz in cases such as this. Still, we have to vamoose. I grab Ernie by the shoulder, but he shrugs my hand away and continues digging.

I can hear two pairs of feet clomping up the front walkway, and now I, too, can smell them -- one scent strong, musky, thick, and cloying, a bargain-basement cologne; the other is full of lilac and warm oatmeal.

And now the key is turning, opening the lock in the front door, and it won't be long before the rightful owners of this house walk into their foyer and step directly into a homeowner's nightmare represented by a pile of charred plastic and silicon that used to be their primary means of defense against intruders great and small.

"Ernie, we can't wait around-- "

Front door creaking, opening, a matter of milliseconds-- "--for you to sniff this thing out, whatever it is-- "

"Found it," says Ernie, his voice even, almost melancholy. I try to take a gander at the small, yellowed piece of paper in his hands, but he's already out the sliding glass door, leaving me to wade through the bedroom wreckage. I'm barely onto the patio when I hear the chorus of gasps and angry voices emanating from the foyer, but by then I'm at full tilt and rising fast. Past the pool, into the yard, over the fence in a single jump (with a little more effort than it used to take, I must admit), and hauling my carcass through the neighbor's backyard, Ernie a good ten yards ahead.

We're in my beloved Lincoln two minutes later, panting hard and catching our breath as we keep an eye out for anyone who may have seen or followed us. But the only movements in the shadows are your basic suburban staples -- basketball nets swaying in the breeze, lawn flamingos falling off their rusted metallic legs, neighborhood cats prowling their turf, cruising for a good time -- so it seems that for the moment, at least, we have escaped unnoticed.

The stomach succubi are displeased with my recent unexpected exercise, and are threatening to return the little lamb I was able to shove into my mouth to the land from whence it came. I swallow hard, trying to maintain some degree of professionalism. The last thing I need is to spend the rest of the evening cleaning up the Lincoln's front seat.

Ernie's engrossed in reading the sheet of paper he pilfered from the house, and after a time I ask him, "You wanna show me what you got?"

He folds the paper once, twice, then stuffs it into his front shirt pocket. "Let's get outta here."

"Best plan I heard all day." I turn the key and the good old American engine rumbles to life, breaking the stillness of the night. As I flick on the lights, Ernie reaches over and flicks them off again.

"I kinda need those."

"Go down her street," Ernie tells me.

I shake my head. "That ain't smart, Ern." I pointedly turn the lights back on again. "We got lucky once. We'd be asking for trouble-- "

"Keep the lights off, no danger. C'mon, kid. For me."

I'd argue -- really, I'd be more than happy to -- but I can predict my own defeat ahead of time. So in order to save myself a few hours, I wall off the argumentative part of my brain behind some strong mental brickwork, flick off the lights, and drive down the street.

The front door is open, every light in the house in full-on blaze position. The exterior halogens have popped to life as well, and the home glows with nuclear intensity. I take my time coasting through the shadows, barely touching the accelerator.

Snippets of sound from inside-- "the jewelry... did they get the... where are your rings... check the safe..." --accompanied by a side order of rancorous scents. The block is slowly filling with the smell of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, but for dinos that aroma means fear and anger as opposed to Jack Frost nipping at your nose.

The lady of the house, perhaps sensing our presence, perhaps simply in need of a break from the difficulty of accepting a home invasion, steps out of her doorway and onto the front porch, staring off into the night. Does she see us? Possibly. Does she recognize us? Unlikely.

It's been some time since she's had her guise professionally aged -- I can tell even from this distance that the wrinkle set usually required for the early fifties hasn't yet been sewn into her face -- and as a whole, she looks similar to the last time I saw her, more than three years ago. Short blond hair puffed into a tight little ball against her head, a collection of mid-range jewelry adorning her small, thin wrists. Eyes covered in blue shadow, lips more pink than red, and the traces of good nature turning up the corners of her mouth even amid all this danger and disappointment.

"She's still got that smell about her, don't she?" Ernie says, and his wistful tone pulls me into a similar reverie. A soft pat on my partner's back, and this time he doesn't move my hand away. We issue a collective sigh.

