The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

Jake Beal, a Hollywood PI (who calls himself a 'gumshoe') with a film fixation, dresses the dress and talks the talk of the investigators in the 1940s black & white films. He handles the 'weird' cases; the ones with no logical explanation. A FX mogu

ONE

            Long ago, some wisenheimer came up with the brainstorm to erect a sign on the top of a hill in California.  Gigantic white letters spelling out H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D-L-A-N-D.  Others went along with the idea, tossed a few greenbacks in, and the thing was built.  Could see the thing for miles.  As time went by, the last four letters dropped off and the town kept it that way.  Hollywood be thy name.  No one remembers the name of the yegg who dreamed the thing up, but the world remembered the name and the place.

            If I stare hard enough I can see each white letter on the panes in my office window, but slightly transparent, like it was a reflection.  I know I could get a place where I can actually see the sign, but I like it where I am.  Besides, my imagination suits me fine.  Isn't that what Hollywood's all about?

            My name's Beal; Jake Beal.  I'm a gumshoe.  My beat's Hollywood, but it ain't the Hollywood I remembered from the flicks, though.  There was no such animal as Yuppies back then, unless you count Ralph Bellamy in those early Astaire and Cagney films.  No tofu.  No Rap music, or whatever that is.  Certainly no video games.  And you could buy a good cup of joe for a nickel and not have to learn a second language to order. 

            The women in the old days, they had style, finesse; class.  Veronica Lake, Lana,  Betty Bacall, Crawford and Davis; even Gale Sondergaard, who was the baddest and classiest of them all.  Not saying that the dames on screen these days aren't bad - some of them are pretty good.  But they'll never be in the same class as the greats.         

            And speaking of women, I like 'em like any other wolf, but make mine a little harder on the inside.  Ditch that helpless frail routine.  That don't cut the mustard with me.  I know a few stand up dames that I would trust with my heater and could cover my back in a pinch.  Women's rights?  All for it.  But when you're talking about those sob sisters who do nothin' but cry the blues 'bout how they've been under the thumb of johns since the Stone Age, well, I give 'em the air.

            But back to business;  I'm Jake Beal.  I'm a gumshoe. 

            I handle the weird cases.

            So, I'm in my office above Zapata's Video Arcade on Hollywood and Vine, sipping on my second cup of java, starting my morning right.  I'm no use to anyone without a second of cup of joe in my system.

            Speaking of my office, y'ever see The Maltese Falcon?  You know; Bogart, Astor, Lorre, Greenstreet?  The classic?  If you do, remember Sam Spade's office, 'cause that's my office as well.  Had the place designed to look exactly like it was in the movie.  All the way to the style of lettering on the front door.  If you're going to do a job, get the right atmosphere.  And this place stinks with atmosphere.

            Anyway, the phone rings in between the sounds of bombs going off and lasers blasting creatures from the future coming from downstairs, and I let it.  Me, I'm savoring the flavor.  I don't have a secretary; can't find one that does it for me.  I guess they don't make Joan Blondell types anymore - at least not without a nose-ring, multiple tattoos, and dyed jet black hair.  Don't these dames own mirrors?  And I don't have an answering machine, either - if it's important, the bum will call back.  On the fourth ring, I pick it up.

            "Beal here.  It's your nickel.  Start talking."

            "Jake! Must you still do your Sam Spade imitation?"

            That's my buddy, Chuck Phizer.  He's a dick lieutenant on the LAPD, Hollywood division.  We like each other enough to be friends.  He's good at what he does; real good.  Chuck only calls me on cases that have a peculiar twist to 'em.  In this part of town, they come out of the woodwork in droves.

            "Chuck! How are ya? Whaddaya hear, whaddaya say?"

            "Jake.  Come on.  When are you going to quit this act?"

            "And what's wrong with my patter?"

            "Hey.  It don't bother me, but it puts a lot of people off.  They don't whether to take you seriously, or not."

            "Ya gotta admit, it sort of gives me an air of mystery, don't it?"

            "Sort of makes people nervous."

            "If  that's the skinny, then howcum I get so many cases?"

            "Because people also know that you're a pretty good PI."

            "Gumshoe, Chuck, gumshoe.  You can use Private Dick if you want."

            "Not on your life, my friend."

            "Your choice.  And PI?  Correct me if I'm wrong . . ."

            "And I will."

            " . . . but aren't the initials a mathematical calculation?"

            "How about 'Private Investigator'?"

            "Leaves me cold."

            "Leaves you what?"

            Chuck and I have this kind of conversation all the time.  We both know  how good I am, and he goes along with it.  He plays off me like Barton McLane played off Bogie.  Looks a little like him, too; especially since one of the perps rapped him across the nose with a two-by-four.  Flattened it.  I saved his hash on that one.  I figured the broken beak gave him character - he felt it ruined his good looks, which he ain't got.  That's how  we became friends. 

            Chuck worked the graveyard shift in downtown L.A. for five years too many.  Made him tough, but gave him a heart.  He got married to this social worker, had a kid and moved to the suburbs.  That was her idea.  Didn't want to expose the kid to the criminal element, she said.  He went along with it, but knew as well as I did that a crumb, is a crumb, is a crumb.  You had to figure that the older members of the suburbs moved their way up from the slums.  Blue collar - white collar, you still could be a crumb.

            "Means, doesn't stimulate me.  So, you didn't call just to complain about my speech.  What's the story?"

            "Got a murder at the Curtin mansion."

            "Curtin, huh?  The rich egghead who thought everyone was out to get him?"

            "The very same."

            "That's taking I told you so to the extreme."

            "Probably the inscription on his tombstone."

            I took another sip of joe.  I glanced at the coffee pot on the edge of the desk.  Don't know why, but I suspected that I wouldn't have time for a third cup.

            "Well, spill it, Chuck.  This obviously ain't no cut and dry knock-off, 'cause you wouldn't have called.  What's the catch?"

            Chuck cleared his throat.  This was a bad sign.  Always did that when there wasn't a normal, rational, logical way to explain something.  The last time he did that was on the Incendiary Blonde Case.  That was the one where some of the sleazier talent agents in town were being torched to death.  Ended up being this knockout blonde who was a firestarter.  She could cause a bum to spontaneously combust.  That one bothered me; she was a sweet kid in the wrong line of business.  Chuckie couldn't explain that one.  The unexplained made his throat dry.

            I always get the weird ones.

            "Well, Jake, Curtin had closed circuit cameras in every section of the estate and in every corner of his mansion.  His routine was to end his evenings locked up tight in his library, watching a wall of televisions, keeping an eye on his property."

            "Yeah.  I read about him in People.  Well, if that's the case, then you got a pic of the killer.  Right?'

            He cleared his throat again.  "Yes, and no."

            I took another sip.  "Okay, Chuck.  I'll play straight man -  what do you mean, yes and no?"

            "Jake, you see the killer on the screen.  He walks over to Curtin, empty handed.  Then he shoots him six times in the head."

            "Wait, wait.  Let me get this right.  The killer walks over to the guy, with no gat in his mit, then he shoots him?"

            "What?"

            "Whaddaya mean, what?"

            "Gat?  Mit?"

            "Oh.  Gun.  Hand."

            "Oh.  Yeah, that's about it."

            "What with?"

            "A nickel plated .45."

            "Fancy.  What did the lug do?  Pull it out of thin air?"

            "Yes."

            I swallowed the remainder of my coffee, my throat suddenly dry.  "Maybe it's me, but did I fall asleep somewhere in the conversation and not know it."

            "No, Jake.  You heard right.  Maybe you should come over and take a look at the video I got from the security guards."

            "Yeah, Chuck.  Maybe I should.  I'll be over in a few."

            I hung up the phone and stared at it.  The killer, on camera, stands there one minute, empty handed, then plugs the fancy pants the next.  I nix the idea of another cup of java, even though I need it.  I reach into the lower left hand drawer and pull out my bottle of bourbon and pour a little in the cup and down it in a swallow.  Best thing to put a spring in your step, next to joe.  I check my .38, to make sure it's loaded.  It is.  It always is.  I put a few extra rounds in my jacket pocket, toss on the trench and the fedora, shut off the peculator and head over to Chuck's.

            As I walked down the stairs to the street, my landlord, Manuel Zapata was coming up.  Manny owned the arcade and the building, and was always on the look out for another profitable business venture.  Of course, some of his bright ideas had a touch of larceny to it.  But that's Manny.  He also has a habit of dressing like Robert Young on Father Knows Best.  You know; sweaters and slacks.  He'll wear a tee-shirt, but there'll always be his sweaters and slacks.  He's a good egg.

            "Mr. Beal!  Good morning to you!  Beautiful day, is it not?"

            "What's the hassle, Schmassle?  How's my favorite landlord?"

            "Are you on another case, Mr. Beal?"

            "Always on a case, Manny.  Got more cases than I do time.  Can't park and gab.  I'm on my way to see Chuck."

            "Ah, Detective Phizer.  Something must be up."

            "Don't know yet, Manny.  Don't take any wooden nickels."

            "A moment of your time, Mr. Beal.  I would like to discuss something with you."

            I stopped and turned to face him.  Manny was a sweetheart, but he could also be a pain in the kiester with his get-rich-quick ideas.

            "Make it fast."

            Manny made it faster by opening his sweater and displaying his slightly sagging paunch.  Stretched across it on the front of his tee-shirt was my mug.

            "What the heck is that?"

            "My new line of Official Jake Beal Tee-Shirts.  Only $18.95.  With your permission, I will sell them in my arcade."

            "Now who would be crazy enough to wear my mug on their chest.  I got a hard enough time looking at myself shaving."

            "Your modesty impresses me, Mr. Beal.  You know you are a celebrity, though presently, a minor one.  With each case you handle, your film noir style catches the public eye.  And with fame comes marketing.  And with the proper marketing, Jake Beal could be a lucrative side business."

            "You're losing it, Manny.  I'm just a gumshoe.  Nothing more.  Nothing less."

            "The tee-shirt is only the first of the Jake Beal Line."

            "Line?"

            "It includes trench coats; adult and children sizes, fedoras, pins, mugs, bumper stickers, post . . . "

            "Later, Manny."

            "I'm just looking out for future investments, Mr. Beal."

            "Bye, Manny."

            Like a quick draw artist, Manny whipped a sheet of paper from the pocket of his sweater.

            "I have a contract drawn up.  All I need is your signature and we can proceed."

             "No, Manny.  Count me out."

            "But, Mr. Beal!  Certainly we can discuss this.

            "Yeah, yeah.  Sure, sure.  Maybe when I'm not so busy."

            "Mr. Beal, you are always busy."

            "Yeah.  Lucky me."

 

            Since the police station was only five blocks away, I decided to hoof it.  It was your typical California morning.  The temp was warm, but not too warm - the sky was slightly overcast, but I knew that the sun would burn off the clouds in a few hours.  Even with an overcast sky, it was bright.  That's why I love California.  In my line of work, where sadness and grief fills the lives of the people around me, you still get the impression that it's going to be a beautiful day.  But there are those who take that beautiful day feeling way too seriously; usually before I have my first cup of coffee. 

            Them I can do without.

            I walked up the steps of the police station and into the office of the Homicide Division, where Chuck worked.

            "Well, well, well.  If it ain't God's gift to Warner Brothers movies."

            That's Jerry Blessing, one of the other dicks on the LAPD.  We know each other well enough to dislike each other intensely.  He reminds me of William Bendix, only uglier and with less personality.  He's forever riding me about something or other.

            "That's me, Jer.  And let me be the first to say I'm proud of you!  Finally, a sentence with words that contain multiple syllables."

            "That's Detective Blessing to you, Beal."

            "Fine with me, Jer.  Where's Chuck?"

            He'd love to throw me a beating.  We both knew it.  He felt that me having Chuck as a buddy prevented him from demonstrating his Daryl Gates School of Law Enforcement training.  He snarled something, like Yosemite Sam used to do, and tilted his head at the office in the corner.  Jerry's a charmer, he is.  I walked over and stuck my head in the doorway.  Chuck was staring at a TV, watching a recording on the VCR that was on pause at the moment.  I see what used to be Leonard Curtin's face.

            "Should I get some popcorn for the second feature?"

            Chuck turned and smiled at me, waving me in.  "Glad you could make it, Jake."

            "You had doubts?"

            "Not at all.  Have a seat."  He pointed at a chair; I plopped myself on the edge of his desk.

            "Had a quaint little confab with Emily Post out there."

            "Jerry? Ignore him, Jake.  You know how he feels about you."

            "Yeah.  And you can see how heartbroken I am over that.  How's Millie and Chuckie, Junior?"

            "Doing fine, Jake.  They ask about you, you know; especially Junior.  He wants to know when his crazy Uncle Jake is coming over again."

            I smiled at that one.  "You got the kid calling me Crazy Uncle Jake, Chuck?"

            "Not me, my friend.  Can't blame me for this one.  That was his idea.  You know Junior's quick for a ten year old."

            "Yeah.  Just like his old man.  So what's the deal with the tape.  From your whiter than normal complexion, it looks like it knocked you for a loop."

            "Where do you get these lines?  Film Noir 101?"

            "Skip it.  Hey!  Let me show you a new trick!  You got your bracelets?"

            "My what?"

            "Your bracelets.  Your handcuffs?  You're a cop, ain't ya?"

            Chuck groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

            "Not another one?"

            "Cut your griping.  Bring 'em out."

            Chuck stuck in hand in the desk drawer and took out a pair of bracelets. 

            "Now snap 'em on."

            "Jake."

            "Just cuff me."  I turned my back to him and held out my arms behind me.

            "Don't give me any ideas."  He snapped the cuffs on my wrists and I turned around to face him.

            "And don't give me lip.  Watch this; I've been practicing."

            "How do you close the cuffs?"

            "I got Manuel helping out."  Chuck began to laugh.  "Okay.  What's the giggle?"

            "I just got a picture of you, Manuel and the handcuffs.  I'm thinking of calling the Vice Squad."

            "I start hearing I'm light in the loafers from the boys and I'll know where it came from."  I pulled the open manacles from behind my back with a flourish.  "TA-DAAA!"

            "Very good.  You planning on being arrested, or are you dating strange women again?"

            "Just in case Jer gets any funny ideas.  I've been visiting Jack Damian at the Home for Old Magicians.  You remember Jack - he was an old buddy of Pop's."

            "Yeah.  I remember catching him on the old Ed Sullivan when I was a kid."

            "That's our arrangement.  I get one escape trick per visit.  It seems to perk him up.  So.  What's with the tape?"

            Chuck took the VCR remote control and tapped the rewind button.  Out of all the things this century did right, I think the VCR and the personal computer top everything.  I got both in the room next to my office, which doubles as my bedroom.  I use the VCR to watch my movies.  No blood and gore.  No cursing.  All in glorious black and white, with a few choice Technicolors thrown in for good measure.

            As for the computer, I put all my case files in my hard drive.  I even named my database The Usual Suspects.  I have files on evidence and types of evidence, along with every bit of information on every subject I can find.  And the Internet; that's the cat's meow.

            Chuck played the tape from the top.  I watched Curtin sitting in front of his wall of televisions, his eyes going from screen to screen, like someone watching a sped up tennis match.  From the angle of the shot, I figured the camera had to be hanging from the left corner ceiling.  It ain't Metro Goldwyn Mayer, but I got a decent enough eyeful.

            I saw Curtin once before, at a fund raiser.  It was at a distance, about the same distance the camera was from his puss in the video, but even then I noticed that the geek sweated too much.  His eyes kept rolling in their sockets like pinballs, always looking like he thought someone was going to try to sneak up behind him.  He was like that in his final minutes, only worse.  I don't think the bum slept much.

            This being the high-tech age, the tape even had a soundtrack.  From the bottom of the screen, this red-headed mug walks in with his back to the camera; thick red hair.  He's a little stooge, too; couldn't be more than five foot six, if he was an inch.  And the way he stood in front of Curtin, the way he rocked on the balls of his feet, a name sprang into my head; Jimmy Cagney.  Sure, the skunk was wearing faded dungarees and a polo shirt, but the rest was James Cagney. 

            This sap was quiet.  It took Curtin a few seconds to notice that he had company.  When he looked up, he moved back in the chair so hard, you could hear the legs scrape across the floor.

            "Time's up, Pop."

            The voice sounded like Cagney's.

            Sweat poured off Curtin's face.  "Dear God! No!"

            "You had your chance.  You could've taken the high road, Pop.  Now you'll take the low road.  Real low."

            Curtin then won the speed record for Continuous Begging, even doing the ham act of having both his hands clasped in front of him.  Cagney, meanwhile, was spitting out threats, all while making his patented sawing movements with his hands while he spoke.  Both of his mits were in plain sight of the camera. 

            This guy was good.

            All of a sudden, poof! a nickel plated .45 pops into Cagney's right hand.  This was no quick draw, no roscoe on a spring in the sleeve to eject it into an open palm.  The goon didn't he have sleeves to begin with!

            Apparently, Curtin was just as surprised as I was, 'cause his mouth makes this small o, and he starts this little eep-eep sound in his throat.  Then Cagney plugs Curtin.  Then again.  And again.  And again until you hear the clicking as the gat dry fires.  He turns and looks directly into the camera lens and gives the patented James Cagney trademark wink and smile.  Then he turns and calmly walks out of the frame.

            That was no body double.  That was not the best makeup I had ever seen.  That was James Cagney in the flesh!

            "Well?  What's you take on this?"

            "Rewind to the wink and freeze it."

            I walked closer to the screen, staring at that familiar face.  I went back to the desk.

            "Play it again."

            I had Chuck run the tape again three more times, the last time on slow motion.  We would've got for a fourth showing, but Chuck screamed at me when I said, "Play it again, Chuck." 

            The hand is empty one second, the heater is there the next, a pin point of light sparking off the gun's highly polished barrel when it appeared.

            We shut the tape off.

            Chuck and I sat in that office for how long, I don't know,  just staring at each other.  I couldn't read his face; it was closed as tight as a pawnbroker's purse.

            "Prints?"

            "Just Curtin's, a partial of his wife's, and a few of the butler."

            "The mug has a butler?"

            "Yes."

            "Well, case closed.  I'm going to the movies."

            "Funny.  There was no sign of entry.  No sign of exit.  The killer just appeared on camera, killed Curtin and left."

            I whistled low, tilting my brim further back on my head.  "So Curtin was married, huh?"

            Chuck smiled, seeing something, or someone I couldn't see.  "And how . . . Damn!  Now you've got me talking like you."

            "Now we're back on the way I talk?"

            I caught a look from Chuck, who chose to ignore my last remark.  "Anyway, Curtin was married.  To a woman thirty-three years younger than he was."

            I whistled again.  "And all this dunce could think of doing in his evenings was watch his television?  If this is what having so much gelt does to a guy, I'll take vanilla."

            Chuck looked up at me, sighed deeply and began to silently count to ten.  "What is that supposed to mean?"

            "Which has a better taste to you?  Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?"

            "For me, strawberry.  Why?"

            "So vanilla would be your last choice, if you had to make one.  Right?"

            "Yes."

            "So when you're faced with a situation, and you find your choices of what to do are lower than you last choice of vanilla, you'd still pick vanilla.  Got it?"

            Chuck's eyes crossed a little as he turned back to the television screen.

            "And that was the short version.  Hey, mind if I pay a visit to the bereaved widow?"

            "I have Melmed and Willis interviewing her now."

            I thought for a second, or two, my eyes trailing back to the image of James Cagney on the screen. 

            "Curtin was the CEO at that special effects company . . . what was that name?"

            "Megapix."

            "That's the one.  Let's see what the bum had on his computer.  He had to have a few personal files that could lead to a cue of some sort.  Or, we speak to someone on the inside and get the straight dope."

            "My thoughts exactly.  When can you leave?"

            I pulled myself off the edge of the desk.  "Color me gone.  Meet'cha outside." 

            "Fine.  Let me wrap up in here and I'll be right out."

            I shook Chuck's hand and walked out of the office.

            "Taking off, Private Dick-less?"    

            That was Jer in all his charm.  I turned and faced him.  I suddenly got the urge to rearrange his face, but changed my mind since anything I might do would be considered an improvement.  I didn't want that on my conscience.   "You got something to say to me, Jer?"

            "Just keep out of our way, hear me?"

            "Our way?"

            "Yeah; our way.   Let a professional who knows what he's doing handle the detective work."

            "Sure, Jer.  Sure"  I turned towards the exit.

            I heard Jer sniff behind me.  "Just like his father."

            A wave of hot and cold ran up my back.  I felt myself slow  turn on my heel.          "What was that crack about Pop?"

            "Go if your going, Beal."

            "No, moron.  You started it; finish it."

            Jer eyed me, then smiled and leaned back in his chair, like this was the moment he had spent his whole life waiting for.

            A few other guys and gals in blue began to crowd around, not wanting to miss this.  The two of us going at it was too long in coming.

            "I heard stories about your Dad taking money for protection, Beal.  Heard he never did a lick of police work in his life.  He closed cases by buying off stoolies.  And you're just like him.  A quick smile for the civilians, then take their money and run."

            "I don't know where you're getting your information, Jer, but I'd trade up if I were you.  I've never taken one thin dime from a client.  I do what I do, 'cause it's what I do.  And another thing, Pop never took an illegal dime in his life.  "

            Blessing leaned forward, resting on his elbows.

            "That's right, Beal.  Believe the BS.  He was nothing but a two-bit hood.  How do you think he got rich?  Where did you think the money came from?  The story about him winning the lottery, or something is a load of . . . "

            "In here, or outside?"

            "Different location; same outcome."

            "Why Jer.  That sounds almost literary.  Don't tell me you're actually reading the words in those skin magazines you buy?"

            Jer stood from behind his desk.  Several officers moved a foot back.

            "You gonna do this, or not?"

            I felt the lower half of my face smile.  "Let's take it outside.  Chuck's busy working.  Don't want your screams to distract him."

            "We'll see who screams first.  Outside."

            I removed my trench, and we took off our jackets, placing our guns on the closest desk.  We began to head for the door, the officers trailing from a safe distance behind us, when I stopped.

            "One second, Jer.  Want to see a neat trick?"

            Jer red face got redder. 

            "A  what?"

            "It'll take a second.  Watch."

            I took a stick match from my pants pocket and used my thumbnail to light it.  All eyes  were on the match.  I held the lit match in front of his eyes.

            "Now count to three and watch closely."

            Jer eyed me, but counted just the same.  When he hit three, I dropped the match.  As Jer tilted his head to follow it, I shot out three quick punches; a left, a right and an uppercut.  Old Jer hit the floor like a ton of bricks.  His head bounced on the floor, twice, and he was out like Jersey Joe.

            Rubbing my knuckles, I smiled, shaking my head. 

            "A sucker punch.  The mug fell for a sucker punch."

