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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tough case?"

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

"What kind of things?"

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

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

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

"Today?"

"Yeah."

"You drink today?"

"A swallow of bourbon this morning."

"A starter."

"Yeah. Nothing else."

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

"Forget I said anything."

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

"Would you believe me if I did?"

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

"Yeah? When was the last time?"

"I was six."

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

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

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

"Did you see that?"

"See what, Jake?"

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

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

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

"Not a problem, Smiley."

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

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

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

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

"You want anything?"

"Naw. I'm okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure, I . . . "

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

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

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

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

"Please call me Jake."

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

Joan?

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

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

"I need a favor from you."

"What kind of a favor?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is there something wrong, Jake?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What kind of place is this?!"

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

"What's wrong?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're sure?"

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

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

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

"See ya, Smiley."

"Leaving already, Jake?"

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

"We're still on for this weekend?"

"We're still on. See ya!"

"Anybody come in?"

"Nope. The place's empty."

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

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

"Why you . . . "

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

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

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

"That ain't the half of it."

"Then tell me now."

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

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

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

"You're number one on my list."

"I hope so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You want to explain that!?"

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

"I've figured it out, Chuck!"

"Figured what out?"

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

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

"Jake!"

"Chuck, you gotta listen to me!"

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

"Go ahead, and this better be good."

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

"I don't follow you."

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

"Right."

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

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

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

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

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

"Or commit a political assassination."

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

"And this became clear after how many drinks?"

"Not a drop. Honest Injun!"

"You expect me to believe this theory."

"Remember the holographic horse?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But . . . "

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

"I can't change your mind?"

"Nope. Catch ya later."

"Where are you off to?"

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

"Why not use the computer in your office?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alone, Mrs. Curtin?"

"Please. Call me Victoria."

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

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

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

"Care for a drink?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, what can I . . . "

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't think so?"

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

"I think you have a noble face."

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

"You're laughing at me?"

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

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

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

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

"Better?"

"Not quite yet. Allow me."

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

"What is it?"

"Mmmmm?"

"What's on my mouth?"

"Me."

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

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

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

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course you may."

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

"Leonard and I had an open relationship."

"I'll say."

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

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

"Frank? He's my lawyer."

"That part I got. And?"

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

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

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

"Victoria."

"When I'm off duty."

"When is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I wanted to thank you personally."

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

"I don't know. . . "

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

"Why do you want to stay on it?"

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

"You could be doing more important things."

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

"Such as this."

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

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

"You won't change your mind?"

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

"What about me? What about us?"

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

"We'll always have Paris."

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

"Paris?"

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

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

"I get the live ones, alright."

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

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

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

"Manuel!"

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

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

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

"Yeah. You're right."

"Then . . . the heater?"

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

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

"May I reach into . . . "

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt my stomach go south and sour.

"NASDAQ?"

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

"What I said, was no, Manuel."

His smile widened. This was gonna take a while.

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

A long while. Which I didn't have.

"Get out, Manuel!"

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

"Get out now, Manuel! Beat it!"

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

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

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

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

"But I can see you're busy."

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

I digest better when a case is closed.

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

"Beal here."

"Jake. It's Chuck."

"What's up."

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

"And what is it?"

"The powder is ceramic."

"Ceramic? Like in pottery?"

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

"So, give. Cut with the mystery."

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

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

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

"Let me guess; Megapix?"

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

"Duncan and Baxter?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jake, don't start."

"I hope Millie . . . "

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

"Who is it, Chuck?"

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

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

"Chuck? Chuck!"

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

"CHUCK!"

"Beal?"

"Jer? That you? What happened?"

"That thing took Chuck!"

"Rewind, pally. Who took Chuck?"

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

"Jimmy Stewart."

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

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

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

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

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

"Beal! Jake Beal!"

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

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

"Yeah, Jimmy. Wha'cha need?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Solid gold'."

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

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

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

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

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

Then he grinned. This was it.

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

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

"HEY!!! That's Pop's car, ya mug!"

I shot back, three for his two, striking him in the chest. Here, I expected him to either go down like a ton of bricks, or shoot back. What I didn't expect was for Cagney/Jarrett to morph again.

Mental note: stop expecting.

He became younger than Jarrett, but older than Rocky. The weight had decreased, but he looked sickly and in an incredible amount of pain. His clothes looked like he had lived in them for about a year; and a real lousy year, at that. His face was smudged with dirt, and he reeked of cheap swill. He was Eddie Bartlett, the has-been gangster in The Roaring Twenties.

"Like I care!"

The only thing that was the same, was that he still held the gun. He fired again, this time hitting the front fender.

"You skunk! Do you have any idea how much that's gonna cost to get fixed?"

Cagney/Bartlett rose into the air, stagger-walking up, then down an invisible set of steps, like he was in the last scene of the movie. He crumpled and rolled down the last few 'steps', like he did in the movie, and came to a stop at my feet. I eek!'d like a girl when a woman suddenly blipped next to the body. She looked like a sot as well, and knew immediately it was actress Gladys George, playing Panama Smith, the woman who loved Bartlett from afar in the flick.

Out of respect for the film, and seeing that I was the only one available to play the beat cop with the next line, I cleared my throat and hit it.

"'Who is he'?"

"He used to be a bigshot."

She never took her eyes from the still face of Cagney/Bartlett as both of them vanished in a pin point of light, like an old TV screen going out.

I spotted two small round objects hovering where the characters were and flipped my fedora in their direction. I got one, but the other flew off into the night.

I reached underneath my hat and wrapped my mit around the thing. As I stood up, the little whatchamacallit began to move. As I struggled with it, I felt it turn red hot in my hand. I released it just as it burst into a puff of white powder. I glanced at my hand and spotted a slight scorch mark. But I didn't care. I knew how it was done. And it was right there in front of my kisser! The whoever who was behind this sent these little whatzis via remote control, like Kamikazes. Once it fulfilled its mission, it self-destructed.

I ran to Ol' Betsy, wincing at the damage. I brushed the broken glass from the rich leather seats and got in. I popped open the glove and took out a small leather case. I couldn't help but smile. I remembered that whenever I saw my movie people, I thought I saw something wizz by, and checked it off to a trick of the light, or something that made sense. Those somethings were those flying balls, which then projected the hologram.

But that wasn't important right now. They had Chuck, and that made me sore. It was time to have a little chat with the Missus and the mouthpiece.