"A real sweetheart," I say.

"You don't gotta rub it in."

"Rub what in?" I ask. "You said she had a great smell, I said she was a sweetheart. Am I wrong?"

Ernie scratches his chin, massaging the stubble he so carefully applies once a week. He'd thought about getting that facial hair kit from Nanjutsu, the one in which the hairs actually grow through the skin at a predetermined rate, but decided that the beard replacement packs (at least one every two weeks) weren't worth the cost. "No, you ain't wrong, kid," he says. "She's a sweetheart all right."

In a single move, Ernie reaches into his pocket, extracts the slip of paper he took from the house, and tosses it into my lap. I open it slowly, the old, worn pages crackling beneath my fingers, and hold it beneath the small light from the LED clock display.

A marriage license. Louise and Ernie's marriage license, to be specific, and I fold it up as reverently as possible and hand it back to my partner, who is still unable to take his eyes off his ex-wife standing in the doorway of what used to be their house.

There's a moment when I think she's looking right at us, a moment when I think her eyes and Ernie's eyes make some connection, when I think I can hear her saying It's okay, I understand, but then she turns, walks back inside, and closes the door. The front lights are extinguished moments later.

"Drive on home, kid," Ernie says to me. "Don't stop for gas."

When Ernie says "home," he means our office, the corner suite on the third floor of a building in Westwood that has neither adequate water pressure nor a proper mail-delivery system. Half of the time I find myself plucking envelopes out of the mud beneath our outdoor mailbox, and when I return to the office I'm barely able to wash the grime off my hands thanks to a six-drop-per-minute water flow.

The sign out front reads watson and rubio, investigations, and although I've never put up a fight about the order of the names -- never cared one way or the other about it, in fact -- Ernie nevertheless offers to flip-flop status with me at the end of every year.

"This is your big chance, kid," he always jokes with me. "Rubio and Watson's got a helluva nice ring to it."

Not interested.

On this night, the mailbox has been properly filled, and though there are at least ten envelopes and a package lying in the dirt below, I can't find any down there addressed to us. Mr. Toggle in 215 is going to have quite the fit, on the other hand, and though he's a human, that man can roar like a Stegosaur with a hangnail.

Elevator's broken again, so it's the stairs for us. Two flights, both short, but Ernie's starting to pant. Pack a day of the long ones will do that, and I can't understand why he doesn't quit; it sure as hell ain't the nicotine keeping him there.

The door to our office is ajar, a thin band of light streaming into the darkened hallway. Thin, tinny music escapes from within, some big band bopping away on our subpar, tweeter-impaired stereo. Ernie and I approach cautiously, sticking to the shadows, backs pressed against the rough exposed concrete walls.

"Thought I told you to close the door," Ernie whispers.

"And I told you to turn off the lights," I whisper back. If I had a gun, I'd be reaching for it. As it is, the fingers of my left hand are fumbling with the glove on my right, ready to whip out the claws should push come to slice.

Edging closer to the door, Ernie motions for me to flank him on the other side. I hold up three fingers, then two, then one. Time to grind the teeth.

A well-placed kick sends the door flying back on its hinges, and like two hyperactive feds busting in on a raid, we leap into the open doorway, claws at the rough and ready.

"Hiya, fellas. What took you?"

There's a pudgy-faced midget sitting on my desk, dangling his squat legs in the air, kicking his feet to the beat of the music, leafing through the papers scattered across my desktop, and running a stubby index finger below the words as he reads. He's got manicured nails and a tailored suit and decidedly black hair. Greasy black hair. Dripping, greasy, black hair. As the door bangs loudly against the side wall, the little guy shoots us a grin that is supposed to look ashamed, but doesn't quite make the grade.

I slam the door closed behind me and storm my way up to the minuscule marauder. "You can't do this, Minsky-- "

"What?" he asks. "What'd I do? What's the problem?"

Ernie flashes out with his claws, waving them past Minsky's angelic expression. "You were about five seconds from meeting your ancestors, that's the problem."

"What, you were gonna kill me?"