            Chuck, who must've heard the commotion, came barreling out of his office.  There was a crowd of blues and plain clothes standing by Jer's desk, taking a look, then walking off.  Chuck pushed through the gang and saw Jer, flat on his back and out like a light at my feet.  Chuck's face was getting red enough to make a bull charge and was staring at the reddening knuckles on my hand.  Like a dope, I hid my hand behind my back and grinned like a mental case.

            "He slipped, Chuckie.  Honest."

            When he began to vibrate, I grabbed my coat and went to the door.

            "You coming?"

            I opened the door and got out while the getting was good.

           

TWO

            We were on the freeway heading for the San Fernando Valley to the Megapix Building.  I had talked Chuck into tuning to my oldies station.  They were playing Little Brown Jug by Miller, which was jake with me.  I had to laugh to myself, remembering how I got my name.  When I was born and Pop held me for the first time, he proudly answered when asked what it was like to be a father, "It's jake with me".  That was my name from that moment on.  I was still burning from Jer's crack about Pop, so I got a little deeper into the music.

            I was slouched comfortably in the passenger seat, tapping my foot against the dashboard.   I tilted my fedora down over my eyes to block the sun's glare and pulled out my pack of smokes.  Chuck was alternately eyeballing me and watching the road. 

            "Must you smoke?"

            I peeked out from under my chapeau. 

            "Now, this is a first.  Are we becoming politically correct all of a sudden?"

            "It's not that.  Millie is getting worried about my health."

            I sat up straight in the seat.  "You?  You don't smoke.  You don't drink enough for it to become a habit.  You work out and box every other day and you don't eat red meat.  If it wasn't for Chuckie, Jr. I would say you hadn't done that either.  But he is an only child, isn't he?"

            "Make your point."

            "I mean, isn't it time you gave the tike a kid brother, or sister?"

            "JAKE!"

            "What's Millie sprouting off about?  If anything, you're gonna die from good health, ya sap!"

            "Yeah, I know.  But I'm not getting any younger."

            I angled myself in the seat and leaned against the door.

            "And that's what Millie says?"

            Chuck nodded, a touch of sadness in his eyes.

            "Yeah.  Especially the age part.  That, and getting sick from second-hand smoke."

            I grinned and lit up.

            "Well, don't you worry your pretty little head about the stogie, Chuck, old boy.  This ain't tobacco I'm smoking. "

            Chuck turned towards me, his bulging eyes focusing on the cig.  A car suddenly pulled into our lane.  We swerved in the nick of time. 

            "Jake!"

            I adjusted my back against the car door. 

            "It's not what your thinking, you dope!  This is a special mixture of imported herbs from China.  Almost no tar, absolutely no nicotine whatsoever.  I just had them wrapped in cigarette paper, is all.  And, if you must know, they're legal."

            "But isn't it still addictive?"

            "Not in the least."

            "Then why smoke it?"

            I re-tilted my head gear.

            "Style, Chuck.  Style."

            I peeked at Chuck, who was staring at the on-coming road, chewing on his lower lip.

            "If yer going to say something, for the love of Mike, say it already!"

            He wiped his jaw with his open hand.  He reminded me of Wallace Beery when he did that.

            "You know, Jake, when we first met, I checked you out?"

            "So I heard."

            "It was nothing personal, you understand.  I liked you well enough, but you were a mystery to me, and you know how I hate mysteries."

            "Sure do, Philo Vance.  Go on."

            "You received exceptional scores on your tests from the Police Academy.  Your natural deductive skills would have taken you far.  Why'd you quit?"

            I used my thumb to lift my hat back several inches.

            "'Cause it ain't the same."

            "What's not the same?"

            "When I grew up, cops were your friend; you could trust them.  But times changed.  These days, no matter if it's being on the take, or being a little free with the billy, being a bad cop seems to be all too common.  People seem to trust; no, scratch that - admire guys and dames that work outside the law and get the job done.  That's what I do.  I'm a gumshoe."

            "And the Bogart wardrobe?"

            "Weren't you listening the last three times I told you?"

            Chuck just glanced at me and smiled.  It was like Chaney, Meredith and the rabbits.  We both knew he liked hearing the story, and he knew I liked telling it.  I gave him what he wanted.

            "Dad loved movies.  We did too, but Dad loved them.  Couldn't get enough of 'em.  We'd climb into Ol' Betsy and go to see a double feature at the Majestic every Saturday night.  At least until the flicks started to show more skin than plot, we did.  Then one day, we went to a retrospective of 40's films at the Odeon.  I found I loved Bogart, and Powell and Ladd flicks.  They were the gumshoes out of film mythology.  The fedora, the trench coat, the attitude, and, of course, the stogie.  When you think of a private eye, what's the first image that comes to mind?  Magnum?  Naw.  You think of Bogie in The Maltese Falcon.  Powell in Murder, My Sweet.  Ladd in The Glass Key.  Besides,  good was good and bad was bad back then; there were no grays.  And there was an honor in becoming a gumshoe, almost like becoming a knight of the Round Table."

            Chuck's smile widened.

            "But that was only in movies, Jake."

            "And that's what the people remember, Chuck.  That is why they trust me to do the job.  Bogart, Ladd and the rest of 'em were stand-up guys.  I have a tradition to follow.  And after all; our beat is Hollywood."

 

            We pulled up in front of a steel meshed gate attached to a ten foot high concrete wall that surrounded a triple floored building that looked like an upside down shot glass.  A big deal in glass and chrome.  Getting out, I spotted cameras that were turning on pivots at the top of the wall.  On the gate was a silver sign that read MEGAPIX CORPORATION.  I hooked a thumb at the cameras.

            "Yeah, Chuck.  This is Curtin's place, alright.  I recognize the paranoia."

            Chuckie gave me a look that told me to shut my trap.  He walked to the intercom on the wall and tapped a green button a few times.  A voice answered, 'Megapix; can I help you?' 

            "Charles Phizer, LAPD.  I have an appointment to see Angela Marlowe."

            "One moment please."

            Seconds later, the huge iron gate with the M crest rolled back on a track and receded into the wall.  Chuck got in the car; I followed.  We drove through the gate and followed the signs to the corporate office.

 

            The shot glass' interior was right out of Star Trek.  Very futuristic.  It seemed bigger inside than it was outside, but just the same, it was cold.  Attractive, but cold.  Coming towards me was a gorilla in a double breasted suit.  I took a good look and immediately wanted the name of his tailor.  Had to cost over a grand, easy.  It was well cut and tailored to accent his very large shoulders and his very narrow waist.  It was almost good enough to hide the bulge of the heater under his left arm.  We got in an elevator that was three walls mirror, one wall glass.  Through the glass wall we could see an impressive view of the incredible two city blocks that was Megapix.  I stole a glance at Chuck and saw that his jaw was hanging chest level.

            We stopped at the top, and Kong walked us down this long hall that lead to Curtin's office and was met by a dish at the end.  She told us to walk this way and Chuck unfairly gave me a warning elbow before I took a step.  Said Dish wore a not-too-tight-not-too-loose blue blazer with a Megapix logo on the bulging front pocket.  When I wasn't watching the smooth sway of her hips, I looked at the series of framed pictures on the wall.  Each showed a special effect shot from movie, and sported labels with the name of the film, the date, the effect and the Megapix logo and patent number.  Some I knew, some I was surprised to know.

            Chuckie and I walked through a set of cut crystal doors that must have set Curtin back always, to a bay of cubicles filled with employees.  As we passed each cube, I gave the fish eye to computer monitors showing complex graphics and images, real and imagined.  The display that made me stop in my tracks was one with a yellow grid on a black background.   The mug at the keyboard tapped a few keys and a small circular pedestal on his right began to glow.  He tapped some more and the crossed lines on the screen bulged and form the shape of a horse in Hi-Ho, Silver mode.  The mug continued to type commands and the horse on the screen filled with color and definition.  It looked more like a photograph than a computer image.  The egg head took that second to glance over his shoulder and spot the two of us standing in the doorway of his cubicle.  Now with a captured audience, Fancy Dan began to type commands at light speed and held his finger over the ENTER button for five count.  When he hit the button with an Eddy Duchin flourish, the glow on the pedestal took the form of the horse on the screen.  In seconds, the holographic horse made a tiny whinnying sound and began to move around on the pedestal.  The mug then floored us when he reached forward and the horse tried to bite his finger. 

            I stood there with my mouth catching flies and my peepers hanging out of my skull.  As jaded as I think I am, I still felt like a rube.  If the mug at the keyboard said he would sell me the Brooklyn Bridge after that, I would have bought it.  A sudden tug on my lapel from Chuck broke me out of my trance, so I returned my attention to the pleats on the Dish's skirt.

            We finally got another cubicle, but our eyes were drawn by this high polished silver plaque with the name, LEONARD CURTIN - PRESIDENT.  The sun could learn a few  things.  I looked over my shoulder.  I felt my mouth begin to water.  I felt my knees go numb. 

            The name on the cube read ANGELA MARLOWE.  Raven black hair that poured across her shoulders.  Lips that seemed to moisten with every passing second.  An hour glass figure that showed twenty minutes past.  Then I noticed her red rimmed eyes and saw she had just stopped bawling; maybe only a few minutes ago.  I tried a winning smile, but she just gave me a nod and a brush off.   All her attention was focused on Chuck, who was turning a nice shade of sunset.

            "Lieutenant Phizer, I presume.  I'm Angela Marlowe, personal secretary to . . . Mr. Curtin."

            There was real sadness in her voice but she was also sizing up Chuck, like Louis did Schmeling.

            Her lower lip began to tremble and she began to spring a leak.  Ever the gentleman, Chuck did a Zorro with his handkerchief and held it out to her, but she shook her head and reached for a box of tissues instead, pulling one out and dabbed at her eyes.  Chuck replaced the hanky and stood a little closer.  Her eyes locked with his and the Grade A sticker on his forehead became more noticeable.

            "I'm sorry."   

            "It's okay.  I understand."

            "I mean, who would want to kill Mr. Curtin?  True, he was overly cautious, but he could never hurt anyone."

            "It's alright, Ms. Marlowe.  This is Jake Beal.  He's an associate of mine."

            "Hello, Mr. Beal."

            "Afternoon, ma'am."

            Before I got 'afternoon' out, her eyes were back on Chuck.  If this kept up, I could develop a complex.

            "Could we take a look at Mr. Curtin's office, Ms. Marlowe?"

            "Of course, Lieutenant.  You have a search warrant, I presume?"

            Chuck, as a habit, stuck his ham into his suit pocket, did a double take and stared at her.

            "A search . . . why?"

            She took a half step closer to Chuck, who took a full one in retreat.

            "Rules of Mr. Curtin.  Security purposes, you understand."

            "I'm afraid I don't have a warrant, Ms. Marlowe.  I didn't think it was necessary."

            "Then I'm afraid, as much as I would like to, I cannot let you in Mr. Curtin's office."

            "We won't touch anything.  Scout's honor."  I held up three fingers as insurance.  Marlowe gave me a look that chilled the room by ten degrees.

            "Sorry.  The answer is still no."

            She liked me - I could tell.  I watched her decrease the distance between her and Chuck, who found his back pockets kissing her cubicle wall.

            "But if you return with a warrant, there won't be a problem."

            Chuck looked up at me for help.  I shrugged my shoulders.  He gracefully moved around her, careful not to touch the merchandise.

            "Guess we made the trip for nothing then."

            "I'm very sorry.  Procedures, you understand.  I can give you the authorized Megapix press release.  It might help you."

            "That's all right, Ms. Marlowe.  Thank you just the same.  We'll find our way out.  Let's go, Jake."

            When we got out of earshot, I pulled Chuck's sleeve to get his attention.

            "Got an idea, Chuck."

            "No."

            "You haven't even heard it yet!"

            "I don't have to."

            "Well, give this a listen anyway.  You keep gorgeous there occupied for a while and I'll do the rest."

            "That's your idea?"

            "That's it.  Simple, huh?"

            "When you say the rest, what do you mean by the rest?"

            "Let me worry about that."

            "And how am I supposed to occupy her?"

            I felt a grin spread over my face.

            "Don't play dumb.  On you, it doesn't look good.  You saw the way she was making eyes at you."

            "She was just upset.  That was nothing."

            "So's an atom bomb.  Talk to her.  Ask her for a tour, or something.  Just get her away from her desk.  Betcha the guy has a personal computer in his office."

            "Personal . . . Jake!"

            "Trust me on this."

            "But . . . "

            I latched on to Chuck's arm and pulled a U-bop.  Pushing him forward, I propelled him in the doorway of Marlowe's cubicle.  Over Chuck's shoulder I caught her eyes go from a thirty watt shine to three-hundred watt blast.  She walked up to Chuck who found he couldn't move back because I had my hand placed firmly against his sacroiliac.

            "Now don't tell me you got the warrant that fast."

            Chuck's cheeks glowed red and said nothing.  I elbowed his ribs into the PLAY setting.

            "Not at all, Ms. Marlowe.  I was just thinking.  We noticed a lot of interesting effects your people were working on.  Do you think you could give me a little tour?"

            "A tour?"

            "I mean, if it's not against your firm's procedures."

            "Well, I don't know . . ."

            "I mean, please don't get too technical, all right  As silly as this sounds, I have a hard enough time setting the clock on my VCR, much less understand the complexities of your effects."

            Chuck was putting it on thick, taking on a Jimmy Stewart quality.  Like the dames in the flicks, she bought that innocent rube bit.

            "Well, I think it will be alright."  She turned to me while I fiddled with the brim of my hat and cold front came in from Canada.  "I suppose you're interested in a tour, too."

            "Naw.  That would bore me to tears.   But I'll take a look-see at your rest room."

            The fact that I mentioned it out loud had obviously offended her tender sensibilities.  Her arm extended and the long gold nail did the pointing.

            "Walk down the aisle on your left until you can't go any further and it's on your right."

            I reached over and pulled a computer magazine from a pile of unopened mail on the edge of her desk and held it up for her to see.

            "Mind if I borrow this?"

            She nodded, here eyes glued to Chuck's baby blues.

            "Please Lieutenant; comes this way."

            "Please.  Call me Charles."

            I think the both of us heard, if not noticed, that quick gasp of air that filled Marlowe's sizable lungs.  Chuck glared daggers at me, while I shoved my hand under the chest of my trench and made heart beating motions.  She took Chuck's arm and led him to the right of the cubicles, while I went to the left and dove into an empty one. 

            I counted to ten then went back and spotted Chuck's bobbing head four cubes away.   I went quickly to Curtin's office and, as suspected, found the door locked.  I removed a thin flat strip of wire from behind my lapel and opened the door, after making sure no one was nearby.  Took me a whole three seconds to get the door open.  Gotta have another session with Jack Damian.

            Once inside, I felt my jaw go south when I took a gander at Curtin's office.  It had to be the size of a basketball court, with a long mirrored wall.  On that wall were shelves made of the same smoky black tinted glass.  And on those shelves were high polished framed photographs of Curtin with this big wheel and that big shot; all grinning like a gaggle of shysters at a fender bender.  The shelves were also packed with awards, some glass - some gold - some a high gloss chrome.  Then my eyes stopped to a lit spot above and behind the huge glass desk that was cut in a circle, but had a entrance/exit opening. 

            There, on a small glass shelf, lit by a single spotlight, was an Academy Award.  An Oscar!

            I knew I didn't have much time, but fer chrissakes, it was an Oscar!  I had to see it up close.  Fortunately for me, the old man's computer was directly below it.

            I stood up on my toes and read the inscription; Best Special Effects - 1993.  That had to be for A Stitch in Time.  I saw  that flick at the least, eight times, before I bought the video; widescreen edition, natch.  I'm not much for science fiction, but this was done in a film noir style that knocked me for a loop.  But back to business.

            When I sat down and spun the chair to face the computer, I took a good look at the wall I had my back to, and found myself gaping again.  In front of me was a wall of monitors, dozens of 'em, each screen showing the goings on around the studio.  I could see a group of mugs standing around a box with wires sticking out of it.  Another showed guys in jeans and sneakers in front of a blue screen.  On another screen I could see the outside office with its rows of cubicles.  As I watched the dinks walking from cube to cube, I was reminded of rats in a maze.  On a screen at the lower left side of the wall, I could see Chuck and the doll; he looking like a rube at the computer screen he was facing - she at him like he was a Blue Plate Special. 

            I turned on the computer (after checking out the thirty-five inch flat monitor) and watched the Microsoft logo fill the screen, then fade to black.  Seconds later, the system asked for a password.  I cracked my knuckles and went to work. 

            Curtin was good, I'll give that to him.  He had the password buried deep in the network, and encrypted it to boot.  Took me a whole five minutes to get in, which meant I had to work fast.  I avoided the obvious files I saw in the system, and went for his personal records.  That too was encrypted and took me a minute more than I had to spare to get in. 

            My eyes ran over the names of the files.  THEMEPRK.  PARAMNT.  FOX.  DREAMQ.  I scanned the one marked THEMEPRK, then moved on.  Nothing, nothing and more nothing.  Then I stopped on the file named GOVT.  That was password protected, so I went in through the back door.  I spotted a red glow in the polished surface of the desk and looked up, but nothing was there, or out of the ordinary.  Must have been a trick of the light.  I rubbed my eyes with the edge of my index and went back to the file on the screen.         

            Government contracts, all right.  I couldn't tell what they were for, or about, but the feds called it PROJECT P3, which were all rejected by old man Curtin.  The last one was dated today, but it referenced PROJECT P3A.  That number was signed and approved by V.P. Duncan Taylor.  Witnessed by Frank Baxter, Corporate Attorney.   Interesting.  I quickly scanned the other files and found contracts that were approved by Taylor, as a formality; Curtin's nervous scrawl was the authorizing signature.  So on the day of the Big Cheese's death it was still business as usual.  I glanced at my watch. 

            Time's up.

            I shut the system down, took a cursory glance at the papers in Curtin's in-box, pushed the chair in, then stole a last look at Oscar and headed out the door.  Seeing Chuck's bobbing noggin over the cube sent me into a relaxed position in a chair outside the doll's cubicle, holding an open mag in my mits, my brim tilted back.

            "Have a good time?"

            Chuckie was grinning from ear to ear like a kid who took a Wonka factory tour and found the desert of his dreams - Miss Marlowe was staring at Chuck, probably thinking the same thing.

            "Incredible stuff, Jake.  I mean, I couldn't believe my eyes!"

            I stole another glance at Marlowe.  "Neither can I.  Ms. Marlowe?  Is Duncan Taylor in?"

            Those four little words brought the lovely Miss M crashing back to reality.  Her face flushed and her knockout eyes moistened a little.

            "No, Mr. Beal.  Mr. Taylor is on a leave of absence for the next two weeks.  He took Mr. Curtin's death very hard."

            Chuckie, always the gentleman, had his hankie at the ready.

            "We understand.  Angela, thank you.  What you do here is amazing.  But you obviously know that."

            "One second, please."  She went to her desk and wrote something on a piece of paper and made a show of sliding it in the chest pocket of Chuck's jacket.  I noticed that her hand lingered a bit on his chest before she lowered it.

            "That's my private number.  Please call me and let me know how your investigation is . . . coming."

            I grinned as Chuck's face blushed a crimson.

            "Yes.  If I find out anything, I'll let you know."

            The doll went in for the kill.  She stood close enough to let her stitched logo brush against his chest.

            "It's better if you call me at night.  I'm really busy during the day"

            With Astaire-like grace, Chuck smoothly side-stepped around her and moved to my side, kicking the heel of my shoe with his toe.

            "Yes.  Well, Angela, thanks again.  Let's go, Jake.  Now!"

            I had to run to keep up with Chuck, who was passing cubes like he was running a race.  At the turn, he slowed down to a pace I could keep up with.

            "Just like I thought, Chuck.  The personal computer - interesting files."

            "What was that about Duncan Taylor? Who's he?"

            "The V.P."

            "You think he may be involved?"

            "Don't know.  Found out that Taylor approved government contracts immediately after  Curtin bought the farm.  The last contract that Curtin put his John Hancock on was two days ago, talking about something called Project P3, which was rejected.  The one that was given the big thumb by Taylor was for a Project P3A.  And you know what that means."

            "What?"

            "That P3A is the new and improved model.  Since the contract was okayed today, this must have been a done deal.  I also noticed that all the other fed contracts were addressed to Curtin; the last was to Taylor.  I don't know about you, but my money's on Taylor.  He may, or may not be the killer, but I'll bet the ranch on that he's involved."

            Chuck's eyes turned inward for a second, weighing the info.  He looked up at me, a slight smile to his puss.

            "Know what I think, Jake?"

            "Like we should meet with Mr. Taylor?"

            "I'll radio in to Jer and get his address.  I'll also have him telephone ahead."

            "Good idea."  I elbowed him in the ribs, grinning.  "Angela, eh?"

            The color drained out of Chuck's face.

            "Can she see us?"

            I turned and looked around the corner.  She was back in her cubical, her attention on her computer.

            "Nope.  Why?"

            Chuck pulled the folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to me.

            "Take this and burn it, then flush the ashes.  I don't believe I listened to you.  I'm a married man,  for God's sake!"

            "Millie should see you now, Chuck.  You've got such a healthy glow to your kisser."

            "Shut up, Jake!"

            "What!?  What I say?"

            I trailed after Chuck and looked at the folded paper in my hand.  I couldn't help but smile.  This was just too easy.

 

            By the time we reached the car, Chuck had already got the address from Jerry, letting us know we were only twenty minutes away from Taylor's place.  When we pulled up to the futuristic ranch, Jer called to let us know that the phone rang, but didn't get an answer. 

            A sleek foreign job was parked in the driveway, so Chuck called in the make and license for a check; it was Taylor's wheel's, all right.  No other cars were registered under his name.  We walked up to the front door and Chuck stabbed the buzzer.

            No answer.  Chuck had his finger extended to try again, when we heard a scream from inside, that was followed by the sound of something very heavy hitting something very breakable.

            Chuck had swiftly gone into a protective crouch and had his gat out; I had done likewise.

            "I'll take the front; you go around the back."

            "Meet'cha inside."

            I heard Chuck announce himself and bust a glass panel with his size twelve-wide brogan as I went around the back.  . 

            My roscoe proceeding me, I made a quick glance around the grounds, spotting a pool and a tennis court, but not a soul in sight.  I turned to the glass patio door and peered inside.  I wasn't sure if it was an office, or a medieval knights museum.  Shields, suits of armor, lances, broad swords, all you needed was Robert Wagner with his Prince Valiant doo to complete the picture.  I looked down and spotted an old man, very nicely tanned and wearing slacks and a torn gray shirt under the table in the corner.  He was sporting a nasty head wound and looked like he was going into shock.  I motioned to him, but he waved me off.  I took out my pick and opened the door; took me two seconds.

            "Duncan Taylor?"

            "Get out of here!  He'll kill you!"

            "Who'll kill me?  Who's after you?"

            "No time to explain!  Get out now, while you still can!"

            "C'mon.  I'm getting you out of here!"

