Chapter 1

My name is Vincent, and I'm an herbaholic.

Recovering, that is. And this means, among other things, that I am honor-bound to the principles of sobriety and propriety, both of which are well-established stumbling blocks in the life of a private investigator. I have always believed that the truth shall set you free, but that a good lie, properly told, shall handcuff you to the bedposts, spread whipped cream about your body, and lick your nipples until they're red and raw, humming with vibrant ecstasy.

Not that that's my bag, mind you. I don't even have real nipples, and Vincent Rubio has never grooved on dairy. But I can fling out fibs with the best of them, especially if it gets me what I want, when I want it. Or, more precisely, if it doesn't get me what I don't what, when I don't want it. The problem is that I never know when to turn on the juice; I lie when I should be telling the truth, and I let loose with a burst of honesty just when a shotgun blast of bullshit would be best.

That's why I end up in the messes I end up in. That's why I regularly fulfill my monthly quota of flops, flubs, and falls. That's why I remain on a first-name basis with all of my friendly neighborhood bail bondsmen.

And it's probably why I'm driving down to a South Florida racetrack accompanied by two goons from the infamous Tallarico family, one of the less savory branches of the Cosa Lucertola, familiarly known as the dinosaur mafia.

Chaz is a skinny little thing, mop of blond hair up top, and I'd peg him for a skateboarder or surfer wannabe long before I'd ever place him in the mob biz. He smells of sweat-the human kind, bitter and acrid, but not so much that it makes your eyes water. Like a gym locker room after a heavy workout, only without the refreshing whip of soap to mellow it out.

His partner, Sherman, is one of those dinos who was never taught either good grooming habits or proper guise care, and, as a result, looks twenty years older than he should. Nearly all of the false hair follicles on his head have long ago relocated to some forgotten corner of the bathtub, and if the light hits his skin just right, I can see that the special latex has become worn across the elbows, daring the green scales beneath to poke through when he flexes the joint. I am well aware that Sherman has already killed at least one person I know; it would not surprise me to see him try and take out another. Sherman smells like cheese gone bad, jalape±os on the side. This is wholly because his entire diet consists of nachos, pickles, and cola, which have somehow wormed their way into his system and overpowered what should have been a more natural, less curd-intensive scent.

These are my new colleagues. That's what I get for skipping out on a college education.

I've been instructed by Eddie Tallarico, my new boss-don't worry, we'll get there-to listen to everything Chaz and Sherman tell me.