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.