            I reached down and grabbed Taylor by the back of his neck and hauled him out of the cubby and headed for the open patio door.  The only thing that stopped me was the sound of King Kong coming down the hall, each step making the pictures and wall decorations shimmy, stopping right outside the closed office door.  I looked and saw the knob turn, and the door swung open slowly.  I couldn't move a muscle.  I felt like those clucks in the horror flicks, who just stands there and stares when he knows darn well he should be somewhere south of Albuquerque. 

            I felt my jaw drop about a foot and my eyelids blink a few times.  The peepers were catching it, but my mind said, Naaaw!  Standing in the doorway, was that silver-chrome cyborg from The Terminator.  It let out a soft hydraulic hum as its head pivoted to the right, then to the left, until it spotted us.  The thing's blood red eyes glowed and it walked in.

            "Naw.  This ain't right.  This is a gag, right?  Tell me this is a gag."

            Taylor clawed at my trench.

            "Run, man!  It wants me!"

            A chrome hand shot out between us and grabbed me by the front of my coat and lifted me to its eye level.  I heard another hydraulic purr as it brought its face close to mine and stared at me.

            "Oh, yeah?  Tell that to him!"

            The thing's eyes began to pulsate.  I had a bad feeling.

            "Oh, this is gonna hurt."

            I had an aerial view of the office, but it was only for a second.  I collided with the partially open door, shut it, slid down it and found myself with plush in my mouth.

            "Yep.  I was right.  It hurt."

            I rolled over just in the nick as a stainless steel fifteen-wide came down right where my head was.

            "CHUCK!!!"

            The thing wrapped its claw across my face and bounced my head on the thick plush a few times, giving me the feeling that I wasn't welcome.  Through the robot's fingers, I stared at the glowing red eyes and felt myself slipping away.  I looked over to my left and saw Taylor, crawling on his hands and knees, trying to make a break for the door.  The cyborg caught my glance and dropped me like a sack of potatoes, then went after Taylor.

            I got to my feet as fast as I could and tried to shake off the cobwebs.  I looked around for a weapon, since my gat am-scrayed somewhere down the line.  I staggered over and grabbed a lance from its perch on the wall.  If Tony Curtis could do it, so could I.

            Robbie the Robot had Taylor pressed against the wall.  As the thing reached for the old man, I came up behind it.

            "Hey!  Tin Man!"

            It did exactly what I thought it would.  The arm he was reaching with swung back at me, which I ducked under, and popped back up, tightening my grip on the lance.

            "I got your Dorothy right here."

            I stabbed the thing in one of its eyes and twisted to the left, and then to the right.  Dark hydraulic fluid gushed out and splattered the computer monitor on the desk.  The thing let out a very ticked off electronic roar and pulled at the lance, its other glowing eye locked on mine.  

            "Great plan, Beal; make it mad at you."

            Outside, I heard a shot, a door crash open and Chuckie's pear shaped tones calling my name. 

            It glanced at the closed office door, then back to me and pulled the lance out of its eye.  It then wrapped its chrome mit around the metal point and crushed it, bending the pointed end in half.  Then with a speed that would make Sugar Ray Robinson jealous, it reached out, latched onto my trench and pulled me forward.

            "Asta-lavista, baby."

            Next thing I knew, I was Buck Rogers again, this time flying through the closed patio door, onto the well manicured lawn.  I went into a shoulder roll, coming upright and in time to see the tin man dart across the lawn and pull a Johnny Weissmuller into the pool.  Instead of a splash, a white puff of smoke came out.  I looked into the pool - no water - no cyborg.  Then I remembered Taylor, and headed back to the office.

            Taylor was propped up against the wall, his face pasty and clutching his chest.  A few feet away was my gun.  I turned to Taylor and knelt next to him. 

            "Easy now.  Help is coming.  CHUCK!!!"

            Taylor's hand reached out and grabbed my arm.

            "The contracts . . . shouldn't have signed . . . he made me . . . he sent it after me!"

            "Who made you sign, Taylor?  Who, what  was that guy?"

            "It was . . . it was . . ."  He stopped.  His hand clutched the front of his shirt and he started breathing rapidly.

            "C'mon!  This is no time for a cliché!  Who's behind this?  Talk!"

            "Can you say, cardiac arrest?"

            I spun at the voice and did a shoulder roll, snatched up my roscoe and came back up, gun in hand.

            For the second time this morning, I did a double take.  Propped up on one knee, wearing a ratty striped red sweater, fedora cocked jauntily on his fire ravaged face, was Freddy Kruger.  He grinned slyly at me, sending goosebumps up my goosebumps.  The horror film character (I kept reminding myself) ran his razored fingers along the underside of Taylor's jawline, making the old man scream.  I saw the blades leave thin white scratch marks in the tanned flesh.  Taylor let out another scream.  All the while, Kruger was humming the Jeopardy theme.

            "Back away.  Now!"

            When Kruger got to the end of the theme song, he leaped backwards and landed on his toes in the open patio doorway.  He winked and laughed a throaty demonic laugh, then, like the small silver dot on the old televisions, blipped out of sight on the final note.  I stared at the empty space for a few seconds.  Taylor let out a high pitched wheeze and sank to the floor.  Just as he did, Chuck kicked the door in and immediately covered the room in a glance.  He saw me standing over Taylor's body.

            "Jesus Christ, Jake!  Tell me you didn't hit him?"

            Before I could say a word, Chuck pushed me aside and began CPR on Taylor.

            "I didn't hit him, Chuck!  I hit . . . the other guy."

            "What other guy?"

            "It's . . . he's . . . they're gone now."

            "Did they get out the back way?  were you close enough to give a description to our sketch artist?"

            I rubbed a spot on the back of my noggin that felt swollen.

            "Yeah.  I was close enough, alright.  Too close.  I'd rather not, though."

            "Taylor's dead.  I'll call for the meat wagon."  Chuck stopped and stared at me like he was just pole-axed.  "What do you mean, you'd rather not?"     

            "No one would buy it.  Heck, I don't buy it."

            I turned around quickly, making Chuck jump slightly.

            "What's wrong?"

            I turned back.  I shrugged.  Again, I thought I saw a red light in the corner of my eye, and again it wasn't there when I turned.  My brains must be scrambled.

            "What are you talking about, not giving a description?"

            "Chuck.  Did you ever see the Terminator, and Elm Street movies?"

            "Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?"

            "Well, what would you say if I told you that the robot from the Terminator and Freddy Kruger roughed Taylor up and gave him his heart attack.  I even had a fight with the Tin Man.  That's how Taylor's spear got bent."

            Chuck, using his handkerchief, picked up the lance and looked at its bent head.

            "Lance."

            "Whatever."

            "You had a fight?  With the Terminator?"

            "That's right."

            "And Freddy Kruger scared Taylor to death."

            "They both did."

            "And you want to know what I would say to that?"

            "Yup."

            He peered at the bruise that was forming over my right eye.  "I'd tell you, you must have been hit harder than you thought."

            "But, Chuck, I can prove it!  When I stabbed the Tin Man in the eye, some of his hydraulic fluid squirted on the . . . "

            I was pointing to the stains on the monitor; the stains that were no longer there.  I looked back at Chuck, who was staring at me with a concerned look on his puss.

            "But, it  was there a few minutes ago!  They were, Chuck!  I know I saw them!"

            He placed a strong patronizing hand on my shoulder and smiled.

            "Jake.  Take the advice of a friend.  Until you get looked at by a doctor, cut out watching movies for a little while.  Okay?"

            "But . . . "

            "Just for a little while.  Okay, Jake?"

            Chuck patted my shoulder and walked out the office. 

            I stood there fuming.  I know what I saw.  I moved to Taylor's desk and touched monitor's screen.  Not even an oily residue.  I looked around the room.  Yeah, the maid's gonna have to pull some overtime, but there was no evidence that two film characters were there.  If there were any cyborg footprints in the carpet, my tossed around body probably smoothed out the pile.  I walked out of the office and made my way to the front door. 

 

            I sat on the bumper of the meat wagon from the Coroner's office, smoking, trying to sort this morning out.  I watched the body bag on the gurney roll past me, making me begin the sorting process all over again.  Chuck was finishing up with the coroner when he spotted me sulking.  He shook the guy's hand and walked over.

            "You okay?

            I lit another stogie.

            "Yeah.  Yeah.  I'm fine.  Right as rain."

            "You going to tell me what really happened in there?"

            "Sure I will, Chuck.  As soon as I figure it out myself."

            "I don't understand why you're withholding crucial evidence."

            "What's to understand?  Taylor's ticker gave.  He died.  He's worm kibble.  End of story."

            "Then how do you explain the damage?  From front to back, the entire house is a wreck.  Taylor looked like he was used as a punching bag.  He had several crushed ribs, internal bleeding and several cuts and bruises.  Who did you see, Jake?  Who did this?"

            I stared at the ground, my trap shut.

            Chuck bent forward to my eye level.

            "Look, I'm heading back to the station.  I'll give you until tomorrow morning on this.  Okay?"

            "Yeah.  Fine, Chuck.  Drop me off at the office.  I'll come by the station a little later."

            "What are you going to do?"

            I looked at Chuck and opened my mouth to answer.  I shut it and sighed deeply.

            "I . . . I really don't know."

THREE

            I walked up the stairs to my office feeling a hundred years old.  I was half way up when I stopped dead in my tracks.  I caught the scent of coffee and lilac.  Now, I knew I shut off the peculator before I left, and I only use bay rum on my puss after my morning shave.  I quietly opened my door,  just ever so slightly, and spotted a pair of heavily creased pant legs above highly polished shoes in the chair in the corner of my office.  Another pair of legs walked up to the chair and, from the tone of the mug's voice, was beefing about something.  I tried to hear the conversation through the bomb bursts and laser cannons exploding downstairs, but no soap - I couldn't make out a word.

            First the science fiction/horror convention at the Taylor joint, now a break-in and mystery visitors.  Bogie never had to go through bunk like this.

            With my left hand on the door knob, I used my right to remove my .38 from the shoulder holster.  The toe of my shoe was wedged in the small crack in the door, ready to push it all the way open and surprise my visitors.

            The door suddenly opened all the way and three things happened, just to let me know I was having a bad day.

            The first was a hand twice the size of a catcher's mit close over my hand with the gun and squeeze hard enough to make my knuckles crack.  The second was another hand of equal size, but rolled into a tightly closed fist heading for my face at the speed of a freight train.  The third was a blinding flash of light, followed by complete and total darkness.

 

            I don't know how long I was out, but my nap was interrupted by the owner of the ham-like hands.  He grabbed me by my lapels, lifted me off the ground and began to shake me like a pair of maracas at the Copacabana.  I opened my eyes - well, my left eye anyway; the right was still a little blurry - and got a gander of a mug that bore a resemblance of Karloff as the Frankenstein monster, minus the neck bolts.  He looked a little strange wearing a double breasted suit that had to have been the cost of three months rent, but I didn't think that this information would warm the cockles of his heart.  And he smelled of lilacs, which reminded me of a funeral parlor.

            "Mr. Pratt, I believe that Mr. Beal is awake.  Would you kindly deposit him in that chair, so we may begin out conversation?"

            I knew the voice that came from the shadowed corner of the office.  It was a voice I had heard countless times sitting with Pop in front of the b**b tube.  What I was thinking was impossible.  As impossible as Freddy Kruger, the Terminator, and now the Frankenstein monster.  Had to be a mistake - someone who's voice was very close to the original; or that shot to the kisser rattled something.

            Before I had a chance to look at the heel who gave the order, I was flung over my desk, knocking over my desk lamp and landed in my leather recliner.  The chair is very comfortable when sitting after a hard days work, but just doesn't cut it as a landing strip.  As I bounced on the chair, feeling the chair's arm dig into the small of my back, I heard a high pitched giggle.

            The boss came partially into the light, but his face was still in shadows.  Saying he was well heeled, was like saying that Carter didn't make liver pills.  His gray suit had creases that would have cut your finger, and his contrasting tie had a diamond stick pin in its center had to have costed a mint.  He held a walking stick that must have been made of solid oak and had a silver wolf as the handle.  He was also very tall and angular; over six-two at least.  Then he moved into the light and smiled at me.  I now knew how Alice felt at the tea party.        

            "Now that we have your undivided attention, allow us a moment of introduction; I am the Professor.  You have already met Mr. Pratt, and the gentleman behind you is Mr. Cook.  We are about to offer you the deal of a lifetime."

            I tore my eyes away from that face and turned and looked over my shoulder.  When I took a good look at Mr. Cook, everything, as topsy-turvy as it was, fell into place.  This Professor character was a dead ringer for Vincent Price - not the one known for the horror films, but the one from Laura, The Web, and The Song of Bernadette - the snob with the dark side.  Pratt, who looked like the Frankenstein monster, was the monster; the famous one played by William Henry Pratt, aka Boris Karloff.  And the giggling gunsel behind me, in his two sizes too large suit, was Elisha Cook, Jr., who played Wilmer in the Falcon.  Somehow, the actors from the movies I knew were coming alive.  First Jimmy Cagney, then Kruger and the cyborg, now these three.  As inopportune timing as it was, I got the thought that I shouldn't let Chuck in on this; he already thought I wasn't playing with a full deck as it was. 

            "Okay.  I'll bite.  What's this deal?"

            The one called the Professor placed both hands on the walking stick and leaned forward.  "Before I elaborate on the aforementioned deal, allow me a small observation; though you use the parlance of the 1940's, and give the overall appearance of someone who did not complete his grade school education, I surmise that it is all a facade.  I deem you are moderately successful as a private investigator.  This being the case, you would have to be slightly more intelligent than you let on."

            Call it the wise apple in me, but I couldn't help but force out a yawn.  If this guy was a real prof, then his entire class would have been in dreamland.  It didn't go unnoticed, because I felt a flash of pain in my right temple.  The world around me went from bright white to gold stars to black then back to a clear picture.  I looked over my shoulder and saw Cook holding a .45 with a drop of my blood on the barrel.

            "Give the Professor some respect, Beal," he snarled in a high pitch register.  "He's big in this town.  One more crack and I'll tap you again."

            It took two tries to stand up in front of the little weasel, who's gat now pointed at my gut.

            "Okay, Cook, or whatever they call you, I'll give you that one because you don't know me.  Do that one more time and you and I are going to have a long conversation on etiquette."

            Tough guy's eyes turned away.  "Ah, you ain't so tough."

            "Mr. Beal? Please?"  The Professor held his hand out to the chair I climbed out of.  I sat back down.

            "Thank you.  As I was saying, I had first chosen to revert to a monosyllabic dissertation, so I would be understood, but after . . . "

            "You want to tell me what you're talking about, or do you want to put me to sleep?"  I spun around and faced Cook.  "And don't even think about it, Shorty."

            "Don't call me Shorty!"

            "You'll take it and like it."

            "Gentlemen, gentlemen; please.  Very well, Mr. Beal.  I will be brief.  Either you abandon the case you are currently involved in, or Mr. Pratt and Mr. Cook will be forced to dismember you.  Slowly."

            This time I stood up a little quicker.  Cook backed up a step, while Frankie took two steps forward, which equaled four.

            "I work where I'm asked, Prof.  Neither you, nor your stumblebums can tell me different.  Get me?"

            The Prof closed his eyes for a second, then looked in Frankie's direction and nodded.  I was about to pull my heater from the holster, then realized that it was sitting on the edge of the desk.  Frankie rushed over, closing the distance between us in two steps and wrapped his hand around my neck and lifted me off the floor.  I felt my eyes bulge, first from the lack of oxygen, then because I watched the monster make a fist with his free mit that was drawing back to deliver a haymaker.

            That was when the pounding on my door started.  The Prof looked at Frankie, who dropped me into the chair like a sack of flour.  The Prof tilted his head the door at the opposite end of the office and all three filed into my bedroom.  The Prof peeked his head out and whispered in that ominous Vincent Price tone, "We will meet again, Mr. Beal!", and softly closed the door.

            I jumped from the chair and grabbed my gun, then opened the front door.  Jerry Blessing stared daggers at me, his fist raised in mid-knock.  Chuck was standing behind him.  Before he could say anything, I touched my lips with the gun barrel and pointed at the bedroom door.  Chuck and Jer withdrew their heaters and followed me.  I unceremoniously kicked the door open and drove and rolled on the floor, while Chuck and Jer covered the right and left.

            Jer holstered his weapon.  "Your smelly drawers threaten you, Beal?"

            The room was empty.  The goons had vanished.  I dashed to the window, opened it and looked down.  Nothing, except for the usual midday pedestrians, and no ruckus like they had seen them.  Aside from the fact that the window was closed when we entered, I didn't think Frankie could fit through it without being dunked in goose grease.

            As I turned, Jer's fist caught me in the jaw.  For the third time this morning, I saw stars and was getting tired of it.

            Before I could do anything, Chuck had me in a bear hug. 

            "Calm down, the both of you!"

            "That's for that love tap in the office, Beal.  The next time, the gloves are off!"   He reached out and over Chuck's arms and grabbed the front of my shirt.

            "And whaddaya going to do then, Jer? Scratch my eyes out?"  I pulled away from Chuck.  "And get your paws off me!" 

            "CALM DOWN! NOW!!!" Chuck pushed us aside and held us out at arm's length.  It was one of those moments I realized just how strong Chuck was, and was thankful he never got too mad at me.  "Jake.  What happened to your eye and what was that all about?"

            "Not now, Chuck."

            "What do you mean, not now? What happened?"

            "Please, Chuck.  Not now."  I brought my mouth to his ear.  "Not in front of the  M-O-R-O-N."

            Chuck winced at the jibe, glancing at Jerry to see if he had heard and was ready to charge again, but it clicked.  "Something to do with Curtin?"

            "On the nose, Chuck.  They tried to scare me off."

            He nodded to me and turned to Blessing.  "Okay, Jerry.  You made your point.  You hit him back like a brave little soldier. Happy? Good.   Get back to the office."

            "But . . . "

            "I said, get back to the office, Jerry.  Now."

            "That's what he said, he said that."

            "Shut up, Jake.  Jerry, I'll see you back at the office."

             Jer was about to say something, then thought better of it and walked out the door, but shot me a look as he left.

            When the door closed, Chuck held up his hand to dummy me up and counted softly to five.  He then walked to the door and opened it fast and wide.  Jer was still there.  Jerry retreated and headed for the stairs.  Chuck slammed the door behind him.

            "Now, Jake.  Talk to me."

            "What would you say if I told you that Boris Karloff's Frankenstein, Vincent Price, and Elisha Cook, Junior, from The Maltese Falcon tried to scare me off the case?"

            Chuck stared at me; into me.  "Do you hear what you're saying?"

            "I saw what I saw."

            "Who roughed you up, Jake?"

            "I just told you; Price, Karloff and Cook."

            "Drinking early, aren't we?

            Before I had a chance to shoot a comeback, a sudden thought entered my head.  "We're going to talk to the bereaved widow."

            Chuckie did a double take.  "The widow?  What makes you think she's involved?"

            "I don't.  Yet.  But when I see dead actors, I'm thinking someone's trying to make me look screwy.  That same someone who put the kibosh on Taylor, so he wouldn't talk.  Add in those government contracts approved by Taylor after old man Curtin's very timely demise.  There's a connection here.  And maybe she knows something."

            "I agree that there's a connection, but I'm not buying the dead actors/movie monsters coming to life story.  And I'm not so sure you should be on this case in your present frame of mind."

            "I tell you they were there!"

            "But you're the only one who sees them!"

            We were at a Mexican standoff.  I know what I saw, but Chuck was right - no one else but me laid a peeper on these mugs.  If Chuck told me the same thing, I wouldn't have bought it either.

            "Never mind.  What's the skinny on Taylor?"

            "Widower; no kids or surviving family."

            "Anyone notified?"

            "Not as of yet."

            "All the more reason to see the widow Curtin.  You tell her about Taylor; I'll give the joint the once over."

            "Oh, no you don't.  You will not move out of my sight while we're there.  Am I understood?"

            "Spoilsport."

            "Jake.  Answer me true.  Are you okay?"

            "Right as rain, Chuck.  Really.  I am."

            He nodded, but looked at me like he wasn't entirely sure.  "Want to take my car?  It's right outside."

            "Naw.  If we're going to Bel Air, we go in style.  We take Ol' Betsy."

 

            Every time I got behind the wheel of Ol' Betsy, I remembered my Pop.  I loved my Pop because he was someone I could look up to and because he always showed love and devotion to his family.  My Pop was Eddie Beal; he was a cop.

            Eddie Beal was a simple beat cop on the LAPD between 1938 and 1965.  He started in the days when there was no Miranda Law; no civil rights groups fighting for the criminal's rights.  Eddie Beal was tough when he had to be tough, and as equally gentle and understanding when it was necessary.  I remember watching him help a sponge on the streets get a hot meal, then secretly get him a job cleaning up at Al's, a diner on his beat.  He had saved Al Seldon, the proprietor's hash on more than one occasion from holdup men and hop heads, looking for gelt to get another fix.  Al owed him.  And even when they were even-Steven, Al continued to pay my Pop back with favors whenever the occasion presented itself.

            He would never take a free meal or a free anything from anyone on or off his beat, just 'cause he was a cop.  Pop had one rule of thumb he lived with and expected others to follow; if you were a reformed criminal and stay on the straight and narrow, or if you were a civilian and always dealt a straight hand to the people around you, you were jake with him.  And woe be the schlemiel who wasn't on the up and up.

            As I said, Pop was an honest cop.  So was his father and his father before him.  Being honest and being a cop was in the genes.  I was a beat cop in the Bronx, New York for a couple of years, but I always knew I could do better as a gumshoe.  Pop liked the idea at first when I told him, but he soured on it because of my style.  We got along okay after that, but there was this strain in our relationship.

            Being an honest cop doesn't give you a rich lifestyle.  He couldn't buy the things he wanted to get Ma and me.  We were forced to live in a broken down three story walk-up and had an icebox that was always on the fritz.  We never starved and never did without, but we never had the luxuries either.  We did have a lot of love though and that carried us through the hard times.

            Then came 1961.

            I was a crazy six year old, who was always getting in Pop's way, determined to help him on whatever case he was on.  Ma tried to divert my unusually focused attention span to other things, like kid stuff, but it always fell back to police work.  It was a quite day.  Ma had just did the laundry and was about to begin fixing supper, when Pop burst into the room.  He was out of breath, his face was a beet red and his legs seemed to be made of rubber.  Ma, who thought Pop's ticker blew a gasket, helped him to an old chair that had a leg that was one inch shorter than the other three.  I ran up to them, suddenly worried and frightened when I caught the look on my Pop's face.

            He held out his hand and glanced at the icebox, giving me the signal that he needed a glass of water.  He didn't have to ask twice.  When downed the third glass, he reached into the side pocket of his uniform jacket and pulled out the newspaper.  Then he pulled two crumpled slips of paper from his breast pocket, laid them side by side and pointed.

