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."