Free Anonymous Rex by Eric Garcia Page A

a package of unfiltered cigarettes, though I do not buy a lighter or matches. These cigs are for dangling, and dangling only.
    All decked out now, I renew my request to go to the McBride Building, and we turn in to the financial heart of the city. Minutes later, my destination appears, poking roughly out of the artificial horizon.
    The McBride Building, towering symbol of capitalism for the last ten years, stands eighty stories high and a full city block wide, muscling its way through the skyline like an overeager bodybuilder. Reflective glass lines this architectural masterpiece, bright silvery mirrors that suck in the streets of the city and spit them back out again, only in richer, more vibrant colors.
    Yeah, okay, it’s pretty enough, in a slick/gaudy sorta fashion, though I can’t extinguish the thought that in many ways it resembles a monstrous silver-plated condom. I hope this renegade image does not haunt me throughout my interview with Mrs. McBride—that is, if I’m able to arrange one.
    Inside, the reflective motif continues, mirrors helping me to follow myself wherever I go. I get a few glimpses of my new look; the trench coat works for me, despite the tropical temperatures that have enveloped the city, and the hat hangs heavily on my head, as if constantly threatening to topple. Humans and dinos whiz by, a blur of smells swinging across the odor spectrum. I catch snatches of conversation, snippets about buyouts and mergers and the pennant race. A bold granite reception booth takes up much of the lobby; through the throng of business-creatures, I can discern the outline of a harried secretary.
    “Good morning,” I say, hoisting my burgundy garment bag higher onto my shoulder. “I was wondering if Mrs. McBride was available.”
    With one short, sassy smile, the McBride Building’s lobby receptionist proves herself to be both more pleasant and infinitely more frightening than my previous secretarial nemesis, Nurse Fitzsimmons. “You want to see Judith McBride?” she says, the sarcasm crouching behind her teeth, scratching at the enamel, just waiting to spring and pounce.
    “As soon as possible,” I say.
    “And you would have an appointment?”
    She knows that I don’t. I have a garment bag slung over my shoulder, for god’s sake. “Yes, yes, certainly.”
    “Your name?”
    Oh, what the heck. “My name is Donovan Burke.”
    Do her eyebrows twitch? Do her ears perk up? Or is that my mind singing those golden oldies of paranoia once again? I want to ask her if she knew Ernie, if she ever saw him around, but I silence my tongue before it can do any damage.
    The receptionist lifts the reflective handset of her phone and taps out an extension number. “Shirley?” she says. “Guy down here says he has an appointment with Mrs. McBride. No. No. I don’t know. He has a suitcase.”
    “It’s a garment bag. I just flew in from the Coast,” I mutter. “The other coast.” This thing is getting heavier by the millisecond.
    “Right, right,” says the receptionist, making sure to keep an eye on me as I struggle with my luggage. “Says his name is Donny Burke.”
    “Donovan Burke. Donovan.”
    “Oh,” she says. “Sorry.”
    “I get it all the time.”
    “Donovan Burke,” she clarifies for Shirley, and then we both wait for a moment while Shirley checks the appointment book for a name that all three of us know won’t be in there. The receptionist beams a capped-tooth tiger smile at me; if she has a Wacko Alert button behind that desk, her hand’s getting closer and closer to it.
    “I’m sorry, sir,” she tells me a few seconds later, “but we don’t show an appointment for you.” She pointedly hangs the phone on its cradle.
    I open my eyes as wide as they will possibly go, affecting my bestlook of shock and surprise. Then I nod gravely, as if expecting such a turn of events. “Judi, Judi, Judi … Judith and I, we’ve … we’ve had our rough spots. But if you could have Shirley—is