            The next thing I knew, Ma was jumping up and down with tears in her eyes, this huge smile plastered across her face, alternately kissing my Pop's cheek and my own.  Later on I realized my Ma never looked as beautiful and as happy as she did that moment.  When they could catch their breath, they explained to me that Pop had won the Kentucky Derby (on a longshot, no less) and the Irish Sweepstakes and were rich.

            Pop liked his privacy, so he had a distant cousin come forward with the winning ticket, but gave Pop the dough; Pop took care of him, of course.  He never told anyone he was loaded, because he afraid people's feelings for him would change.  He never knew how they would change, but he had seen what money did to people.  Made them jealous, even if they didn't know it.  Yeah, some of the people we knew asked where the filthy lucre came from, but Pop would wave it off, saying that it was an inheritance from a distant relative, or something that made sense at the time.  He kept being a cop for another four years, then quit to stay home and enjoy his life.

            But that was later on.

            The first thing Pop did was move us out of that rat trap and buy a home in San Pedro, south of Los Angeles.  Yeah, the drive was a little longer to the precinct, but Pop was liking the neighborhood less and less, and wanted me and Ma to live in a safer environment.  The next thing he did was to buy us new furnishings, especially a new icebox.  Remember, these were the days when a buck went a long way.

            During our first dinner in our new digs, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a ring box and handed it to Ma.  She opened it and burst into tears.  I leaned over her shoulder and saw the most beautiful diamond ring I had ever saw.  Ma, through her tears, told me that when she and Pop got married, he couldn't afford to buy her a wedding ring, cause he had spent all his dough on the engagement ring.  Now that he was rolling in it, he went out and bought it.  Ma kissed my Pop so hard, they almost toppled over in his chair.  Me, I turned my eyes away, partially because I wanted them to share their happiness, mostly because I couldn't take the mush.

            After dinner, I was sent to bed, while they sat in the living room and listened to the radio, like they did every night.  We had a television, but the radio was their habit.  I snuck down to the middle of the staircase, plopped myself down on a step and watched them.  It made me feel good seeing them happy like that.  Then I heard Ma say to Pop;     "What about you, Ed?"

            "Whaddaya talking about, Val? What about me?  What do I need? I got you.  I got Jake.  We got our health.  We got a roof over our heads and food to fill our stomachs.  We got more than enough cash to live on comfortably for the rest of our lives.  What more do I need?"

            "I don't know, Ed.  Surely there's something you always wanted? We have enough for Jake's education, the money coming in from our investments, and our savings bonds.  I'm not even adding in your pension.  Why don't you get something for yourself?"

            "Ah, Val . . . "  Ma placed a flat hand on his lips and Pop quieted.

            "Let's not talk about it now, okay?"

            "But I don't need nothing."

            I saw Ma straighten her back; that was a sign that she was not about to back down on something.  Whenever she did that, Pop was putty in her hands.

            "Edward James Beal! You have given so much of yourself to our family and never asked for anything, except our well being.  When we had a few extra pennies to play with, you went out and bought things for either Jake, or myself, or both of us.  I want you to give this serious thought.  I want you to buy something for yourself; something you always wanted, now that we can."

            "Ah, Val . . . ."

            "Don't you Ah, Val me, Edward James Beal.  I want you to get something for you and that's the end of it."

            I saw my Pop look up in Ma's eyes.  For a moment, I saw two faces from their wedding album; faces that were fifteen years younger and I understood what they saw in each other in the first place.           

            "You ain't gonna let up on this, are you?"

            She leaned over and gave him a peck on the nose.  "What do you think?"

            He looked at her a moment longer and sighed long and deep.  He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the couch cushions, looking off in the distance.  "This is what I get for picking a woman with a mind of her own."  He turned back to her and smiled a smile of a bum that's in love.  "And I wouldn't have it any other way.  C'mere, Mrs. Beal."  He took her in his arms and kissed her, which was my cue to skidoo.

            One of our newer acquisitions was a new television set, which replaced the glorified fishbowl we had at the old place.  Pop told everybody he bought the new set to keep Ma company during the day, while he was on duty.  But should a boxing, or wrestling match to come on, Pop would be glued to that small screen in the large wooden box, a freshly opened beer in his hand. 

            Later on, Pop would get a screen magnifier, which made the screen look more like a fish bowl than out first set.  Ma would complain and Pop ended up buying a set with a larger screen.  As time passed by, the shows started showing up in color and Ma would complain and Pop bought a color set.  After Ma left us in 1969, years later Pop would sadly remark that she never got to complain about not having a big screen television that he knew he would have to buy.

            A month had gone by after Ma and Pop had their little confab.  Every other night, I'd watch Ma slide up to Pop and mutter, "Did you buy something?"  He would playfully pat her on the rear.  "Clam up, woman; you're more trouble than your worth."  Ma would always reply, "And that's why you married me."  Pop, always one for having the last word, would look up with a fake wistfulness on his face and mutter, "When she right, she's right" and go on to other things.

            Then Saturday came. 

            Pop had left early to run some errands, leaving Ma and me to our own devices.  She moved around the kitchen like a dervish, rushing to get dinner prepared before Bonanza came on - personally, I wanted to watch Perry Mason, which happened to be on at the same time, but I was always outvoted.

            I was in the living room, feet up on the arm of the couch, watching reruns of Death Valley Days, when I heard a car's engine purr outside the house and a horn beeping.  I walked over to the window to find out what was up, while Ma stuck her head out of the kitchen.  I screamed and whooped so loud, Ma thought I was having a seizure of some sort.  When I ran out the front door, Ma walked over to the window and stuck her head out.

            There was Pop, still in uniform, sitting behind a black vintage 1945 Packard, its chrome bumpers and hubcaps glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

            In 1962 Pop had bought the thing he always wanted.  The car he saw in the Warner Brothers gangster movies.

            From that day until the day he passed in '82, Pop took pride in preserving that car.  He would put new shocks in every five thousand miles.  When it came time for cars to meet emission and pollution standards, Pop went right out and upgraded Ol' Betsy.  Every Saturday morning, Pop and I would polish the wooden interior with lemon oil, brush out the week's worth of dust from the floor and wax it until it had a mirror finish.  Later on, we would tinker with the engine, making sure it was up to snuff. 

            And God help the poor sap that made a mark anywhere on Ol' Betsy.

            When Pop passed away, I sat in the driver's seat and cried my eyes out.  I knew I couldn't sell Betsy; it would be like cursing my Pop's good name.  So I kept Betsy in a private area of a fancy-schmancy hotel garage a block away from my office.  Whenever I got the blues, I put myself in the driver's seat and talked to my Pop.  If I wanted to talk with Ma, I would go to her grave sight.  Sure Pop was buried right next to her, but his spirit was only there for her; for me, he was in Ol' Betsy.

            After the funeral, I was given a note from Pop's mouthpiece, asking to see me when I felt up to it.  Never one to run away from anything, I went to his office that afternoon.  He was taken aback by my appearance; I looked like Bogart in the beginning of Treasure of the Sierra Madre, which wasn't too good if you remember the flick.  He told be that I was the beneficiary to everything Ma and Pop had.  There were no bills outstanding; Pop made sure of that.  The house in San Pedro was free and clear.  I found out that, because of Pop's pension, as well as the many investments Ma insisted on, they had saved a very large nest egg and it was all mine.  My gumshoe practice was just starting and I was on hard times.  The cash would solve all my financial problems.  The mouthpiece also gave me a note, which read;

           

            You were one of the best cops in the NYPD when you were younger.  Be the best Gumshoe in LA.  Make me proud the way you always have.  By the time you read this I'll be with your Mother and she'll probably want me to buy something new or another.  She was more problems to me than she was worth, and that's just jake with me.  We'll be there for you whenever you need us.

Love,

Pop    

            I sat there in the mouthpiece's office and cried after I thought I was all cried out.  I would've given all the cash to charity; I would have returned to the NYPD, or gone to the LAPD and walked the most dangerous beat they could find, if it would have given me one more day with Ma and Pop. 

            But I was a gumshoe, and I would make my parents proud.

 

            "When are you going to sell this thing, Jake?" asked Chuck as we entered Bel Air.  Whenever Chuck road in Betsy, he would always ask the same question, knowing I would have to be six feet under to part with her.        

            "When I'm planted, Chuck.  When I'm planted."

            "I know a few collectors who would give you a pretty penny for this machine; especially after all the care you've put into it."

            "Sell Ol' Betsy?!? To be used for what? As background for some movie? To be placed on display, like some hunting trophy?  Sometimes I wonder about you, Chuck.  What's the address of the Curtin joint?"

            Chuck pulled out a beaten looking pad and read it to me.  I knew the area, so I made a quick right on Belleflower, then a left on Acadia and came to a stop in front of the gates of mansion that could have been taken from Alcatraz.

            I glanced at the sheet with the address on it and confirmed it with the number on the high brick wall.

            "There ain't no other plaze around the plaze, so I guess dis must be da plaze."  I got out and walked to the intercom box imbedded in the wall.

            "Where in hell do you get these lines, Jake?"

            "Experience, Chuck, me boy; experience."  I pressed the button on the left three times and waited.  A voice that sounded like a poor man's Arthur Treacher came out.  

            "Yes?"  The voice already sounded like we were an annoyance, not a visitor.

            Chuck leaned over to the speaker box.  "Detective Lieutenant, Charles Phizer, LAPD and Private Investigator."  I shot him a look, which he waved away.  "And Jake Beal, Private Investigator, to see Mrs. Curtin."

             There was a pause on the other end.  "Come in, if you must."  This schnook sounded like he was talking to the Fuller Brush salesman, versus John Law.  I didn't like him already.

            A motor kicked in and the gates swung inward.  Chuck and I climbed in Ol' Betsy and ambled up the long winding driveway towards the Curtin mansion.

            We parked the car, got out and rang the doorbell, which let out a Big Ben-like bong.  Chuck gave me the high sign, that he would do the talking.  He clipped his shield on his breast pocket. 

            The door opened and this nebbish in a monkey suit stood in front of us.  While the suit, tie and shoes were black, and the shirt white, the rest of this geezer was gray; his hair was gray, his eyes were gray, his penciled mustache was gray.  Even his complexion had a gray pallor to it.  Even though Chuck and I were a few inches taller than him, he still seemed to look down on us, like we bums, or something.

            His eyes lowered ever so slightly to the shield.  "Lieutenant Phizer; Mister Beal.  Madam is presently with her attorney and her uncles in the study. Please come this way."  I didn't like the way he said Mister Beal; it was like he had something foul in his mouth.

            "Who, if you don't mind my asking, are you?" Chuck shot me a look; I winked back.

            The mug stopped so suddenly, I almost smacked into him.  He turned and eyed me with a withering look, like I was a germ.  Maybe lower.  "I am Madam's butler."

            "You got a moniker?"

            "Excuse me?"  He looked at me like he was peering over the rims of invisible glasses.

            "A moniker; a handle."

            Nothing.

            "What do they call you?"

            "Peckington-Smythe."

            "Yeah, well, Jeeves, what does Madam call you when she calls you?"

            "Peckington-Smythe."       

            "Right.  Lead on, Jeeves."

            "Peckington-Smythe."

            "Right, Jeeves."

            He directed us to the door of the study.  Chuck pushed me a little from behind.    "Hey! Quit the rough stuff."

            Jeeves opened the door.  There were two small figures sitting on the couch with their backs to us.  A well heeled reptile sat in a chair, while an combustible blonde with a figure like Lana Turner and a face to match, looked in our direction. 

            She was standing in front of a large window and the sun encased her in a shimmering halo.  She looked like an angel.  I saw Lana in The Postman, Marlene in Blonde Venus, Rita in Gilda, when the sunlight hit her just so.  I felt my heart stop for a second as she moved forward into a shadow and stared at me with the deepest green eyes I had ever seen.   She was breathtaking.  I couldn't take my eyes off her.  Nor did I want to.  I leaned in close to Chuck's ear. 

            "Who's the frail?"

            "The Missus."

            I exhaled a low wolf whistle and was given a dirty look from Jeeves.  "Lieutenant Phizer and Mister Beal to see you Madam."

            "Thank you, Peckington-Smythe; that will be all for now."

            She had a voice that was as soft and as beautiful as delicate wind chimes.  I could listen to it for hours.  Jeeves didn't move and I felt him staring daggers at the back of my neck.  I put an toothy grin on my mug and saddled in close.     

            "You heard the lady, Mac; am‑Scray." 

            My voice came out as hard as nails with very sharp tips - I felt Jeeves stiffen behind me.  That felt good.  Jeeves then backed up and closed the door behind us.  I was getting tired of the wiseacre anyway.  Chuck stepped in front of me.

            "Mrs. Curtin; I am truly sorry for your loss.  I hope we haven't come at an inappropriate time."  That's my Chuck; he could charm the pants off a snake oil salesman.

            She smiled, making me feel all warm and tingly inside.  "Not at all, Lieutenant.  I was just sharing a few thoughts with my attorney and my two Uncles.  Allow me to introduce them to you; this is Frank Baxter, who is handling my case and my Uncle Alan and my Uncle Bill."

            Baxter held out his hand to Chuck, while the Uncles turned towards me.  I felt the room suddenly turn off kilter when I took a gander at her Uncles. 

            I was looking at two of the most famous character actors known in Hollywood; let me rephrase that - two of the most famous late character actors known in Hollywood.

            The big one on my left stared at me with a sad, but warm smile plastered underneath his bristly mustache; the shorter one glowered, muttering something I didn't catch.

            "Good day to you, Sar.  Were you a friend of Leonard's?"

            Right down to the Irish brogue.

            "Uh, can't say I was; I'm helping the good Lieutenant here investigate his murder."

            "A crying shame, it was.  Cut down in the prime of his life.  Saint's preserve us!"

            Shorty came up to me and stared at me like I saw some sort of chiseler.

            "Private Eye, eh?  Any idea who killed Leonard?"

            "As of yet, no.  I was just brought on the case by Lieutenant Phizer this morning."

            Uncle Bill pulled out a big cigar and a stick match, lighting it by scratching it against his thumbnail.  He puffed like a stream engine, sending a pungent fog into my puss.

            "Look here, Beal, or whatever your name is.  I'm not paying the Police Department's salary with my tax dollars,  just so they can go and bring in a two-bit shamus to do their job?  This is unheard of!  Victoria!  Did you hear this?"

            She smiled a smile that set off a blast furnace in my midsection.

            "Yes, Uncle Bill.  Please calm down; remember your heart."

            Bill waved her off, blowing a smoke ring in my direction.

            "My heart is as sound as a dollar!"

            "Nice knowing you." 

            "Thank you."

            I quickly moved over to the couch, where Chuck was standing.

            Bill stood there smiling, then his face dropped.

            "Now wait a minute!"

            Yep.  Same double take as well.

            I looked at Uncle Alan, who was alternating between weeping into an oversized hanky, and ringing his hands.

            "Murder, detectives and private eyes.  Victoria?  You wouldn't have a wee nip of whiskey in the house, would you?"

            Uncle Bill held up his cigar, seconding the vote.  "Right now, I could use one myself.  My hard earned tax dollars!  Can you believe it?!?"

            Chuck cleared his throat, a little louder than normal, to get everyone's attention.  He focused his eyes on the widow.

            "I really am sorry, and there's no other way to say this, but I have to inform you that Duncan Taylor died this afternoon."

            She visibly paled.  Fresh tears filled her eyes and I felt my heart pain slightly.

            "Duncan?  Dead?  Oh, dear God!  First Leonard, and now Duncan!"

            Baxter came forward, between me and the Missus.  The shyster was very.

            Very trim.  Very tanned.  Very blonde.  Very white teeth.  Very good looking.

            Very.

            "How did it happened?"

            Chuck stepped forward, giving me a quick warning look as he went.

            "He had a heart attack in his home."

            Baxter bent his head and plastered a sorrowful look on his kisser, but the look never reached his peepers.  A real reptile, this one.

            "A shame, really.  Leonard told him he needed to slow down."

            Chuck's posture stiffened, his official act coming on.

            "We would like to ask a few questions about your husband."

            "The police have already been here, Lieutenant, and took our statement.  I would strongly suggest you read it.  Mrs. Curtin doesn't need to be dragged though this ordeal again."

            "Don't be rude, Frank.  I will answer the Lieutenant's questions."

            She was looking at me before she spoke.  I was staring into her eyes, falling into them.  The temperature in the room went up a notch.  My heart began to beat faster.  And I was getting a pain in my big toe as well.  I looked down and found Chuck's heel pressing down on the toe of my shoe, bringing me back to the real world.

            "Thank you, Mrs. Curtin.  What was your husband working on, prior to his untimely demise?"

            "I'd love to tell you, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid its classified information."

            "Classified?"

            "Yes, Lieutenant.  Because of the type of special effects Megapix creates, rival effects companies want to know whatever new effect we're working on, so we must be cautious who and what we tell."

            Baxter smiled a high wattage smile and came forward.

            "Patent infringement, you understand."

            "Suppose what you're working on is the motive for your husband's murder?"

            "Then if you suspect that our latest project is the reason for Leonard's death, I'm sorry, but we'll have to request a court order."

            I stepped forward, directly in front of the widow.

            "Not even a little hint, Mrs. Curtin."

            She smiled.  Something inside me melted.

            "Sorry, Mr. Beal; not even a little hint."

            "Hows about I play twenty questions?"

            She moved forward, just a fraction of an inch, and I felt her aura of heat go up a notch.

            "You're welcome to try."

            "Okay.  Let me see.  Does it have something to do with government contracts?"

            The heat around her suddenly turned cold.  Her lips parted, and she ran her teeth over her tongue.  I didn't take my eyes from hers, but I could feel Baxter's eyes boring into me. 

            "I'm afraid I'm going to have to request that court order, Lieutenant."

            "Gee, and here I am thinking that your husband's company only made high tech special effects for movies?"

            She softly chuckled.  She looked very sexy doing it.

            "I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this meeting short, Lieutenant."

            "What's wrong, Mr. Baxter?  Strike a nerve?  And now that Curtin's gone, what role do you play in this number?"

            The shyster shot me a glare.

            "If it is any of your business, Mr. Beal, I will still retain my position as Megapix's Corporate Attorney, in addition to my duties as Mrs. Curtin's personal advisor."

            "Must be nice."

            "If you require anymore information than that, I would like to see a written court order.  Now, would you gentlemen kindly leave Mrs. Curtin alone? And next time, Mr. Beal, should there ever be a next time, get rid of the wannabe-Bogart attitude.  What you gain on entertainment, you lose on credibility."

            The shyster was asking for it.  If it wasn't for Chuck's paw on my sleeve, he would have got it.

            "Thank you for sparing a little time for us, Mrs. Curtin.  Our condolences in your time of sadness.  One last thing, and I apologize for asking this of you, but as you know, Mr. Taylor had no surviving family.  Would you be kind enough to come down to the morgue and identify the body?"

            "Of course, Lieutenant.  I'll be over this afternoon."

            Baxter glanced in my direction.

            "No, Mrs. Curtin; we'll be there."

            "Yeah, Baxter - maybe you'll find someone your type."

            I got a well deserved elbow in the ribs from Chuck for that one, but the rest of the cast of character's attention (except for Baxter, who looked like he was ready to deck me)  was drawn to Mrs. C, who had broke down in tears.  Fred Mertz and the Little John went to her side.  Hale wrapped his huge arms around the widow, dwarfing her, while Frawley patted her shoulder, fighting back his own tears.

            "Oh, my Dear.  We understand."

            "That's okay, Dear; let it out.  We're her for you."

            Chuck took this as our cue, so we turned and left the study.  Why was I not surprised to see that Peckington-Smythe stiff holding the front door open for us.  I gave him a dirty look as I went by - he looked though me like I was Macy's window.

            Once we were in Ol' Betsy, and away from all the surveillance cameras, Chuck and I compared notes.  Mine was a whole concerto.

            "That question about the contracts got them, Jake."

            "Yeah, with that top secret malarkey.  And it was just like I told you, Chuck."

            "Just like you told me what?"

            "What I told you I saw at the Taylor place and my office."

            "What are you talking about?"

            "What are you telling me?"

            "What am I telling you?  I don't even know what the hell are you're talking about!"

            "Who was inside!"

            Chuck leaned back into the corner of his seat.

            "I saw an upset woman.  With her lawyer.  Her butler.  And members of her family, Jake.  What did you see?"

            "The Uncles, Chuck; the Uncles!  Didn't you recognize 'em?"

            Chuck's eyes rolled inward for a second.

            "Well, the short one looked a lot like that Mertz guy on the old black and white Lucy show, but younger.  The big one looked a little like the Skipper from Gilligan's Island."

            "I'll give you partial credit for being right on one and close on the other.  Who we saw were two dead character actors; William Frawley and Alan Hale, Senior; who, incidentally, was the Skipper's father."

            Chuck stared at me, that worried look coming back to his face.        

            "You know.  Little John in Errol Flynn's The Adventures of Robin Hood?" .

            "Jake.  Get a grip, here.  What you're saying is impossible.  How can two dead people suddenly appear out of nowhere?  And we shook their hands!  They felt real, didn't they?  They were real!"

            "Yup.  As real as the Jimmy Cagney that killed old man Curtin.  And as real as Boris Karloff, Vincent Price and Elisha Cook, Jr. in my office."

            "Jake . . . "

            "I won't even mention Freddy and the Tin Man."

            "Jake.  This is Hollywood we're living in.  You and I know that there are people who have a passing resemblance to famous actors who make a career out of impersonating them.  That is probably what they do for a living.  Or did."

            "Ix-Nay, Chuck.  I know what I saw.  Those mugs in my office, like the two Uncles inside that mansion, and the things in Taylor's place were the real McCoy."

            "You want to explain to me how dead actors can rise from the grave, supposedly murder someone and beat you up, leaving only you knowing about it? This may be California, but we aren't placed that far from reality as that."

            "They're dead alright, Chuck.  But they're not real.  And neither was the Tin Man and Kruger at the Taylor estate."

            All Chuck could do was groan and shake his head.

            "Please, Chuck - you gotta believe me!  I've always been straight with you."

            "And so have I.  You need to see someone professional on this."

            "But they were real."

            "Look, Jake.  I've got to get back to the station.  Can we go now?"

            I stared at Chuck, then to my hands on the steering wheel.  I knew who I saw - what I saw.  Chuck was the utmost best friend I had in the whole wide world, but I knew this sob story was wearing it thin.  I needed time to think this out.  Maybe Chuck was right.  Maybe my eggs were scrambled.  I started Besty's engine.

            "I'll drop you off."

            "Aren't you coming back to the office?"

            "No.  I'll be on Sepulveda."

            "Smiley's?"

            "Smiley's."

            "Maybe you should stay off the hard stuff for a while."           

            "Ain't nothin' like that.  I am not going to Smiley's to drink, Chuck - I just need to be by myself for a while.  I need to sort things out.  And I don't trust my office right now."

