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 boob 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."