"The moment ain't passed yet."

"Hey -- hey -- wait -- I didn't break in," says Minsky. "How can I break in when I own the building?"

I have no urge to get into a discussion over landlord-tenant rights at this point in the evening, so I cock an eyebrow at Ernie -- one of our little "back off" signals when interrogating witnesses -- and he slowly steps away, retracting his claws. Minsky smiles.

"How's it going?" he asks. "Business good?"

"Whaddaya want?" I say. Formalities and chatter with this fellow have been known to eclipse entire weekends, and I have sleep to catch up on.

"Can't a landlord check in on his favorite tenants?"

"No." A firm grasp beneath each armpit and I lift the undersized Hadrosaur up and off my desk, depositing him on the ground. Now his head reaches no higher than my waist, which makes me a little more comfortable with his presence. It's odd to see such stunted growth in a dinosaur nowadays, but forty-five years ago, back when Minsky was growing up, a lot of us neglected the dino side of nutrition. Fast-food burgers and tacos may nourish a human child, but it takes a little more than that to raise a healthy Hadrosaur.

"You guys have the rent?" he asks.

"Rent ain't due for another two weeks," Ernie says. "I got it all in my calendar." He puts a firm hand behind Minsky's back and begins ushering our landlord toward the door. "You be sure to come back and see us then. Better yet, I'll drop the payment in your box, and you don't have to come near the joint at all, okay?" I open the door as Ernie grasps Minsky by the seat of his pants and prepares to toss him into the hallway.

"Wait, wait," he squeals. "I've got a question -- I've got a case-- "

"Sorry," Ernie says, "business hours are over."

But Minsky's squirming in Ernie's grasp, flopping like a fish on the hook, trying futilely to push his way back into the room -- picture a Peewee League linebacker trying to get by the Miami Dolphins entire offensive line -- and I can see that Ernie's doing his best not to break up laughing.

"What the hell," I say. "Let him in."

Ernie reverses the direction of his throw, and Minsky stumbles back into our office. With precise, deliberate motions, he straightens out the paisley tie that doesn't quite match his otherwise well-tailored suit, reassembles his dignity, and struts confidently back toward the desk. At this moment, the thought hits me that Minsky's guises, custom-made as they must be for his extraordinarily small frame, must cost a fortune. Are we overpaying in rent? Is the dental business that profitable?

"I've got this mistress," Minsky begins, and Ernie and I sigh as one. I push back from the desk and stand up.

"Goodnight, Minsky," I say, fully preparing to take up where Ernie left off, flexing those muscles that might be best for midget-tossing.

"It's different this time," he says.

"It's always different. Hell, it's never different," I say, my volume climbing, rising along with my ire. "You get yourself in some hot seat with a floozy and want us to bail you out with the missus."

"No, please, you don't understand.... Her name's Star, and she's an Allosaur. I found her up on Sunset. She's fantastic."

"Teenage runaway?" I ask.

"Not exactly. Well... she's nineteen. So, technically, yes, she's a teenager, but she's not a runaway per se. She's more like an entrepreneur."

Ernie's picking his fingernails with a letter opener, but he looks up at this. "A hooker."

Pain slides across Minsky's face as if Ernie had slapped him a good one. "Never! What -- why would you say that?"

"You said you found her up on Sunset Boulevard, she's not 'exactly' a runaway, and she's an entrepreneur. Do the math, Minsky."

"I'll have you know that Star is not a prostitute, thank you. She sells maps."

"Maps?" I ask.

"To the stars' homes."

It takes some time before Ernie and I are able to stop laughing.

"I'm glad you find her profession amusing," Minsky says once our hysterics have dwindled to the occasional chuckle. "But she makes a good living, and she's smart, and she's kind, and she's the sweetest girl I know."

"Fine," I say, cutting short the love sonnet. "So if she's so sweet and you're so damned happy, why come to us?"

Minsky lowers his head, his voice somehow dropping past the midget register, lowering a full tone. "I think she's stealing nitrous from me."

"Sweet girl."

"And ether."

"Real sweet girl."