FOUR

            One of my first big cases was the Goodman Murders.  You might have read about that in the papers.  If you didn't, I'll set you wise. 

            There was this sad sack who was fired from his position as lead clarinetist with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.  Thought he was the big wheel because he was getting the flashy solos and the press.  This little setback to the ego department caused a few marbles to dislodge.  Also, said sack was an electronics wizard, on top of being an ace in the licorice stick department.  He wired his stick into a sonic weapon that could shatter the listeners eardrums when it hit the high notes.  The mug began to knock off the members of the music board that canned him.  Literally blew their brains out.  Hiram 'Smiley' Gladfelter, who played - get this - third bass for the L.A.P., found out what the psycho was doing and called Chuck at the precinct, who in turn called me.  He helped me save the life of one of the board members, and ended up on the Stickman's dance card. 

            I saved Smiley's hash, and we became good friends.  After the Goodman case, Smiley never went back to the bass.  He opted to open a bar and used his limited press to bring it to the public eye.  First the musicians started hanging out at Smiley's, who were of course followed by the press.  Then it became sort of trendy for awhile, and the hoity-toities started coming in.  When the hoopla finally died down, Smiley's turned into exactly what Smiley wanted it to be; a nice, respectable, local joint, where the drinks are served just right, the beer isn't watered, and you get good service. 

            It gets a good crowd at night, so Smiley ain't hurting for cash.  He's talking about setting up a Karaoke night, and I told him that I would burn the place down if he did.  Smiley has his jukebox loaded with boogie-woogie, Big Band, and ballads from the 1940s.  A little jazz from the bee-bop period, a lot of Rodgers and Hammerstein, and ALL of Sinatra.  If I want to hear Racing With The Moon by anyone other than Vaughn Monroe, I'll torture myself in the shower, thank you very much.

            Smiley was of course called Smiley because he didn't.  Always had this sour puss on, but despite his expression, he was a very happy fellow.  His face was made that way by a situation that is too long to go into right now. 

            I walked into the joint and, as usual, there was Smiley behind the bar, cleaning his beer steins for the umpteenth time.  There were a few customers seated at the bar, and two couples at a table.  I looked up at the pendulum clock above the bar.  3:30.  Fairly light for an afternoon.  I broke Smiley out of his glass polishing trance by tossing my fedora on the bar in front of him.

            "Hey, Jake!  Awful early for you to be in here, isn't it?"

            "Just pour me a cup of joe, Smiley.  I just need to get my thoughts together."

            Smiley, who was built like a fire plug and twice as attractive, waddled his way to the coffee maker, and poured me a cup.  Knowing Smiley, it was recently brewed.

            "Tough case?"

            "Naw, it ain't that.  I've had worse.  I just think I'm seeing things."

            "What kind of things?"

            I lit up a stogie just as Smiley pushed a crystal ashtray in my direction.

            "What would you say if I told you I had a fight with the Terminator and talked with Freddy Kruger, Boris Karloff, Vincent Price, Elisha Cook, Jr., Alan Hale, and William Frawley?"

            Smiley's dour expression didn't change, and I didn't expect it to. 

            "Today?"

            "Yeah."

            "You drink today?"

            "A swallow of bourbon this morning."

            "A starter."

            "Yeah.  Nothing else."

            "I'd say I'm glad you ordered coffee.  Hate to turn down a friend a drink.  That doesn't leave too many happy alternatives."

            "Forget I said anything."

            "Forgotten, Jake."  He went back to polishing his steins for a few minutes while I sipped the hot brew.  He came over and poured himself a club soda, dropped in a lime twist, and took a sip.  "You want to talk about it?"

            "Would you believe me if I did?"

            "No.  But I'd listen.  I have been known to change my mind."

            "Yeah?  When was the last time?"

            "I was six."

            I reached out and patted his hand.  "Naw.  That's all right.  Just need to get my thoughts together."

            "No problem, Jake."  He downed his drink and returned to polishing glasses.

           

            I ended up telling Smiley the whole story, from beginning to end.  As promised, he listened, never commenting, just asking questions.  I glanced up at the clock; it was almost 4:30, and I still was stuck.  I looked over my shoulder and noticed that the placed had emptied while I was rattling on.  When I turned back around to face Smiley, something flew past my eye.  I looked around, but saw nothing.

            "Did you see that?"

            "See what, Jake?"

            I considered having another swallow of bourbon, but changed my mind. 

            "Never mind.  Eyes playing tricks on me, I guess.  If you're not doing anything this weekend, why don't you come for a ride in Ol' Betsy."

            "I'd really like that, Jake.  I haven't ridden in Betsy since your Dad, God rest his soul, passed on."

            "Not a problem, Smiley."

            Smiley's stomach made a sound like a badger with indigestion.

            "You mind watching the place, while I go around the corner for a sandwich, Jake?"

            "Sounds like a good idea.  Take as long as you want.  I've 'tended before."

            Smiley and I switched places.  While I took another sip of joe, Smiley made a bee-line for the door.  

            "You want anything?"

            "Naw.  I'm okay."

            Smiley waved his hand at me as he walked.  I leaned against the bar and replayed this morning though my head.  I wasn't prone to hallucinations, and I wasn't a recreational user of anything.  That left only two options; what I saw was real, or I was as nutty as a fruitcake. 

            Movement to my right snapped me around.  Coming towards the bar out of the shadows, was a woman.  She was wearing a black mourning dress, with a matching veil covering her face.  I tried to see through the gauze, but it was like trying to see through a shadow. 

            "Excuse me.  I hope I am not breaking into an important thought."

            "Gee, lady!  You almost gave me a stroke!  I didn't see you there.  I thought I was alone in here."

            I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you, but I'd like to have a word with you, Mr. Beal."

            I realized two things; one, that I was still wearing my chapeau, so I took it off, being the gentleman that I am.  Second, she knew my name.  I kept my smile on.

            "You have me at a disadvantage, Ma'am.  Have we met before?"

            "Not directly, but I have heard all about you.  Do you have a moment?"

            "Sure, I . . . "

            Before I could finish, she turned around and walked to a booth in the corner, and sat down.  From the way her head was tilted, I could tell she was staring at me; giving me the once over.  She didn't look like the beer and pretzels type; more like the martini class.  Of course, that was the drink I excelled at.  I poured a bit of vermouth and gin in a martini glass, added an olive and an onion I skewered on a toothpick, grabbed my coffee and headed for the booth.

            I placed the drink in front of her and slid in.

            "I took the liberty of ordering you a drink.  I hope martini's your poison."

            "That's quite nice of you, Mr. Beal.  A martini would have been my choice."  She lifted her veil slightly, revealing a very rouged wide mouth and very white teeth.  I felt myself give her lips a second glance.  That was a mouth I had seen before.  I'd think about that later.  I had more pressing business to attend.

            "Please call me Jake."

            "Alright.  Jake.  You must call me, Joan."

            Joan?

            The woman reaches out and lightly touched my hand.  I could feel tingles of electricity shoot up my arm.  I took a sip of joe.

            "So, Joan; what's on your mind?"

            "I need a favor from you."

            "What kind of a favor?"

            "As you can see, I am in mourning.  My husband passed away a few days ago."

            "Seems to be going around.  I'm sorry for your loss.  Tough break."

            She raised her veil and took another sip; a longer one.

            "Not really.  We did not get along too well in the last few years.  You see, there is a function tonight at the El Morocco and I need an escort.  Preferably some handsome gentleman, like yourself."

            "Well, sure, I . . . "  I felt the world spin away for a second and I sat up straight, pulling my hand away.  "Hold the phone; the El Morocco closed down years ago!  What's your game, lady?"

            I reached across the table and lifted the veil over her head and jumped back against the back of the booth. 

            "Is there something wrong, Jake?"

            Wrong wasn't the word.  I was staring at the face of Joan Crawford; Humoresque period.  This couldn't be happening.  I was afraid to blink, because if I did, I would be standing at the bar, holding my coffee cup, staring into space in an empty bar.  And if I blinked, and if that happened, my next job would be bouncing off of padded walls.

            "This is . . . !  You're not real!"

            Her hand shot out, caressed my face, and I recoiled.

            "Don't I feel real to you, Jake?  Do you want to feel more?"

            I closed my eyes and swung with my right, hitting air.  I opened my peepers and looked at an empty space where Joan Crawford was sitting.  My head swiveled on my neck, as I looked around the now empty bar.  I jumped out of the booth like it had become a rattler's nest.  I quickly looked under the table, then turned around, feeling something fly past me.  But there was nothing there.  The pain in my chest reminded me that I stopped breathing.  I rubbed my knuckles in my eyes and staggered into the men's room.

            I moved to the closest basin and splashed cold water on my face for a full minute.  I stood, grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped my face.  I held myself up on rubbery arms on the edge of the basin and stared at my pale haggard kisser.  Behind me, two toilets flushed in a pair of stalls in the far corner of the men's room.  I slowly pulled my gun out and turned around, backing away, moving closer to the exit.

            Out of one stall walked Cary Grant, and out of another was John Wayne.  I felt my back meet tile as I watched them wash their hands.  As he tossed the paper towel into a nearby receptacle, he snapped his fingers and pulled his jacket from the hook on the stall door.  Grant looked liked he stepped out of The Philadelphia Story; stylish gray suit, tanned, dapper, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

            Wayne was dressed like his character in Red River; Montgomery Clift's father.  He was dressed completely in black.  From the leather on his boots, vest and gun holster, to the denim of his pants and shirt.

            "So, as I was saying, I was telling Louis Mayer I won't do this film.  Contract, or no, the lead character is a complete idiot, and I won't do it."

            "You gotta do what ya gotta do, Cary."

            "And do you know what he had the nerve to say to . . .  "  He stopped and glanced in my direction by dipping his head like a parrot, then motioned to Wayne with his dimpled chin.  "Excuse me, friend; are you alright?  You look like you've seen a ghost!"

            Wayne placed two rough looking hands on his hips, standing on an angle.

            "Try stickin' yer head between yer knees.  Works for me whenever I've had a snootfull."

            I know I tried saying something, but I felt like a dummy who's ventriloquist just croaked.

            Grant stepped around Wayne, giving me a reassuringly toothy grin.

            "Maybe a cold compress and a hot cup of coffee?"

            Before I could say a word, he went to the sink, ran the cold tap and pulled his handkerchief out of his front pocket and soaked it.  Then he rang it out and handed it to me.  I felt the water soaked material in my hand.  I felt its weight.  I felt its wetness.

            "I'll go round up a cup of coffee for you, Pilgrim."

            Wayne walked past me, stopping momentarily to size me up, and walked out of the men's room.  Through the door, I could hear him bellowing for a barkeep.  After a few seconds, the door swung open slightly and he stuck his head in.

            "What kind of place is this?!"

            Grant came forward, but eyed me closely, liked I looked like I was going to pass out.  I couldn't disagree.

            "What's wrong?"

            "There's no one out there!  Not even a bartender."  Wayne put a heavy hand on my shoulder.  "Well, don't you worry none.  I'll get you a cup of coffee if'n I have to make it myself."

            Grant had leaned against the frame of a stall with his arms folded across his chest.

            "Oh, you're in for a treat.  Johnny makes a great cup, he does."

            I stared at the two faces I knew so well, trying to think of something to say.  I shut my eyes tight, then opened them, but they were still standing there.

            "You want us to help ya outside, Pilgrim?"  He shot me a friendly wink and his right cheek raised in a grin.

            I suddenly pictured John Wayne in a different film.  Astride a tall white and brown spotted palomino, leaning forward winking, grinning at the leading lady of the picture.  Then my mind focused on the horse, which was the same holographic horse I had seen at Megapix.  Then everything came together.

            Holograms; had to be.  All my nuts were tight, and I only began seeing these characters from movies since I started working on this case.  Which meant that someone knew me, knew of my love of old films, and wanted me off the case.  I was already warned once.  But this time, they wanted to discredit me by making me seem like I had lost my marbles.  Which meant I was a lot closer than whoever was behind this wanted.

            I didn't know how they did it, but I'd bet the farm my guess was right.  The company old man Curtin created was a special effects company, after all.  And when my mind turned back to who was behind these shenanigans, I saw the shyster's grinning mug.

            And I felt the lower part of my face break out in a smile.

            "Nope, fellas.  I'm okay now."

            "You're sure?" 

            "You know, Pilgrim, the coffee won't take long to make."

            "No, that's okay.  I'll see you guys in the movies."

            I slapped both men on their shoulders and walked out of the men's room just in time to see Smiley come in.

            "See ya, Smiley."

            "Leaving already, Jake?"

            "Got things to do, Smiley.  See you in the funny papers."

            "We're still on for this weekend?"

            "We're still on.  See ya!"

            "Anybody come in?"

            "Nope.  The place's empty."

            I had to get a hold of Chuck and let him know I didn't need to be fitted for a jacket with buckles in the back.  I looked up the block, in the direction of the police precinct, and, on cue, who do I see waltzing down the street, but the shyster himself, Angel and Chuck.  I hate coincidences - always have, always will.  Don't trust 'em.

            "Chuck!  Just the person I was looking for!"  I gave the widow a very obvious once over.  "Mrs. Curtin."  Then I looked Baxter directly in his eyes and knew I was right.  He looked slightly disappointed that I wasn't foaming at the mouth, or pulling my hair out.  "Shyster."

            "Why you . . . "

            I placed my hand against his mouth, which he swatted away.

            "Uh, uh, uh; lady present, Bub.  Go chase an ambulance, why don'cha?"  I looked at the Missus.  "I'd love to stay and chat a while,  Mrs. Curtin, but I've got something to discuss with Chuck, here."

            "Is it about my husband, Mr. Beal?"

            "That ain't the half of it."

            "Then tell me now."

            I looked deep into her gorgeous eyes.  She was good.  I couldn't tell what she was thinking.

            "Only when we have confirmation.  Right now, we only have a theory.  Wouldn't want to get your hopes up, you know."

            "I understand.  You'll let me know if you find out anything?"

            "You're number one on my list."

            "I hope so."

            Baxter inserted himself between us, making us back up a step.  Killjoy.

            "I would prefer you contact me on any updates to the case."

            "I would prefer you playing in a mine field, myself."

            "I'm getting tired of your snide remarks, Beal!"

            "Aaw, and I'm just warming up, too."

            Chuck grabbed a handful of shoulder and pulled me back like a rag doll.  Reconfirmation of previous mental note; do not get Chuck ticked at you.

            "Jake!  Enough!"  He released me and turned to the two, but stared directly into the shyster's eyes, warning him to hold his ground.

            "Look, thank you for coming by.  I'll call you as soon as I have more information."

            Before they could say a word, Chuck, still with the vice grip on my shoulder, dragged me back several feet and planted me.  At that moment, I swore he was going to slug me.  Then he simmered down to a slow boil.

            "You want to explain that!?"

            I looked over his head at the stretch limo pull away.  I could make out the shyster's head turned in our direction through the smoked glass.  I looked back at Chuck and grinned.

            "I've figured it out, Chuck!"

            "Figured what out?"

            "Why I'm seeing characters out of movies!"

            Chuck pulled a Wallace Beery and groaned while wiping the lower part of his face at the same time.

            "Jake!"

            "Chuck, you gotta listen to me!"

            His face began to loose that ketchup-y color and he folded his arms across his chest.

            "Go ahead, and this better be good."

            "Virtual Reality, Chuck!  Special effects!  It's what Curtin made.  And I have this sneaking feeing in the pit of my gut, that top secret project Megapix is working on has something to do with this."

            "I don't follow you."

            "Okay.  We both know what VR and special effects can do.  We see enough of it in the movies these days.  Now add in the contracts with the feds.  The military's already using VR for training simulations, right?"

            "Right."

            "So suppose, just suppose, that the eggheads at Megapix created a hologram of someone that is programmed to interact with the target.  From a great distance.  That and be able to have density.  The hologram kills the target.  The hologram disappears, because holograms are light, leaving no evidence linking the murder to the one who ordered the hit."

            "The perfect murder.  Mmmmm.  Okay.  Still supposing, why the film characters?"

            "That's to scare you.  Or scare you and kill you, don't matter.  Either way, if you know that you're the target of a hit, you expect to see a faceless hitman.  You don't expect to see the Terminator, or James Cagney."

            "Then why take out Curtin?  Certainly he would have made a pretty penny off of technology like that."

            "Only if he agreed to its use.  I saw a lot of memos on a possible theme park.  It talked about interacting with the movie character you loved the most.  That was what he intended this technology for.  With the government involved, you could send the Magnificent Seven to Iraq and scare the bejesus out of Hussein and his crew."

            "Or commit a political assassination."

            The seriousness of that smacked with the finesse of a two-by-four.  I looked at Chuck's eyes.  He was going along with it, but hadn't reached the believe stage yet.

            "And this became clear after how many drinks?"

            "Not a drop.  Honest Injun!"

            "You expect me to believe this theory."

            "Remember the holographic horse?"

            Chuck's eyes froze for a second, then looked away.

            "Chuck!  It's the same thing, but on a larger scale!"

            "If what you're saying is true . . . ."

            "Then Curtin was nixed because of those contracts.  He didn't want to play ball with whoever wanted to sell the technology to the government.  Taylor was the only one who could finger who was behind it."

            "And who is behind it, Jake?  Mrs. Curtin?"

            "Not sure about her.  My gut tells me its Baxter.  With Curtin and Taylor out of the way, he's on Easy Street!  And if Angel gives him control of the company, she may be next!"

            "But, Jake!  You're trying to tell me that Curtin and Taylor were killed by holograms?  How in hell are you going to prove it?"

            "I'm going to case the Curtin joint tonight, after dark.  I want to take a look-see in Curtin's library where the murder was committed.  I think I might find something."

            "And what time are we going to do this?"

            "Who said anything about you?  I'm going in, all by my lonesome."

            "But . . . "

            "But nothing, Chuck.  You have a good position on the force.  You've got a wife and kid to think about.  If I'm wrong, and I ain't, I'll be the one to take the fall.  I'll get by.  But I'll call if and when I need you."

            "I can't change your mind?"

            "Nope.  Catch ya later."

            "Where are you off to?"

            "That cyber-coffee shop on Melrose.  I need to bone up on this virtual reality and special effects stuff."

            "Why not use the computer in your office?"

            "'Cause they make a great cup of joe!"

           

            I didn't get back to the office until sunset.  Black and white, or in Technicolor, nothing beats a California sunset. 

            The bombing of Star Base Alpha continued below me as I made it up the flight of stairs to my office.  I heard Manny's voice downstairs.  I was only seconds from a clean getaway.  I was in no mood to discuss marketing and demographics; I had bigger fish to fry.  I had a case to solve.

            I had gotten enough info on special effects and virtual reality to hold a pretty decent conversation.  I knew a hologram was only light, but it still did not explain how it became solid and how it was transmitted.

            I opened my front door and reached for the light switch when I caught the sound of Granny Clampet giving Jethro what for.  The sound came from my bedroom.  I hoped it was the television.  I'd rather not be guzint'd to death.

             I slowly closed the door with one hand, while I removes the heater from my side holster with the other.  I padded across the room as quietly as I could towards the bedroom door.  I reached for the knob as the door swung open.  I took a step back and aimed the site at eye level.  Standing there, wearing a black spandex dress, so tight, breathing looked like a chore, was Victoria Curtin.  Every curve, every line, every ripple of muscle, was there for the viewing.  She jumped slightly at seeing the gun, then relaxed and leaned against the frame, smiling. 

            "Is that any way to treat a lady, Mr. Beal?"

            "Sorry.  Didn't expect to see you here, much less in my bedroom.  Manuel let you in, I take it?"  I slide the gun in its holster.  Part of me wanted it back in my hand, don't ask why.

            "Yes.  I hope you didn't mind.  I wanted a few minutes alone with you."     

            "Alone, Mrs. Curtin?"

            "Please.  Call me Victoria."

            I hiked my hat back an inch with my thumb.  "You think we know each other enough to go on a first name basis?"

            "Not yet.  But there's still time."

            She moved forward; I stepped back and walked to my desk.

            "Care for a drink?"

            "Of course.  Just let me shut off your TV." 

            I watched her slide back into my bedroom.  My suspicious nature kept me from following.  I turned towards my desk and heard a well known squeak come from behind.  I knew that sound was made when you lifted the bottom panel of my bedroom window.  I didn't turn when she came out, but could hear her closing the door behind her softly.  Too softly.

            "That's done.  Well, Jake?  What do you have?"

            I walked around the desk and opened the bar that doubled as my file drawer and peeked in.

            "Mmmmm?  Let's see.  We have water, bourbon, bourbon, and bourbon.  And water."

            "I think I'll have bourbon.  Straight."

            "Exactly what I'm having.  Have a seat.  Take a load off."

            I took the bottle and two tumblers out of the drawer and pour a few fingers on the bottom of each glass.  I glanced over to where the widow Curtin sat, just in time to see her slowly crosses her legs.  She held the position, letting my eyes explore unknown territory, and didn't move a muscle when she saw me looking.    I handed her glass across the desk and she leaned forward, giving the material a elasticity test.  She slowly took the glass and let her fingers run against mine.  I sat in my chair and leaned back, propping my foot on the open drawer.

            "Now, what can I . . . "

            "Why so far away, Jake? If I may call you Jake."

            I closed the drawer with my heel and came around to the other side, and planted my kiester on the edge of the desk.

            "Sorry.  Must be getting old; my voice used to carry that distance."

            "Anyone ever tell you that you're a good looking man, Jake?"

            "It's been brought to my attention on occasion."

            "You don't think so?"

            "Well, I know I'm not hard on the eyes, but I don't get a swelled head over it."

            "I think you have a noble face."

            That caught me funny and I started to laugh.  All of a sudden, her face took on a little girl's pout.

            "You're laughing at me?"

            I held up a hand, hoping that would prevent a crying jag. 

            "No.  No.  Noble is the last thing anyone's called this mug.  Though, one time a dame said I looked like that Gibson actor, but she was full of hooey.  And scotch, as I recall.  Mmmm, she was a looker, that one.  But, don't get me wrong; you've got nothin' on her.  She needed to get dolled up to look good; you, on the other hand, would look good in a shower curtain.  But you probably know that already."  The heat from her eyes alone could have saved the Titanic.  I took a sip of the booze, just to bring me back.  I caught a predatory glint in her eyes.  "Yeah, I'm sure you do."  I put the glass down on the table and crossed my arms across my chest.  "Sorry for rambling."

            "I don't mind."  She stopped in mid-thought and stared at me, like something caught her eye.  "Hold a second; you have something on your mouth."

            I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and gave my mouth a good wipe.

            "Better?"

            "Not quite yet.  Allow me."

            She stood up and carefully positioned herself between my legs.  Her hands went to my face and held it.  I could feel her pulse, her heartbeat, throbbing through her hands.  She stared deeply into my eyes.  It took all I had not to fall in.

            "What is it?"

            "Mmmmm?"

            "What's on my mouth?"

