The name’s Payne. Roy Payne. I’m a private dick here in L.A.
Did I mention that I’m also 6’8” tall? Yeah, I stick out like a zebra on a cattle ranch, but being tall as an NBA center does come in handy sometimes, because I know how to handle myself, and my height does give me an advantage when things go south, and polite conversation doesn’t exactly cut it anymore if you get my drift.
My specialty is finding and returning runaways teens to their parents. Normally, this doesn’t pay well, but I don’t do this kind of work for the dough. However, every once and while I do get some high-profile cases that are quite lucrative. You’d be amazed at how royally screwed up the children of the Hollywood elite are. There’s always some wealthy producer or star whose son or daughter suddenly take a powder.
For example, my current case involves the teenage daughter of a VERY famous film director whose name I won’t mention here but trust me you’ve seen his movies. Well, Cheyenne vanished one day and when the police ruled out kidnapping, he called me.
One week later I found Cheyenne in Vegas. She was working as a dancer in a shabby strip club that was way, way, way off the Strip. It was a good thing, too, because the poor thing was consorting with all kinds of shady people and developing a bit of a coke habit to boot. It was only a matter of time before she landed herself in a mess of trouble.
Cheyenne agreed to come back home with me, which was a surprise. Normally, it’s a struggle to get a teenager to change their mind about anything, and it doesn’t help that some of these kids’ home lives are flat out terrible. I’m talking way beyond Mommy Dearest. However, Cheyenne’s father and mother didn’t strike me as the abusive sort. They were just very busy, high powered, Hollywood professionals who had demanding careers and not a lot of extra time to devote to their children.
Cheyenne was 17 but looked 25. With long red hair, green eyes, and knock out legs that went straight up to her chin, Cheyenne had the body of a supermodel with the brains of a rocket scientist. I found that out on the three-hour car ride home from Las Vegas to Pacific Palisades. I also learned something else that kind of blew my mind.
Cheyenne gazed out the window of my Nissan Altima at the barren landscape of the Mojave Desert as we drove down I-15.
“Do you believe in Aliens, Roy?”
I blinked and kept my eyes on the road ahead. “Aliens? Yeah, sure, why not. It’s a big universe, kid. We can’t be the only ones taking up space. Why do you ask?”
“Because I know there here. I’ve even got proof,” Cheyenne said.
I sighed. “Kid, we live in L.A. There are weirder things walking down Hollywood Boulevard at high noon than aliens.”
“I’m serious, Roy. Check this out.”
Cheyenne dug in her purse and came out with over two dozen photos that looked like they had been developed at a Walgreens. She held one up in front of me and waved it in front of my nose. I grabbed it and took a look.
I gasped and almost ran off the road because what I saw was unbelievable. The photo showed a man in a bathing suit standing around a large, crowded swimming pool. Normal enough right? Except that the photo revealed a man who was also half reptile!
The lower half was human enough: feet, ankles, knees, thighs, but above the waist was something straight out of a nightmare. This reptile thing looked exactly like the T-Rex from that old Jurassic Park movie with gray, scaly skin with horns and bumpy knobs protruding from its head. But what amazed me was that the reptile thing is standing there talking to a sexy blonde in a bikini like it was just going about its business. It was even holding a pina colada in its left hand! And the blonde chick was talking with this monster like it was just another day at the beach.
“This has got to be fake. Photoshop or something,” I said and handed the photo back to Cheyenne.
“No. I took the photos with this,” Cheyenne said and held up a little green and black Fujifilm Disposable Camera. “My friend Carla took these pictures at the Bellagio, and when she got them developed, she freaked out and thought that she was seeing ghosts or something.”
Over the next hour, Cheyenne showed me more photos and they were all reptile people. Reptiles at the blackjack table, reptiles at the strip club, reptiles driving down the strip in Porsches and Lambos. But what really convinced me was how some of the photos of the reptilians were blurry, almost as if the camera had caught them halfway between their human disguise and their true identity.
“Kid, I don’t know what to say,” I said in a shaky voice.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, Roy. I saved the best for last,” Cheyenne said and handed me another photo.
I took one look at the picture, braked hard, and pulled over to the side of the highway.
I put the car in park and closed my eyes. I took two deep breaths, opened my eyes and took another look at the photo.
The photo was taken at a rally for the Governor of Nevada who was running for re-election in the fall. Onstage, wearing a sharp navy-blue suit with a crisp white shirt and red power tie was Governor Richards. Except, Governor Richards was a reptile.
“Kind of changes everything. Doesn’t it,” Cheyenne said.
I handed the photo back to her, and Cheyenne slipped it back into her purse.
That’s when I got the feeling that my life was never going to be the same. Ever.
Eyes on the road Roy!
They Live!