"And maybe some prescription pads, I'm not sure."

Minsky may be one of the premier dino dentists in Los Angeles, and he may have the corner on the filed-down-tooth and human-molar market, but he's got a lot to learn when it comes to women. This is the fourth mistress we've heard about in the last two years, and I am quite sure that there were many more who floated by without getting a mention. Then again, maybe I'm the one who's got a lot to learn; Minsky's certainly fulfilling his reproductive duty a heck of a lot more often than I am.

Still, they always seem to screw him over.

"Whaddaya want us to do?" I ask.

"Find her."

"You don't know where she is?"

"Not... not exactly."

"Maybe this is the ideal relationship," I chuckle.

"And I want you to find out if she's stealing from me."

"And if she is?"

"Confront her. Or stop her. Get the stuff back."

"Why don't you just ask her?" says Ernie. "Ain't that what relationships are based on? Trust and honesty and all that crap?"

Minsky shrugs, a toss of his teensy shoulders. Is he shorter than he was a minute ago? "I'm afraid if I ask her, if I tell her to stop... she'll leave me. Or..."

"Or she'll tell Charlene about you two." Charlene is the wife. The jealous wife. The jealous wife six times his size.

Minsky nods. "Yes." He's growing smaller by the second. Any moment now, I expect him to shrivel into a pea and wink out of existence.

Ernie and I glance at each other, allowing our eyes to lock for no more than half a second. It's all we need nowadays, a momentary chance to read the other's thoughts on the matter, and then the issue is settled before the client even realizes that the question has been asked.

"We'll do it." I sigh, and Minsky looks up, beaming with gratitude.

"Really?"

"Give us a week or so," Ernie says.

"How much?" asks Minsky, reaching back for his billfold.

Another glance between me and Ernie, and I say, "Three months' rent."

"Done," says Minsky.

"And two free visits," Ernie adds. "I gotta get a new M-series set of caps for my lower left. Maybe a new bridge, too."

Suddenly, Minsky's hopping off the couch, waddling up to my desk. Without a hitch, he leaps on top, kicks a few papers out of his way, and stands over Ernie, who obediently opens his mouth for the doctor's small, skilled hands. Minsky purrs over the worn set of false teeth he finds within.

"I can fix you up with the new Impresario brand," he says. "Real sweet set of choppers, George Hamilton model. No problem." Suddenly, Minsky turns his attention toward me and shuffles across my desk, kicking up even more paper as he moves in for the kill.

I back off. "Thanks, but... thanks, no, I'm fine."

"Come, Vincent -- oral cleanliness is next to godliness," he says, stubby arms reaching out for my clenched jaw.

"And I'm a dental atheist. Back off, little man."

Minsky shrugs and hops down off the desk. "I appreciate this, fellas."

"We're gonna need info," says Ernie.

I scribble down some necessities on the back of an envelope and hand them to Minsky. "Full name, date of birth, where she's from, maybe some pictures."

"X-rated?" he asks.

"G is fine."

And with that, Minsky is gone. I set to cleaning up my desk, picking up the papers that have dropped to the floor, and Ernie takes off his coat and hangs it on a brass hook set into the back of the door.

"You believe that guy?" Ernie asks me.

"Poor son of a bitch."

"Every six months he's in here with another sob story about one of his dames."

"Some guys..." I begin. "Some guys... they don't know how to handle themselves. They don't know where the line starts and where it ends."

"I'll tell you what it is," Ernie says. "He thinks his answer is in women. Minsky thinks that Minsky isn't Minsky unless he's with a woman."

"Can't live that way."

"A guy can stand alone," insists my partner. "A guy should stand alone."

"You're right, Ern. You're right."

We clean up the rest of the office in silence, and say our goodnights. I freshen up in the small bathroom down the hall, and when I return -- my face still wet, water dripping down the false bridge of my latex nose, small puddles forming on the floor -- I find Ernie curled up on the couch, shoes off, a rough wool blanket pulled tightly beneath his chin, a small throw pillow clenched between his arms, and a light snore buzzing out from behind his thick lips.

I drive home alone.