            "Me."

            She laid a deep one on me and I joined in.  I could feel her nails digging through my jacket, her body, that incredible body, so close to mine you couldn't get a dust mite through.  She pulled away slowly and returned to her seat.  I felt my eyes swim slightly in my head.  There was something there.  I just wasn't sure what it was.  Handkerchief still in my hand, I wiped her lip gloss from my lips.

            "No offense.  It's just not my shade."

            She stared at me, a thin film of sweat covering her exposed flesh.  Part of me almost let my suspicions give me the slip. 

            "Can I ask you a question?"

            "Of course you may."

            "Feel free to belt me if I get out of line, but wasn't husband just bumped off?"

            "Leonard and I had an open relationship."

            "I'll say."

            "Let me explain.  Aside from the age difference, Leonard's full attention was devoted to his work.  We drifted apart.  For many years, he unfairly accused me of infidelity.  Eventually, I gave in to his beliefs, just to spite him.  We drifted apart long before that.  We ended as good friends."

            "Like I said, slap when ready.  What about that shyster, Baxter?"

            "Frank? He's my lawyer."

            "That part I got.  And?"

            She leaned back in the chair and stretched like a cat.  That black outfit looked like it shrunk somehow.

            "Why are we talking?  There are other things we can do."

            "Because, you didn't drive all this way just to have a drink and chew the fat.  What brings you here, Mrs. Curtin? Really?"

            "Victoria."

            "When I'm off duty."

            "When is that?"

            "Christmas, 2047; three o'clock.  Now, exactly why are you here, Mrs. Curtin?"

            "My!  Aren't you the suspicious kind."

            "It's kept me alive so far.  But you're avoiding the question."

            "Well, I just wanted to thank you for your interest in my husband's murder."

            "The phone's on the blink, I suppose."

            "I wanted to thank you personally."

            "I see."  I walked back around to the opposite side of the desk and sat down, putting my dogs on the edge.  "This is the payoff, am I right?"

            "I don't know. . . "

            "You can stop right now, Mrs. Curtin.  You may be blond, but you ain't dumb; not by a long shot.  You're here to get me off the case.  Why?  Who put you up to it?"

            "Why do you want to stay on it?"

            "'Cause it's a mystery.  That's my bread and butter."

            "You could be doing more important things."

            "Than finding out who killed your husband?  Such as?"

            "Such as this."

            The widow slinked around to where I sat, her symbolic black dress finally waking the cell that was too busy drooling.  I stood up and stopped her with a stiff index finger to the center of her chest.  She made a small oooh face when finger met flesh.

            "Hold it there, sister."  I lead her backwards back around the desk with my finger.  "Time to go, Mrs. Curtin.  Things to do; people to see."

            "You won't change your mind?"

            "What's to change?  I got a job to do.  And I've got something to prove to a friend."

            "What about me?  What about us?"

            I reached out and she raised herself to meet me.  My hand snaked around and opened the door behind her.

            "We'll always have Paris."

            She eyes went blank and she tilted her head at me like a puppy.    

            "Paris?"

            I sighed.

            "Never mind.  It's a place in Texas.  Bye now."

            I nudged her out the door and closed it on her beautiful face.  I leaned against the door and sighed for the second time that evening, but because I like variation, I added a low whistle.

            "I get the live ones, alright."

            I heard movement on the steps, quickly doused the lights and took out my roscoe, flattening myself against the wall.

            The doorknob turned.  The door opened slowly, and I could see the silhouette of a short man rising across my desk.  The man walked forward, towards the desk, leaving the door wide open.  He seemed to know where he was going, like he'd been there before.  When the sap got to the center of the room, I reached out and slammed the door, flipping on the lights before the wood met frame.

            I didn't realize that I was holding my breath until I exhaled.  I moved the gun sight from the back of Manny's head to the floor.  

            "Manuel!"

            "Good evening, Mr. Beal.  You are going to put that gun away, aren't you?"

            "How do you know I have my heater out?  Your back's facing me."

            "Your 'heater', as you call it, is a necessary part of your trade.  It would only seem fitting, if not logical, for you to have your gun out when you have an uninvited guest in your office.  Would my assumption be correct?"

            "Yeah.  You're right."

            "Then . . . the heater?"

            I had to smile.  Manny was always as cool as a cucumber, unless he was trying to sell you something you absolutely needed.    I slipped the gun into my holster as quietly as possible.

            "I'll consider it, you dunce!  I could've blown your fool head off! What are you doing sneaking in here, anyway?"

            "May I reach into . . . "

            "Yeah, yeah.  I put the thing away, already."

            Manny turned smiling.  He was pulling a sheet of paper out of his pocket.  I didn't have time for this.

            "I saw a limo drive off and I though you were out . . . on a case.  I was just going to leave this on your desk."

            I snatched the paper out of his hand, trying to look tough; trying not to smile at my buddy's chutzpah.  Manny's a good egg.

            "Gimmee that.  You know, you could have gotten . . . Now wait a minute!  This is a contract for us to start Jake Beal, Incorporated!?!"

            "Yes.  We'll be using JAK on the NASDAQ.  I'm thinking two-dollars a share."

            I felt my stomach go south and sour.

            "NASDAQ?"

            "Of course.  I know you said you would have to think about it . . ."

            "What I said, was no, Manuel."

            His smile widened.  This was gonna take a while.

            "I figured you said no, because you didn't want to make me anxious by telling me you'd think about it."

            A long while.  Which I didn't have.

            "Get out, Manuel!"

            "If you look at the bottom of the contract, you can see I already signed my space.  All you have to do is . . ."

            "Get out now, Manuel!  Beat it!"

            Manny shot me a look like I hurt his widdle feelings, shrugged and walked out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

            I turned to my desk and heard the door open behind me.

            "You will notice that you will receive 45% of the profit, which is due to my high overhead.  I felt that was fair."

            I didn't say a word.  I didn't even turn around.  I just pull my gat out of the holster and held it above my head.

            "But I can see you're busy."

            I heard the door shut.  I waited, listening to his padding down the stairs.  When all I heard was a duel between Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon, I headed for the bedroom.  I was hot and was in need of a shower and a change of duds.  Maybe a cold shower, now that I think about it.  I still had a little time left before I cased the Curtin joint.  Not enough time for a sit down meal, but I could hold out 'til later. 

            I digest better when a case is closed.

 

            I had a fresh suit, shirt, and a clean trench coat on, and felt like a million bucks.  As I reached for my fedora, the telephone rang.

            "Beal here."

            "Jake.  It's Chuck."

            "What's up."

            "I got the lab report back on the powder."

            "And what is it?"

            "The powder is ceramic."

            "Ceramic?  Like in pottery?"

            "The same.  But you're not going to believe what else they found."

            "So, give.  Cut with the mystery."

            "The lab boys found a small piece of a computer chip mixed with the powder."

            "Leave it to those bloodhounds.  Could they trace it to anywhere?"

            "They did!  Those guys are amazing, Jake.  They found the only place in the country that manufacturers it."

            "Let me guess; Megapix?"

            "Correct on the first try.  Out of curiosity, I made a few phone calls to find out who authorized the manufacturing of the chip."

            "Duncan and Baxter?"

            "Right again.  But here's the strange part.  The chips are being made at Megapix, but they're shipped directly to the Curtin estate. "

            "Wait a sec, Chuck.  You did this without a warrant?

            "I, uh, have an, uh, agreement."

            "If I think you did what I think I'm thinking, Millie ain't gonna like this."

            "I'm only taking Angela out for a thank-you drink!"

            "Chuck!  On a first name basis, yet?"

            "Jake, don't start."

            "I hope Millie . . . "

            I heard his hand cover the mouthpiece, then his muffled voice.  "Hold on a sec, Jake.  What is it Jer?  Who?  Let him in."

            "Who is it, Chuck?"

            "Don't know.  Some guy named Dowd.  Jer said he knows . . . Oh, my God!"

            It hit me like the business end of a pool cue.  Based on Chuck's yelp, it couldn't have been a coincidence.  Dowd.  Elwood P.  The character was pals with a six foot white rabbit named Harvey, in the film of the same name.  I called Chuck's name and heard the sound of a brouhaha going.  Things went crash, glass shattered, wood splintered and broke, all with Chuck's voice screaming my name on the downbeat.  I was about to hang up and run to the station when the sounds of battle finally came to a stop.

            "Chuck?  Chuck!"

            I heard the sound of a body hitting the carpet.  That was followed by what sounded like someone dragging something heavy.  Who was in pain.

            "CHUCK!"

            "Beal?"

            "Jer?  That you?  What happened?"

            "That thing took Chuck!"

            "Rewind, pally.  Who took Chuck?"

            "This civilian comes in.  Says his name is Elwood Dowd.  Looked a lot like that It's a Wonderful Life actor."

            "Jimmy Stewart."

            "Yeah.  Him.  I don't know how he did it, but the next thing I know, he turns into this curly haired, one eyed gorilla with a lump on his back.  He bashes Chuck in the head and he went down.  I  jumped in.  This perp smacks me around and tosses me across the room like I weighed nothin'!  The last thing I saw was him carrying Chuck out of the office."

            "You see where they went?  You get the plate number?"

            "No number; they were moving too fast.  All I saw was a black stretch limo driving north."

            "That's more than enough.  Okay.  This is what you do.  Go clean up and meet me at the Curtin estate in an hour.  Got me?  And bring the boys."

            I hung up the phone and checked my heater again, adding a few just-in-case rounds from my drawer into my pocket.  I took the steps two at a time, dashed out the door and made a bee-line for Ol' Betsy.

            "Beal! Jake Beal!"

            It was that unmistakable voice that froze me to the spot.  I turned slowly and felt a chill dance up my back.

            Coming out of an alley was James Cagney.  The real McCoy, or so it looked like.  He wore a black '40s style double breasted suit, with pegged pants over a white shirt and dark tie.   His hair was unruly and his eyes glinted malignantly in the street light.  He stood there grinning at me, standing in the patented Cagney way; feet spread shoulder width apart, his arms hanging at his sides, like a gunslinger.  I backed away from Betsy.

            "Yeah, Jimmy.  Wha'cha need?"

            "What's this Jimmy stuff?  The name's Sullivan; Rocky Sullivan.  You're confusin' me wit some other mug.  Now tell me you ain't going to the Curtin joint."

            "Now Rocky, why would I want to tell you anything?"

            "Because, smart guy, I asked you polite-like."

            "Go peddle your papers, Rocky.  I got no time to jaw with you."

            "Oh, yeah?  Well, the Perfesser tipped me off, saying you might go and try somethin'."

            As a precaution, I stuck my hand in the coat pocket with the gun in it.  Curtin and Taylor were dead.  I wasn't in the mood to be number three on Your Hit Parade.

            "I said, beat it, ya sap.  Am-Scray.  I got to see a man about a horse."

            Cagney/Rocky rolled his shoulders and twisted his neck, like the film's character.   It was a telegraphing move; the Rocky character always did that before he did something.

            "There ya go again with the insults, Jake.  You're making me sore, while I'm just tryin'  to have a friendly conversation.  Now the Perfesser told me not to muss ya up, unless ya made it difficult."  He smiled and lowered his head, causing a loose strand of hair to fall in his face.  "You ain't making it difficult, are ya Jake?"

            I had to make it back to the car, but I didn't think he would let me. 

            "I told you before, Rocky, beat it.  If the Prof sent you, then he ain't as smart as he thinks he is.  I got no time to talk.  So don't think it hasn't been a little slice of Heaven - 'cause it hasn't!"

            He dug his hand into the pocket of his jacket and came to a stop, like someone pressed the pause button on a VCR remote.  I was about to investigate, when the figure's image began to shimmer. 

            Now I expected Jimmy to come out shooting.  I also expected him to toss down his gun and come at me, dukes up.  I even expected him to break into that cross legged tap he did at the end of Yankee Doodle Dandy.  What I didn't expect to see was him morphing, for the sake of a better word, into Cody Jarrett from White Heat.

            His body thickened and the skin around his face sagged a little from age.  His suit melted into a worn leather flight jacket, khakis and work boots.  Part of his thick red hair became gray, and a fedora appeared on his head.  No longer did I see the sneering expression of a tough kid turned tougher adult, but a seething madness through a very tight face; tears peaking out of the squinting eyelids.  His entire body vibrated in rage.  Because I knew the film so well, I knew what scene I was seeing, and what was to come.

            "A copper! A copper!  How do ya like that boys? A copper.  And his name is Fallon!"

            My eyes darted back and forth, looking for a hidey-hole to duck in, and found zilch.  I felt myself bouncing slightly on the balls of my pedal extremities, poised to dodge and run.  I knew what was coming.

            "And we went for it!  I went for it! Treated him like a kid brother.  And I was going to split fifty-fifty. With a copper!  Maybe they're waiting to pin a medal on him."

            Not knowing what else to do, like a dummy, I repeated the next line.

            "'Solid gold'."

            My second thought (which, on reflection, should have been my first) was to pull out my heater.

            "C'mon get 'em up! Get your hands up!"

            But this interactive hologram wasn't interacting; Cagney/Jarrett played out the scene.

            "Yeah, that's it.  A nice gold medal for the copper."

            With a small ping, a silver plated .45 appeared in his hands.  It looked just like the one used to knock off Curtin.

            Then he grinned.  This was it.

            "Only maybe he's going to get it sooner than he thinks!"

            He fired two quick shots.  One chipped off a chunk of the wall behind me.  The other shattered the driver side window of Ol' Betsy. 

            "HEY!!!  That's Pop's car, ya mug!"

            I shot back, three for his two, striking him in the chest.  Here, I expected him to either go down like a ton of bricks, or shoot back.  What I didn't expect was for Cagney/Jarrett to morph again.

            Mental note:  stop expecting.

            He became younger than Jarrett, but older than Rocky.  The weight had decreased, but he looked sickly and in an incredible amount of pain.  His clothes looked like he had lived in them for about a year; and a real lousy year, at that.  His face was smudged with dirt, and he reeked of cheap swill.  He was Eddie Bartlett, the has-been gangster in The Roaring Twenties. 

            "Like I care!"

            The only thing that was the same, was that he still held the gun.  He fired again, this time hitting the front fender.

            "You skunk!  Do you have any idea how much that's gonna cost to get fixed?"

            I emptied my heater in his stomach, shook out the rounds and reloaded.  I was about to repeat fire, until I noticed that I finally got results, though I was not entirely sure what I got.

            Cagney/Bartlett rose into the air, stagger-walking up, then down an invisible set of steps, like he was in the last scene of the movie.  He crumpled and rolled down the last few 'steps', like he did in the movie, and came to a stop at my feet.  I eek!'d like a girl when a woman suddenly blipped next to the body.  She looked like a sot as well, and knew immediately it was actress Gladys George, playing Panama Smith, the woman who loved Bartlett from afar in the flick.  

            Out of respect for the film, and seeing that I was the only one available to play the beat cop with the next line, I cleared my throat and hit it.

            "'Who is he'?"

            "He used to be somebody."  She never took her eyes from the still face of Cagney/Bartlett as both of them vanished in a pin point of light, like an old TV screen going out.

            I spotted two small round objects hovering where the characters were and flipped my fedora in their direction.  I got one, but the other flew off into the night.

            I reached underneath my hat and wrapped my mit around the thing.  As I stood up, the little whatchamacallit began to move.  As I struggled with it, I felt it turn red hot in my hand.  I released it just as it burst into a puff of white powder.  I glanced at my hand and spotted a slight scorch mark.  But I didn't care.  I knew how it was done.  And it was right there in front of my kisser!  The whoever who was behind this sent these little whatzis via remote control, like Kamikazes.  Once it fulfilled its mission, it self-destructed.

            I ran to Ol' Betsy, wincing at the damage.  I brushed the broken glass from the rich leather seats and got in.  I popped open the glove and took out a small leather case.  I couldn't help but smile.  I remembered that whenever I saw my movie people, I thought I saw something wizz by, and checked it off to a trick of the light, or something that made sense.  Those somethings were those flying balls, which then projected the hologram.

            But that wasn't important right now.  They had Chuck, and that made me sore.  It was time to have a little chat with the Missus and the mouthpiece.

FIVE

            I parked Ol' Betsy  about a block and a half away, gong the rest of the way on foot.  I peaked through the iron gate, saw nothing and continued with my back against the wall, hoping those pivoting cameras didn't spot me.  I got to a spot that was hidden by a hedge and stared at the camera on the left, and right of me.  There was a four second gap where the section I was at wasn't on camera.  I counted down, then leaped and hoisted myself up and over the wall.  I closed my eyes and waited for an alarm to go off, but nothing happened.  I continued along the wall and up the winding driveway until I saw the mansion.  I looked up again at the rotating cameras and waited until I saw a blind spot.  Finding it, I waited two more times before I ran and flattened against the wall of the mansion.  This felt too easy; I kept looking over my shoulder as I moved to the rear of the joint.  I stopped where the building ended and peaked around the corner.  Taking up a considerable section of the property was the hugest satellite dish I ever saw in my life.  This thing could probably pick up signals from Jupiter if aimed right.  My eyes followed a thick cable coming from the dish, going into the ground and coming up at the base of the mansion's wall. 

            I moved along the wall, still dodging the cameras, until I got to a double glass door.  I peered around the frame and saw it was dark inside the room.  I let my eyes adjust and found it empty -  no sign of movement whatsoever.  I dropped to my hands and knees by the door and took out the leather pouch.  I took out several picks and tried them on the lock until one worked.  I held my breath, opened the door and ducked inside.

            Even in the gloom, I could see I was in Curtin's office - the one he got bumped off in.  I padded across the room, heading for the sliver of light coming from under the office door.  I opened the door slowly and listened.  I could hear the lovebirds talking about something, but the sound was coming from above, from the second floor, and I couldn't make out the details.  I opened the door a little further and saw what I assumed was the door to the room where the satellite cable lead to.  I went to the door, hoping that the pick that opened the French door, would do likewise with this one.  The Big Guy must've been watching, because it opened as nice as you please.  I closed the door quietly behind me. 

            I ran my hand against the wall, located a light switch and flicked it.  About a dozen 250 watt spotlights went on. 

            "Well, call for Phillip Morris.  Now don't this beat all?"

            It was a very large black room that was intersected by white gridlines running along the ceiling and the floor. 

            That was it.  No furniture.  No shelves.  Nothing.  Just blank black walls with the white gridlines.  I jammed my fists into my hips and stared and thought.  It reminded me of the monitor that mug was fiddling with at the Megapix offices.  But it also looked too sparse.  Minimalism I've seen, but this was ridiculous! 

            Then my mind, as it tends to do, thought of a movie; The Old Dark House.  A real chiller-diller.  Seemingly innocent looking room was filled with secret openings and hidden passageways.  On a whim, I began to slide my hands along the wall, pressing and prodding.  I heard a soft click and the section of the wall I touched receded into the wall then rose and lifted into the ceiling.  On a lit rack I could see hundreds of DVD movies, their labels showing the titles.

            Stunned, I leaned against the wall, which shifted, receded, and rose, revealing several computers, all emitting a low audible hum.  I looked down and noticed a large drawer at the base of one of the computers.  I opened it and slapped my hand across my mouth.  In the drawer were hundreds of those flying computer thingies.  I froze on the spot, waiting for one of those things to move, but none of them did.  I closed it with the toe of my shoe and took a few steps back for good measure.

            I removed my small mini-camera from the pouch and walked up and down the wall, taking shots of everything.  When I stopped to reload, I noticed a switch marked, Virtual Reality Emitter.  I leaned forward to take a close-up shot, but I couldn't read the label.  I leaned forward even more and lost my balance, the corner of my hand hitting the switch.  All at once, the computer's hum rose a decibel and an octave.  Not knowing what I did, I backed away from the rapidly blinking panel, and not wanting to hang around and find out, I headed for the door, in search of Chuck. 

            I hadn't made three steps when a large and heavy hand wrapped itself around the back of my neck and flung me backwards across the room.  I saw my heels skim the surface of the floor, then felt my back, shoulders and head slam into a wall, which I slid down, landing on my kiester.  I looked up, shaking away the cobwebs, and found my vision blocked by the huge Mr. Pratt, who was slowly coming for me.

            I stood and looked around for something I could use as a weapon, and found nothing.  The thing smiled at me, which didn't make me feel any better.  Pratt reached out, but I latched onto his/its wrist, ducked under his armpit, and went for a shoulder toss.  I managed to lift the monster off his feet, but the thing simply relaxed and sent me face first into the hard floor, with him on top of me.  As the room went black, I was glad I wasn't seeing stars again.

            Tweety-Bird was shooting me the raspberries, though.

 

            I woke up to bright lights stabbing my eyes.  I peeked out from behind my lids, which sent a sharp pain to the center of my head.  I was still in the black room, but there were only two spotlights on in front of me, otherwise the room was black as pitch.  I tried to stand, but found myself attached to a chair with thick course ropes.  The ropes went around my wrists, then followed around my chest.  They were tight enough to hold me firmly in place, but not enough to nix the circulation in my arms.  That would be to my advantage, should I ever get out of this fix.  As my eyes adjusted to the light, I spied two familiar figures standing in the center of the spots.  On one side stood Cook and on the other, Pratt.  I could see a slight movement between the shadows, but couldn't make out who was there.

            "Welcome, Mr. Beal.  You took longer getting here than I imagined.  I'm happy to see you are among the living; for now."

            I knew the owner of that voice.  Not personally, but I had seen enough of his movies to pick it out.

            "Didn't know I was expected."

            "Your being here was a simple method of deduction.  When Mr. Sullivan's transmission began to break up, we switched on the monitor, changed DVDs, and watched your actions.  Quite entertaining.  Seems there was a small virus in the programming.  That has since been corrected."

            I felt myself smile.  No one but one person had that ability of sounding courteous, ingratiating and threatening all at once.  No one but . . .

            "Okay, Mac.  Who are you supposed to be?"

            "Why, the Professor, of course, Mr. Beal.  Don't tell me you've forgotten me already?"

            Peter Lorre walked into the light, smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder.  He was as young and as skinny as he was in the Falcon, but without the skin tint, rouge, lipstick and curls.  He wore a suit exactly like the one Price wore earlier, and carried the same walking stick.  As he stepped forward, he came to a stop.  Somebody was playing with the remote again.  I glanced over to Cook and Pratt, but both were equally paused.

            "I think Mr. Beal's had more than enough demonstrations for the night.  What do you think, my dear?"

            Out of the shadows walked Baxter and Mrs. Curtin.  He was holding a small remote control in his hand.  He tapped a button and the all the lights went on.

            Finally, answers.  Now we're getting somewhere.

            "Well, well, well.  If it isn't the lovebirds.  What have you done with Chuck Phizer?  And would you mind explaining what the heck is going on around here? "

            I directed my question to the shyster; for the widow, I shot her a wink.  The mug didn't seem to notice, but she did. 

            "The Lieutenant is safe for the time being, Mr. Beal.  You know?  I thought you would have figured all this out all by yourself."

            "Humor me, Angel."

            "All right then, as you probably guessed, our hush-hush secret project is an interactive virtual reality projection unit, which my husband perfected before his untimely demise.  Due to legalities, Frank could not explain to you and your detective friend this afternoon that the movie studios had offered only a measly twenty-five to fifty million for it, with nothing on the back end.  Mere pocket change in comparison to an offer of one-hundred million for the first shipment alone.  Certain individuals in high government positions want to use it to create the perfect assassination squad.  Because of Leonard's technology, you could transmit, say the T-1000, from Terminator 2, into any secure area.  Once there, like in the movie, the T-1000 could transform itself into anything it wanted, until it completed its programming by seeking out the chosen target, kill him and vanish into thin air."

            "Okay, I got the gist of it.  But how did it get there, wherever there is, in the first place?"

            "May I continue, Victoria? I don't want you to drain yourself; you've been through so much in the past few days."

            "Always thinking of me, Frank darling?  I think you worry a little too much."

            "You know I know how sensitive you . . . "

            "Excuse me.  I don't mean to break up this romantic interlude, but could one of you get on with it before I fall into a diabetic coma?"

            "If you do fall into a coma before the night's over, Mr. Beal, I personally would consider myself quite lucky."

            "Dream on, Shyster; dream on."

            He shot me a dirty look and walked past the still frozen Lorre to the control panel.            "I will attempt to explain this so even you will be able to understand it."

            "Don't strain your brain, sweetheart."

            "What we do is select a movie from our vast array of programmable DVDs you see before you, download the character of your choice into our bees."

            "Bees?"

            He reached into his pocket and held one out between his thumb and forefinger.  He looked at it like he was looking at a mega-carat diamond.  Based on the thingamabob's price tag, I guess he was.

            "Yes, Mr. Beal.  That is what we call them.  Within these seemingly harmless objects is a microscopic holographic imager.  It not only creates a three dimensional image, but, using a hard light process, gives them density.  Leonard's nano‑technology also makes them easy to program, completely interactive and able to select the proper response to any outside stimuli, questions, or simply interact.  It, like certain computers, is almost sentient.  It also has a tracking range of five-hundred miles.  Now by that look on your face, I bet you're wondering how a image kills, say, with a gun?"

            "No I wasn't, Shyster - that was gas.  But don't let that stop you; you seem to be on a roll."

            He let that one go by.  I could tell I wouldn't be allowed too many more.

            "To create something like that, you need more than one bee.  A bee for the image, a bee for the gun, and several more for bullets, etcetera.  And once it has completed it's programmed task, it self destructs.  No evidence at the, how would you put it, scene of the crime.  You can call it, a very smart bomb."  He chuckled and held his hand out to the widow.  "Darling? Please?"

            Angel pulled one of the DVDs from the rack and handed it to Baxter, who put it in an open port in the computer.  He hit a button on a keyboard and Peter Lorre blipped out of the picture in a small puff of smoke.  Baxter then presses a button marked 'PLAY' and one of the wall's panels became a monitor screen, which showed the opening credits of Citizen Kane.  He tapped a button and the film accelerated.  He finally pressed 'PLAY', then a 'PAUSE' button, freezing the screen on Orson Welles as old Charles Foster Kane in bed.

            "We then download the image into the Virtual Reality setting."

            He returned to the console and tapped a few more buttons.  A bee in his pocket flew out and hovered in front of me.  I tried to remain cool, but I had a sudden picture of Freddy Kruger's gloved talons coming for my eyes.

             I don't mind telling you, I was scared.

            And I don't scare easy.

            The thingamabob began to glow.  Then the glow began to pulsate.  Then the throbbing light expanded and became Wells/Kane, and his entire bed.  I felt like a kid watching his first magic trick, I was truly amazed.  I was looking at a real hologram.  I've seen a lot of weird things in my life, but this was the cat's meow.  But, in comparison with the other holograms I've seen today, this was not up to snuff.  It was clear as crystal, but was flat and transparent.

            Baxter caught my look and moved back to the console.

            "Then use the Virtual Reality Emitter, which gives the two dimensional characters substance, and overlays it with a hard light image for density."

            The black and white image began to shimmer, then began to bulge, and became three dimensional.  I could see definition.  I could see the individual hairs of his scruffy mustache.  I could see the wrinkles in his covers as he breathed.  I glanced over to Baxter.  I didn't think this was the ta-daa.  He tapped a few keys on the control board, then skipped over to Wells/Kane.

            That's right.  Skipped. 

            Call me old fashioned, but I never trust a mug who skips.

            "Rosebud."

            On cue, the snow globe in his dead hand rolled off the edge of the bed and

 onto the floor.  But instead of breaking, it bounced twice and rolled against my foot.

            I felt it when it hit.  I was impressed.

            "Okay, you convinced me on this."  I used the tip of my chin to point at the Frankenstein monster, still wearing that oversized Armani suit.  "But how about the change to modern clothes?  And the skin tone.  They weren't like that in the movie, y'know?"

            "The latter is far more simple than the former.  All we have to do is apply the system's colorization technique, refine it with Leonard's morphing program to add simulated clothes, and/or weapons, which over-writes the original costume, or prop.  Like so."

            Baxter tapped a few more keys and Wells/Kane sat up on the bed and sharply pulled the covers off.  He hopped off the bed wearing a green plaid sport jacket and bright yellow shorts; on his feet he wore pump sneakers.  He was smoking a long stemmed pipe, which appeared fully lit, and looked younger. 

            Wells/Kane stepped in my direction and placed a friendly hand on my shoulder.

            "Mr. Beal, I presume?"

            I looked at the shyster, who was grinning from ear to ear.

            "Speak to him, Mr. Beal.  That's the civilized thing to do."

            I ignored that remark and looked up at now-living legend.

            "Uh, yeah.  That's me."

            "Really a shame we have to meet under these conditions, Old Man.  I really

would have liked to speak to you at great length; possibly do a interview for my newspaper."

            "Your . . . newspaper?"

            He looked at me slightly dumbfounded, then fisted his hips and let out a huge laugh. 

            "Of course, Old Man! The Inquirer! The biggest newspaper on four continents!"

            He continued to laugh, slapping my shoulder, like I was an old pal.  Then he stopped suddenly and gave me look of complete surprise.  The next second he vanished in a single white blip.  In his place was one of those bees, just hovering in mid-air.  Then the bee suddenly burst into a puff of smoke.  When the mist cleared, I could see Baxter's finger pressed against a button on the keyboard.

            "Which is exactly they way we eliminated Leonard."

            "Where did Duncan Taylor fit in all this?"

            Mrs. Curtin sashayed over to Baxter's side, a cat-like smile on her beautiful face.

            "He was needed to sign and authorize the government contracts.  Nothing more."

            "Okay.  But why knock him off?  He was just a harmless paper pusher."

            A sour look plastered itself on the shyster's kisser.  Whatever the reasons why they bumped off old man Curtin and Taylor, he took it personal.

            "Like Leonard, the old fool felt sharing the new technology with the Government would be morally wrong.  He was sure they would use his technology in an actual battle.  Of course they'd use it for war! There's a great deal of money in war!  Besides, Duncan knew how Leonard was killed.  He was a witness; an acceptable loss. "

            "You're a real humanitarian, Shyster."

            "Leonard just failed to see the true potentials of his technology.  Well, I hope you have enjoyed our small demonstration, Mr. Beal, but I'm afraid that in the next ten minutes, you, as well as the good lieutenant, will no longer be among the living."

            "You never did tell me what you did with Chuck, Shyster.  I don't like unanswered questions."

            "As we said earlier, he is safe.  For now.  You two will be joining each other in due time."

            We locked peepers, daring the other to blink first.  That got stale real quick.

            "Have it your way.  Then one last question, Baxter.  Why did you sic the wax museum on me?  And why the old flicks at that? You could have probably done more damage to me using some of the creatures they play in movies nowadays."

            "That's two questions, Mr. Beal."

            "So sue me; I was always lousy in math."

            While Baxter glared at me, the widow ran her tongue across very sharp and white teeth.

            "May I, darling?"

            "Of course, my dear."

            "We knew you were investigating his death ever since we caught you hacking the computer in his office."

            "The red lights!  Cameras!  If you got 'em here, why wouldn't you have them at the office?  Well, wasn't that a genius maneuver."

            "Wasn't it?  As for your other question, you seem to have this fixation with old movies.  We felt you were getting too inquisitive and thought it would be an appropriate tool to discredit you, get you to question your sanity, and leave the Lieutenant no alternative but to ban you from the case."  She came in close enough for me to smell her perfume and to feel her heat.  "Tell me the truth, Jake.  You thought you were losing your mind, weren't you?"

            "Yeah, Angel.  Have to admit, you almost had me going for a while there.  Your brainstorm?"

            "No, Jake.  That was all Frank's.  That's quite a movie obsession you have.  You almost made it too easy."

            Ouch.

            "Me, I understand - but where does Chuck fit in?"

            "Your friend had the lab report on the bee found in Leonard's library.  It seems Leonard's secretary, Ms. Marlowe, took a fancy to the Lieutenant and told him more than he needed to know.  We get rid of you and your friend, the lab tech, then Ms. Marlowe.  No witnesses."

            "Nice and tidy."

            Baxter stood there, eyeing the two of us.  By the look on his face, he didn't like what he saw.

            "With you and Phizer and the rest out of the way, Victoria and I could sell his technology to the highest bidder without any interference."

            "You're not going to start that and-we-will-rule-the-world malarkey, are ya?"

            "Hardly.  Besides, I'm only following orders."

            I stared at him for a few beats, then it sunk in. 

            "You're only . . .  Angel?  You mean you're behind all this?"

            "I'll ignore that chauvinistic tone, Mr. Beal.  You see, with Leonard and Taylor out of the way, Megapix is all mine.  I used to work in R & D for Megapix before I married Leonard.  I understand the technology.  I just needed Frank to handle the legalities."

            "And all this time, I thought you and the Shyster were an item."

            They exchanged looks, and began to laugh, like I said the funniest thing in the whole wide world.

            "Want to clue me in on the joke?"

            "Victoria is my sister!"

            "Your sis . . . very cozy.  Don't this keep it in the family?"

            "Frank darling?  Please have the Lieutenant join his friend."

            "Of course, my dear."

            Baxter turned back to the computer and tapped a few keys, making Pratt return to his animated state.  The thing shambled to the wall, opened a panel in a section near the computer and dragged Chuck out.  Chuck, who was bound and gagged, was dragged across the room and unceremoniously dumped at my feet.  Pratt returned to his original position and froze in place.

            I looked at Chuck.  He was conscious and was trying to say something from behind the gag.  The widow came forward and removed it.

            "You okay, Chuck?"

            "Fine, Jake.  You were right all along!"

            "A little late coming to that conclusion, Bub.  Jer tells me you met the Hunchback of Notre Dame and Jimmy Stewart?"

            The shyster stomped his foot on the tile floor and glared at us.

            "Enough!"

            I looked deep into the widow's eyes.  She looked back, and how!  She placed a calming hand on Baxter's arm.

            "I really don't care about the Lieutenant, Frank, but do we have to kill Jake?  He amuses me."

            "Oh, really, Victoria!  Haven't you grown out of your slumming phase yet?"

            "Do we, Frank?"

            He turned towards me with a sneer on his lips.  He looked me like a was a bug ready for extermination.

            "You know my feelings about Beal, Victoria, but I'm in a sporting mood.  Let's leave it up to the gumshoe.  So what's it going to be, Mr. Beal?  You still could join us.  There'll be plenty of money going around."

            "What do you think, Shyster?"

            He stared deeply into my eyes and again shook his head.  Angel began to pout, but didn't seem surprised.

            "Sorry, dear.  No witnesses, remember?"  His face brightened and he looked at me with a look I didn't like.  "I have an idea!  Why don't you run along and I'll follow when I've finished with our guests?"

            "Promise you won't be long?"

            "Of course, my . . . "

            "Oh, this sounds very strange."

            Baxter was about to fire off a snappy response when Peckington-Smythe opened the door. 

            "Madam.  Sir.  Please pardon the intrusion."

            "What is it, Peckington-Smythe?"

            "Detective Gerald Blessing is here to see you, Madam.  And he appears to have brought  . . . reinforcements."

            The widow spun and faced the shyster.  I spotted a crack in her gilt facade.

            "Frank?"

            He, on the other hand, was as cool as a cucumber.

            "We'll both go upstairs.  Let me do the talking; it will sound better. I'll explain that, as the family attorney, you requested me to stay overnight to handle . . .  certain contractual things."

            "Hey, Shyster!  Want a microscope to locate that contractual thing you're handling?"

            He turned and took a step forward.  A vein throbbed visibly in his temple. 

            "That's it!  I've had enough of you!"

            He hauled back and walloped me one.  I felt something warm drip from the corner of my mouth to my chin.  I looked back up at him.  I smiled.

            "Nice one, sweetpea.  You're gonna love it when its my turn."

            Baxter puts his arm around the widow's nicely shaped shoulder and lead her to the door.  He took a second to look over at me.

            "Don't touch that dial, Mr. Beal.  We'll be right back.  Tell you what; why don't you, the Lieutenant and Mr. Pratt have an in depth discussion on minding your own business?"

            The shyster pulled the remote out of his pocket, and with the same hand tapped a button as he closed the door.   Junior came to life, looked around and spied me.  By the time he started walking towards me, I had already untied myself.  Gotta remember to send a thank you card to Jack Damian.  Now free of the chair, I undid Chuck's ropes.

            "You must show me how to do that, Jake."

            "Your training begins tomorrow, Chuckie, if we're not in traction by then.  We've got to stop Junior.  Follow me."

            "But we're running towards it!"

            "The computers, Chuck!  I've got to shut that thing off!"

            The monster roared and lunged at us, teeth bared.  I faked a move to the right and went into a slide between his legs, popping back up on my feet and dashed to the computer.  I looked over my shoulder to see how Chuck was doing; not so good.  Pratt's huge hands were closed on Chuckie's neck, and was lifting him off the floor.

            "Jake!"

            "Keep your shirt on!  I'm working as fast as I can!"

            I had to concentrate for all I was worth - Chuck's life was on the line here.  I had a photographic memory and had to remember the sequence the shyster tapped on the keyboard to activate which function.  Hearing my friend scream my name behind me wasn't helping any.

            I couldn't get it!  I turned and saw Chuck's eyes rolling back.  I spun towards the DVD racks an began lobbing them at Junior's head.  DVD after DVD bounced harmlessly off the thing's squared skull.  I had to do something to get him to draw his attention from Chuck.

            "Hey, ya mug!  It's me you want!"

            My legs suddenly felt like rubber.

            "Now what did I go and say that for?"

            Pratt slowly turned his head towards me and dropped Chuck on the floor.  Chuck began gasping for air and back-peddled away.  The thing snarled and reversed speed towards me.

            "Oh, I've got a biiiig mouth."

            The giant's arm swung at my head and missed.  I feinted to the left, and began to move to the right, back to center, then to the left again.  I changed the order several more times, hoping to beat feet in a direction it didn't expect I'd go.  It tried to follow my directions, but because of his locked legs, he stumbled over his own two feet.

            "Ya dope!  Never played street football, did ya!"

            Pratt straightened and placed his hands on his hips, waiting.  That caught me off guard.  The thing just stood there, watching me jump and run around like a monkey.  I realized how much I was taken off guard when I didn't catch his arms coming around in a straight-armed clap, with my head between his palms.  I felt an explosion in the center of my skull before I felt the pain.  I suddenly knew what a walnut felt like.  My eyes crossed, my legs became wet noodles and I sunk to the floor. 

            "Tweety-Birds, stars, and flashing Saturn's; this I can deal with."

            Pratt wrapped his hand around my neck and lifted me from the floor.  My eyes focused enough to see him drawing his fist back to deliver the coupe-de-Gracie, when a DVD caught him in the eye.  He dropped me and screamed in pain, as more plastic boxes peppered his face and chest.  The thing screamed again and went for Chuck.  I reached out and wrapped my arms around his leg, trying to trip him.  The thing ignored me and dragged me across the floor.  I began to get hit with ricocheting DVD boxes.

            "Stop with the throwing and push the third left button on the right computer, for Christmas sake!  That should stop him!"

            Chuck dropped the DVD boxes, turned and pressed a button; the wrong button.  The whole room, except for the open sections on the wall where Chuck was held hostage and the computers and DVD racks, changed its graph configuration to the actual black and white laboratory that was in the 1931 Frankenstein movie.  When the room reconfigured, the thing's arms, which were reaching out for Chuck, found themselves stuck between two globes that were connected by a sparking string of electricity.  The monster and I both screamed as I-don't-know-how-many volts went through us.  I felt the electricity spark off the fillings in my molars.  I thought I heard Radio Belgium.

            "The left button, ya maroon!  The left!"

            Junior pulled its arm out of the current and reached down and slapped me in the head, trying to make me let go.

            "Hey!  Watch it, ya mug!  That hurt!"

            The hard stone floor changed to expensive tile and dozens of shoes came at me.  Pratt, momentarily stunned by the visual change, stopped in his tracks, allowing me to be trampled by dancing men and women.  When the first wave ended, I looked up and saw a young, smiling Orson Wells, dancing a Can-Can.  I was now a part of the party for Charles Foster Kane in Citizen Kane. 

            "Will you please press the button I tell you!"

            A second wave of dancers went over me, faster this time, as the tempo of the music sped up.

            "Ow!  Watch where you're going, will you?  Ouch!"

            Kane, still grinning, looked down and extracted the cigar from his mouth with two fingers.

            "Sorry, Old Man.  Didn't see you."

            The vibrations on the floor told me I was in for another stampede.

            "Chuck!  Will you hit the right button for the love of Mike!"

            "I'm trying!  I'm trying!  That thing knocked out my contacts!"

            "Wonderful."

            I closed my eyes, expecting a leather shower, when I felt the ground turn hard and cold.  I could hear the sounds of traffic going by, and the sound of people calling out their wares.  I opened them and saw myself in 1930s New York.  The streets were lined with pushcarts selling fruits, hats, clothes, any and everything anyone could ever want.  Junior, who's leg I was still attached to, growled in confusion.  I looked up to see a very young Billy Hallop, Huntz Hall and Leo Gorcey, coming out from behind a fence.  All three of their jaws dropped, they spun on their heels and darn near killed themselves running down the block, screaming hysterically.

            The room suddenly returned to the grid pattern and Junior, who was now an arm's length from Chuck, froze in his tracks and blipped out.  Me, now holding air, went mush first into the floor.

            "You took your sweet time."

            "I couldn't see!"

            I stood up and joined him at the computer, dusting myself off.

            "We've got to get out of here.  Do I have to play seeing eye dog for you?"

            I saw Chuck's hackles go on that one, then his face brightened and he reached into his jacket pocket and took out an eyeglass case.  He opened it and put on a pair of specs.

            I shook my head and punched him in the shoulder.

            "Hey!  What was that for?"

            "You could have put the cheaters on about thirty feet ago, for one!"

            "Cheaters?"

            "Not now!"

            Chuck glanced down into the section of the wall he was held captive and reached in, coming out with our heaters.  He passed me mine while I studied the computer.  If this didn't work, we might need the guns.  As long as the shyster had that remote, he could set off anything, anytime.

            My eyes fell on a bank of DVDs marked, SECURITY.  Each slot was marked for a different section of the house.  I found the one labeled, HOLO-ROOM, and spied a green light, telling me it was still recording.  I popped it out of its recess and held it up for Chuck to see.

            "Remember Curtin's paranoia?  Writable DVDs.  These dopes never shut off the security system!  They were being recorded all the time!  We have our evidence!"

            "If we ever get out of here alive."

            "Oh, we'll get out.  But we're going out with a bang."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Just going to give the shyster and the widow a taste of their own medicine; Jake Beal style.  Use my movies against me, will you?"

            "You know how to operate this thing?"

            "Don't have to.  Remember my Polaroid mind?  All I have to do is remember the sequence he entered."  My eyes had never left the computer panels and keyboard - I smiled.  "Okay.  I got it.  Now pass me the movies I tell you from the rack and watch the fireworks."

 

            Chuck and I quietly opened the door from the Holo-Room and spotted a quaint  tableau.  There was Jer, standing there listening to Baxter's malarkey, trying his best not to stare at the widow.  The widow, on the other hand, was dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, while the reject from a drawing room comedy stood quietly at her side.

            "So after we identified Duncan, we came back here."

            "Mmmm.  I see.  By chance, has either Lieutenant Phizer, or Jake Beal stopped by in the past hour, Mrs. Curtin?"

            The widow snuffled and shook her head.  Baxter gave Jer a sympathetic look.

            "So sorry, Detective Blessing.  The last time we saw the Lieutenant was at the station this afternoon.  We then met Mr. Beal coming out of that Smiley's place.  Can't say we've seen either of them since.  And Mrs. Curtin and I have been here all evening."

            "Gee, Baxter; you hurt my feelings.  And here I thought we was pals."

            They all turned.  The shyster, the widow and the stiff's mouth dropped open.  Jer face contorted in what I assumed was a smile.

            "Chuck!  Beal!"

            "Still as sharp as a bowling ball, Jer.  Now I really hate to break up this little clam bake, Baxter, but I'm curious; aside from Jeeves, yourself and the Missus . . . "

            I pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one.

            " . . . who else is in this joint?"

            Baxter was about to say something, when Jer grabbed him by his lapel.

            "I thought you said you hadn't seen then since this afternoon?"

            "Uh, no one, Mr. Beal.  The other servants and our security staff have left for the night.  Why do you ask?"

            I smiled and took a peak at my wrist watch.

            "Well, Angel, by my watch, you have a few seconds before this place gets interesting.  Chuck, Jer; arrest the Shyster and the lady for the murder of Leonard Curtin and Duncan Taylor, for attempted murder of Chuck and myself, roughing us up, and for messing up my duds."

            I felt Chuck's eyes bore into the back of my head.

            "Hey!  Dry cleaning ain't cheap, ya know."

            Baxter pulled away from Jer, grabbed Jeeves by the arm and swung him into Jer, and the other boys in blue by the door.  He then grabbed the widow by the wrist and made a break for the stairs.

            "Halt! Or feel the point of my blade!"

            At the top of the stairs, brandishing a very sharp saber, was Basil Rathbone.  He came down the stairs slowly, snake-like, dressed as the villain from The Mark of Zorro.       Baxter pulled the remote control from his pocket.  Before he could shut down Basil, the remote was plucked out of his hand by the tip of a saber.  It was caught in the gloved had of Tyrone Power, dressed in Zorro's flowing black cape, flat black hat and mask.  A toothy grin was plastered on his face.  

            "It would be very wise of you not to move a muscle.  My friend here is quite exceptional with a sword.  And I'm not so bad myself.  Senor Jake!  Catch!"

            Power flipped the remote to me, which I caught, one handed.  I looked at the remote and saw my fingers depressing a few buttons.  I quickly placed it in my pocket and crossed my fingers I didn't bollix it up.

            The butler, Jer and the boys were just getting up when Baxter pulled a quick U-turn, hauled Jeeves to his feet and pushed him into the crowd, making a hole.  He ran out the door with Mrs. C in tow, leaping over the sprawled bodies.

            They made it to the driveway just as a chair came crashing through one of the upstairs windows.  It spiraled over their heads and came crashing onto the asphalt in front of them.  They looked up in time to see Errol Flynn, sporting his Robin Hood duds, swinging down on a rope.  Flynn leaped the last ten feet, landed in a crouched position, and rapid-fired four arrows from his bow.  The arrows landed inches from Baxter and the widow's feet in a neat line.

            Chuck and I were on the lawn, watching.  Jer, and two of the boys came up behind us.  Without looking, I knew they were all amazed by what they were watching.

            "Beal? What in hell is going on?"

            "I'll explain later, Jer.  In the meantime, just be quiet and watch the fun.  Though I do suggest you guys move your kiesters closer to the gate, unless you want to get mussed up."

             They looked at me, at Errol Flynn, who was fitting a fifth arrow in the bow, Powers and Rathbone, coming up behind them, their sabers at the ready, then back to me.  They hot-footed it over to a safer distance.

            Flynn stood to his full height and promptly sat down on a throne that wasn't there a second ago.  The bow, arrows and quiver on his back disappeared.  He threw one leg over the throne's arm, a flagon of ale blipped in one hand and a broadsword aimed at their throats blipped in the other.  Baxter and Victoria Curtin held onto each other, not knowing which way to turn.         

            "Hey! Rob!"

            "Yes, Jake, dear boy? Are you in need of assistance?"

            "Naw.  Could you escort these two crumbs to where the fat slob and the boys in blue are standing?"

            "Is that all? Certainly!"

            He flipped the flagon over his shoulder and leaped to his feet. 

            "If you would be so kind to walk in that direction? I would hate to have cold steel mar such a beauteous visage as yours, fair lady."

            "Rob! Can the mush and move 'em out.  Okay?"

            He turned and gave me a sweeping bow that was coated in sarcasm.

            "At once, my liege!"

            He motioned over to where Jer and the others were standing with the tip of his sword.  They obediently walked in that direction in silence.  Though I thought I heard Flynn hiss behind my back, Barbarian!  Wiseacre.

            Jeeves came up to me and began pawing my sleeve.  He looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

            "Mr. Beal!  Mr. Beal!"

            "You're touching me.  And you're wrinkling the material. Now go over there with the rest of them."

            "Please, Sir, tell these officers I am just a lowly butler who was following or . . . "

            I brought him up to eye level by sticking a finger up his nose and lifting.

            "Shaadup!  Now move, or do I have to get rough?"

            I released him and Peckington-Smythe hurriedly moved over to where Jer stood with the siblings and started bending their ears.  I looked around and watched the entire estate begin to fill up with famous characters from the movies, each one materializing out of thin air.           

            I heard a familiar roar behind me.  I turned and saw Pratt standing there, but dressed in his original Frankenstein's monster costume.  His hand was raised above an old large switch that was fused to the door frame.

            A shot rang out.  I looked to see which one of Jer's boys had an itchy trigger finger, then heard a second shot and realized it came from over my head.  The boys had their weapons drawn - I waved them to put them away and pointed up.

            Cagney/Jarrett was on the roof of the mansion, rocking back and forth, gibbering and drooling like a madman.  He was shooting off his gat, aiming in front of him, but not at any particular thing.  The bee-bullets he fired, burst into puffs of smoke as soon as they left the barrel.  Fortunately for the boys, I tossed in a few safety protocols.  Cagney/Jarrett was suddenly knocked over by a bullet from a high powered rifle.

            Below, Edmond O'Brien, who had blipped next to Chuck and the crowd on the lawn, played Fallon, the undercover Fed in White Heat who was firing at Cagney/Jarrett.  When the rifle went off a second time, Angel screamed, and a twitch began to flutter in Chuck's left eye.  Fallon looked above the rifle sight in confusion.

            "What's keeping him up?"

            Like in the film, Cagney/Jarrett fired a shot into the roof, causing a pillar of flame to shoot out at his feet.  The mansion began to tremble, like it was in the middle of an earthquake.  Chuck, who was checking on group, moved around O'Brien/Fallon and over to me.  We looked at each other.  I was just as shocked as he was.  My hand pushed the remote deeper in my pocket.           

            "Jake!  What did you do?!"

            "Uh, don't get mad, Chuck, but I think I might have overloaded the machine a little."

            "I thought you said you know how to use the damn thing?!"

            "Oh, so now its my fault?  Who kept pressing the wrong buttons?"

            From the front door, Pratt let out a howl and grasped the switch that had morphed on the frame.  He pointed at the crowd and gazed at us through sad eyes.

            "You go! We belong dead!"

            At the same time he pulled down on the lever, Cagney/Jarrett stood with his arms raised above his head in psychopathic triumph.

            "Made it, Ma! Top of the world!"

            The sound of explosions filled the mansion.  Windows on all four sides blew outward, and the crowd hit the ground.  Fireballs shot through the sky, lighting up the grounds around the building.  Then the entire foundation burst into flame, turning the mansion into a raging inferno.           

            Baxter, seeing everyone's attention was focused on the burning mansion, slowly backed away.  He didn't make it too far.  He collided with the Three Stooges' Moe Howard. 

            "Watch where you're going, numbskull!  Spread out!"

            Moe V'd his fingers and stuck the shyster in the eyes.  We all heard the trademark poinking sound. 

            Angel moved to catch the blind shyster as he fell backwards, only to find herself directly in front of the remaining Stooges, Curly Howard and Larry Fine.  Curly grinned out of the side of his mouth and stepped forward, tipping his two-size-too-small bowler hat.

            "Hey, Babe!  Want to cut a rug? Nyuck-Nyuck-Nyuck!"

            Larry grabbed Curly by the seat of his pants and dragged him back a few feet, taking his place up front.

            "Beat it, stooge!  This one's for me.  Lovely moonlight, huh, toots? Let's you and me get away from these uncouth slobs."

            Moe, who was standing behind Larry, glared at him with his hands on his hips.  He grabbed him by his frizz and pulled him backwards as well.

            "Who are you calling uncouth? I'm as couth as the rest of 'em."

            "Yeah!"

            Moe nodded to Curly in agreement and promptly did a double take.

            "Who asked you to speak, Cueball?"

            "Yeah, Cueball! Who asked you?"

            "Talkin' out of turn again, eh, porcupine?  The frail wants a gentleman! So, am-Scray!"

            Moe reared back and slapped them both with one swing.  Larry tried to hit Moe, but fell for the old pick-out-two bit.  Curly held his fist under Moe's nose as a warning.  Moe sneered and slapped the fist down, sending Curly's arm pinwheeling around until his fist struck him on the top of his own bald head.  Larry swung a roundhouse at Moe, who easily ducked underneath the oncoming punch.  When he popped back to his feet, Larry, who had spun in a circle on his toes, nailed Moe in the jaw at the end of the revolution. 

            Their tête-à-tête was interrupted by a loud roar.  The Stooges turned to see the Creature from the Black Lagoon raising his finned hands at them. 

            "NYAA-AHH-AHH-AHH!!!"

            Larry and Moe's hair went straight up; Curly's hat raised above his bald pate.  They ran off towards the tennis court with the Creature right behind them.

            Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy blasted us from our left on full volume.  I turned to see the Andrew Sisters, snapping their fingers and bopping to the beat.  They were accompanied by the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra.  Well, all-reet!  I loved that number!

            Within seconds, I was bouncing with the beat as well.  The music was so infectious, I began dancing in place.  Chuck looked at me like I was crazy.  I grinned wildly at him.

            "Hey, Jackson!  Let's grab some action!  Let's cut ourselves a piece of rug!"

            I grabbed Chuck by his wrist, jittering him to the left, then bugging him to the right.  I was about to throw my leg over his head, when he pulled away - the twitch in his eye was beginning to find a life of its own.

            "Get off me!"  His face went blank, then he squinted at me.

            "Cut a piece of rug?"

            I stopped dancing and stared at him.

            "Cut a rug - as in, to take up a spot on the floor when you dance; or simply, to dance."

            "Oh.  No.  That's alright."

            We heard the soft snap and hiss of a match being lit.  We turned to see two horses harnessed to a western style buckboard.  Despite the fact that they were holding cocked rifles in their laps, Steve McQueen and Yul Brynner, in costume from The Magnificent Seven, were calmly watching the events.  Brynner joined McQueen in a smoke by sticking a thin black cigar in his mouth, lighting his match against the rough wooden seat.  Through the flame, I could see his dark eyes meet mine.  He shook the flame out, winked at me and snapped the reigns, sending the horses into a trot.  McQueen tipped his hat to me as the wagon pulled away.  Riding in the back of the wagon, laughing through a heavily chewed cigar, was Alfonso Bedoya, dressed as his Mexican bandit character in The Treasure of Sierra Madre.

            Meanwhile, the boys in blue were drooling at Marilyn Monroe, who was standing in front of them on a subway grating that had morphed into the lawn.  She was barely holding down her billowing skirt, but the boys did not move to help her.

            Baxter, who was still loose and trying to find an escape route, noticed that Chuck was equally transfixed by the ex-Miss Norma Jean Baker.  The shyster ran up besides him, and before I could move, snatched Chuck's gun from his hand.  He held it on us and backed away.

            "I have no argument with you, Lieutenant, and I don't want to have to use this.  Beal, on the other hand, is a different story."

            "Hand over the gun, Baxter; you're in enough trouble as it is."

            Chuck moved forward and Baxter aimed the heater at his nose.

            "Back away, Lieutenant."

            "Go on, Chuck.  The Shyster and I have a few things to discuss."

            "But, Jake . . . "

            "Do it, Chuck."  I looked over Chuck's head as he backed away and spotted Jer and his men begin to take aim.  "You, too, Jer!  Call 'em off, Chuck!  Let me handle this!"  When the officers holstered their weapons, I turned my full attention to Baxter.  "Now, Shyster.  What did you want to say?"

            "You ruined everything, Beal!  My sister and I had everything planned, and you ruined it all!"

            "My gums bleed for you."

            He raised the gun at my eye level.  His eyes looked at the black metal and back at me.  His lips twisted into a sneer and he tossed the gun away.

            "I don't need this to take care of you, Beal."

            "Oh, great!  You're going to talk me to death!"

            "On the contrary, Beal.  I'm going to teach you a lesson."

            He quickly moved forward and caught me in the mid-section with a jab.  I backed away from the next blow, and countered with a right cross, that he easily swatted away.  I tossed a left, then a right, and another left, but Baxter just calmly slapped each punch down.

            "We going to play slap and tickle all night?  There's a Frank Capra retrospective on in an hour I want to catch."

            "I'm sorry, Beal.  Will this do?"

            He spun on his heel and did a wheel kick - the side of his shoe connected with my jaw.  Before I could recover, he did a reverse wheel and connected with the other side of my face.  I tried to shake off the blows, but he came at me with punches, chops, slaps and more kicks.  I back peddled out of his reach; he bounced from foot to foot.  He hadn't even broken a sweat.

            "I should have warned you, Beal.  I'm an expert in Tai Chi Chuan and Tae Kwon Do."

            "Sorta guessed that, Shyster.  Then it is only fair to warn you that I am an expert in Bronx Chi Kwon."

            "Bronx Chi Kwon?  Never heard of it."

            "Well, let Daddy show you how it's done."

            "Sorry, Beal.  No time.  This ends now."

            Baxter backed away a few steps, screamed like a banshee and launched himself through the air with a flying kick. 

            I, on the other hand, locked both hands into a fist and went into a baseball slide, connecting with his southern region.  The shyster's scream went up three octaves and he crumpled to the ground.  I got to my feet and dusted myself off.

            "Yep; five years in the Bronx.  There are just some things you never forget."

            I walked over to him and reached down, grabbing him by his hair and lifted him to his feet.  I wrapped his tie several times around my fist and backhanded him with my free hand.

            "That's for Chuck."

            I let him fall backwards, only to send a pile driver to his gut.

            "That's for trying to drive me nuts."

            I then gave him five quick jabs to the button.    

            "That's for the love tap back in the basement."

            The Shyster surprised me by head butting me.  I went back and felt a drop of blood go into my eye.

            Baxter, who was still unsteady on his feet, swung at me with a half-hearted wheel kick.  I reached out and caught his heel inches from his face. 

            "Now, where was I?  Oh, yeah."  His face paled; he knew what was coming.  I kicked him in the obvious place and let him drop.  "That was for Ol' Betsy.  And don't think you're going to get out of paying for the damages!"

            I glanced at my watch.  Things were getting screwy with the programming I set, but a couple of things hadn't showed up yet.  I was wondering if the system would blow a gasket before my big finish.  Then I heard a clarinet mournfully wailing.  I turned and saw the Benny Goodman Orchestra, circa 1937.  There was Teddy Wilson, Harry James and Ziggy Elman, calmly sitting in their places, smiling, watching Benny work the stick.  Lionel Hampton was wiping the handles of his mallets with a cloth, while Gene Krupa, soaked to the skin in perspiration, was tightening the keys on his snare.  His damp hair hung in his face, and he rapidly chewed a wad of gum.  He glanced up in my direction and shot me a grin and a wink.  They were doing Sing! Sing! Sing! and were at Benny's solo. 

            I always envied Pop when he told me of the Goodman concerts he had seen when he was a kid.  Not any more, Pop.

            Not any more.

            I spotted Chuck moving towards me from the gate, so I met him half way.  Baxter, who still had a little in him, ran unsteadily towards the house.  I placed a firm hand on Chuck's sleeve, stopping him from following.

            "But he's getting away, Jake!"

            "Where's he gonna go?  The placed is surrounded."  I looked at the burning mansion and the Shyster staggering across the lawn.  "I sure hope the system doesn't blow before the program ends."

            "What are you talking about?"

            I didn't have to answer.  I just pointed.

            "Look!"

            At the exact moment Benny and the boys ended Sing! Sing! Sing!, a small red fireball started spinning on the wall in the center of the second floor.  In seconds, it became a gigantic flaming wheel, tears of flame spitting out in all directions, blocking the entire mansion from view.  The shyster came to a stop and fell to his knees.  He turned and looked over his shoulder and shuddered.  I suspected he came to the realization that he didn't have the strength to run back towards the gate before the ball of flame went up.  His whole body went limp as a soggy dishrag and he fell face forward on the grass.

            But that's not what I programmed.

            The words, Merry Melodies, written in script and canted on an angle, ran across the wall of crimson fire.  Popping his upper torso through the flame, a giant Porky Pig, wearing his brilliant royal blue blazer and bright red bow-tie, gave a smile and a slow wave.

            "Dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-Dat's All Folks!"

            Porky and the flaming pinwheel turned black and vanished in a pin point blip.  A loud Boooo-Whoop echoed across the grounds.

            One by one, Flynn, Rathbone and the rest of my pals slowly began to fade out and dissolve in a white blips, leaving small bursts of white powder in their wake.  By the time the smoke literally cleared, it was just me, Chuck, the sibs, Jeeves, Jer and the boys in blue.  I turned to Chuck with a grin.

            "Case closed, Chuck.  Take these bums away."

            One of Jer's boys grabbed Baxter, who pulled away and latched onto my trench's lapels.

            "Where's the proof, Beal?  All the evidence you think you had is in there!  No court will believe any of you!  They'll think it was mass hypnosis, or . . . "

            The words died in his mouth when I pulled out the security DVD box, the words HOLO-ROOM visible for him to see.

            "You never shut off the security cameras, genius.  Everything that happened, even your admission of the deaths of Curtin and Taylor, are on this disc.  But what do I know?  I'm just a gumshoe.  A wannabe-Bogart, didn't you say?  You're the Shyster;  you think this is enough evidence to convict?"

            His whole body seemed to shrink inside that custom made suit.  To most, he probably looked smaller, older than before.  But I knew that look from experience. 

            The shyster looked beaten.

            Jer grabbed his arm, snapped a pair of bracelets on and led him away.  He turned and gave me the fish eye, then turned away.  I knew that was as much of a thanks as he would ever give.

            "Thanks again for your help, Jake."

            "Always a pleasure, Chuck, my boy.  Always a pleasure."

            "May I speak with Mr. Beal before I go?  Privately?"

            Jer was just about to put Angel, who also sported a pair of bracelets, in one of the patrol cars, when she piped up.  All eyes turned towards me.  I nodded and she came forward.  I walked her out of earshot.

            "Jake.  It doesn't have to be this way."

            "It doesn't?"

            "No.  I could plead as an accessory; you can back me up.  I'll tell them it was all Frank's idea; that he made me do it."

            "Yeah?  And what's in it for me?"

            "Me, Jake.  You can't tell me you didn't feel something back in your office?"

            She then hooked her cuffed wrists around my neck and kissed me; deeply.  I kissed her back, just as hard.  I stepped back and looked over at the waiting police, then back to her.

            "Sorry, Angel, I'm going to send you over.  Chances are you'll get life.  That means if you're a good girl, you'll be out in twenty years; I'll be waiting for you.  On the other hand, well, I'll always remember you."

            "Jake!"

            "I won't play the sap for you.  You see, Angel, you run hot and cold.  The hot I can only imagine; the cold I don't like."  I took two steps back and turned around.  "Chuck!  Get her out of here!  If I never see her again, it'll be too soon."

            As they took her away, I lit another stogie.  Though I never smoked the real ones, part of me considered starting a new habit.  Chuck came over and placed a strong hand on my shoulder.

            "You okay?"

            "I'll have a few sleepless nights, but I'll get over it.  Roughed up much?"

            "No.  I'm fine.  Let's go home, Jake."

            "Yeah, Chuck; it's been a long night."

            We made our way across the huge lawn, past the smoking debris of the mansion.  A headlight from a police car shined through the smoke in the distance.  We walked into the swirling mist, towards Ol' Betsy.  I looked around and started to chuckle.

            "Chuck?"

            "What, Jake?"

            "You know, Chuckie; this could be the beginning of a . . . "

            "Oh, no you don't!  I'm not going to let you set me up like that!"

            "But, Chuck . . . "

            "Don't but, Chuck me!  Even I saw Key Largo!"

            "Key Largo?!  That's the last line from Casablanca, you dope!"

            "No it wasn't."

            "Yes, it was!"

            "Oh, yeah, wise guy?  Then what was the last line in Key Largo?"

            "What does that have to . . . "

            "You don't know, do you?"

            "Chuck!"

            "I don't believe this!  I stumped you!  I stumped you good!"

            "It ain't that way at all."

            "Don't pout, Jake."

            "I ain't pouting, ya berk!"

            "Berk?"

            "Now don't start on that!"

            Unfortunately, this argument continued until I dropped him off at his house.  But that's the sort of thing pals do, don't they?

EPILOGUE

            This is my favorite part of the story.  It's when the hero (that's me) waxes philosophic in his wrap up of the case and ties up a few loose ends, to boot.

            I'm back in my office, sipping on a few fingers of bourbon, a little Miller playing on the CD player, his golden trombone covering me like a velour blanket.  To me, this is the best way to end your day.

            But let me give you the skinny on what happened after the arrest before I get too relaxed and ask you to take a powder.

            Chuckie got a commendation from the mayor for solving the case, which landed him on all the news channels and he became the flavor of the day; for a little while, anyway.  I got a little PR in the process myself.  Meanwhile, our plug-ugly buddy Jer is still trying to figure out what happened, even though all the major stations explained what happened.  The boy's about as sharp as a bag of wet mice.

            For the record, even though Manuel never did get the big thumb from me on the shirts, or the other products, I seem to see more and more people wearing my mug on their heads and chest.  They shoot me an atta-boy if they pass me on the street, and I get that ah-shucks feeling.  I ain't so tough.

            Now, Millie's taking Manny to court, saying that Chuck should have a shirt and product line of his own.  Chuck's turning the blind eye on this one.  I wanted you to know this straight from the horse's mouth, so you don't think I went Hollywood.

            Frank Baxter and Victoria Curtin went up for two murders in the first; two life sentences to be served consecutively.  Every Christmas, when I'm feeling especially mushy, I send Angel a card.  I had Manny put Baxter on Jake Beal Fan Club mailing list.  He gets an official monthly Jake Beal newsletter, and I have Manny include product samples from the entire Jake Beal line.  Mugs, tee-shirts, post cards, board games, 8 x 10 glossies of yours truly; you name it, I got Manny sending it.  This year I asked Manny to send the newest product to the pen; a six foot Jake Beal cardboard stand-up. 

            Ain't I a stinker?

            Peckington-Smythe was sent up the river and spent a little over a year in the jug.  Because he turned state's evidence, he was given an early release.  Of course, he wrote a tell-all book on the case, building up his part along the way.  Then came the movie.  They had this Fred Ward guy play Chuck, but, in comparison, Ward's way too pretty.  An actor named Campbell played me; did a few cult films, I heard.  I had never seen him before, but as far as I was concerned, he did an okay job. The biggest hoot was that they got Sir Ian McKellen to play Jeeves.  That guy needs to get a new agent, if you ask me.  Jeevesie is now a talk show host, and, from the last time I looked, his ratings were pretty good.           

            Only in America.

            Been debating with myself if I'll continue this Sam Spade guise, ‘specially since I got an up close and personal look at my fantasy.  I know it’s a gimmick, but I also know part of it is me.  And those fantasies, well, they don't play too well in real life.  No black and white, no Technicolor, no CinemaScope, no Adolph Deutsch score playing the mood in the background.  Plus there were other things that were missing that you just can't put words to, no matter how hard you try - a feeling I guess.                         

            Maybe it's just called Hollywood.

            Then I realized that no debate was needed.  I represent a time gone by, even if it was only on a silver screen.  But what was up there people believed in, wanted to be; trusted.  And if I can bring a little of that feeling back while helping a mug, or two along the way, well then, that's swell.

            Close-up on the Hollywood sign reflecting in my window.  Slow pull back.  In the window's reflection, you can see I'm wearing my trench coat and fedora.  I light my stogie and pull my hat down snug, my transparent image superimposed over the sign's white letters. 

            I'm Jake Beal.  I'm a gumshoe. 

            Fade to black.

            The End.

 

 

 

Reviews

[.:Naiira Harlow:.]

Yet again not something I normally read, but it was interesting. I do like detective stories, but I've never been big on the 1940's and 50's. I like the character Jake Beal. He's a very interesting man. The case you chose was interesting as well. A man who shot a guy when he didn't have a gun walking up to him. That's rather interesting. I could actually see this as a mini show episode. I can imagine Jake Beal sitting and getting a call from chuck. Like I said, this usually isn't the stuff I'm used to reading so I don't know what else to say besides good work!
-Twilight