It was a day like any other day, with one exception: I wasn’t wearing shoes.

The want ad said the Tower District apartment was "charming with sun porch."

What possible charm it ever had was seriously marred by age, disrepair and several layers of peanut butter colored paint; and a sun porch on an overcast dripping hot summer day made as much sense as an iron lung with moon roof.

Still, the apartment was as cheap as generic paper towels and within easy walking distance of the Daily Planet restaurant and bar, where I hung out between jobs. And, it was carpeted. Carpet that, to be sure, dirt clung to like an insurance salesman to a hot prospect, but carpet nonetheless.

Personally, I never cared much for bare wood floors. If man were meant to walk on solid oak, he would have been given Swifters instead of feet.

As the steaming, heavy-dropped summer rain slapped against the slatted windows of my sun porch and growing puddles of rainwater merrily pooled on the windowsills, I sat gazing out at my sultry, dust-spotted neighborhood.

Life passed very slowly at the intersection of Floradora and Poplar.

Very little ever happened.

My second floor aerie gave a unique Tower District vantage point that allowed vision across a hundred roof tops and over time afforded intimate glimpses into the lives of as many people.

Old people, I knew, never ventured outside. Most of the neighborhood simply went to work in the mornings and returned after dark. Their TV sets glowed blue and green like icy hearths. The children of the neighborhood, however, played outside all day long, and had imaginatively turned the neighborhood garbage dumpster into a Clingon fortress. My youthful and otherwise unemployed neighbors in the house below my sun porch had duct taped aluminum foil on all the windows of a bedroom. Lots of people had begun arriving at the house at all hours, leaving within minutes with small paper-bagged bundles furtively hidden beneath their shirts. I marvel at the recovery proud Americans like my neighbors could make in hard economic times.

Bette Midler’s version of "Delta Dawn" from her first – and very best – album blared from my boombox as my eyes wandered down to the Clingon dumpster. Someone had painted "My Aim is True" on it.

Inside the dumpster, something moved.

I surprised myself at first, irrationally thinking it was a cat, even though there had been no stray animals in the neighborhood since the evacuation of Ho Chi Minh City.

The movement in the Clingon dumpster, slight and tentative at first, took on greater meaning as its tempo increased and I realized it was a full-grown person thrashing about in the old newspapers, beer cans and empty food stamp booklets. It was a redheaded woman wearing waist-high waders and an International Harvester baseball cap.

She was bleeding from her forehead. The rain mixed with her blood and sent a light pink trickle down the side of the Clingon dumpster to the asphalt.

Next to catching a late night superstation cablecast of "Mannix," there had been nothing this exciting in my life for months.

The redhead in waist-high waders shakily raised herself inside the Clingon dumpster as I sloshed across the littered lawn. Neatly sidestepping the enormous and deadly land mines left by my below-stairs neighbor’s dog, I made my way to the wounded, delirious woman.

The hot rain beat down harder than a clumsy dentist’s drill.

The black sky loomed larger than Yoko Ono’s sunglasses.

I reached the redhead in waist-high waders as she stood straight and tumbled into my arms. She was a foot shorter and dozens of pounds lighter than I was, and I easily held her and strained for better footing in the grimy, frothing grass.

My left foot landed on the top of a battered Tonka toy truck, which skidded into the gutter, dropping us both into the filthy, verminous street water next to the Clingon dumpster.

Righting myself and straightening my soggy Bette Midler tee shirt, I half-carried, half- dragged the redhead in waist-high waders down the sidewalk to my apartment/office door. Stair by dusty stair, I pulled her to the relative safety of my sun porch.

Water beaded on her waders and oozed to the ratty green carpet. Blood congealed on her forehead as I lifted her cap and discovered a bruised cut – inflicted, I surmised from experience, by a blunt instrument like a baseball bat, or a wrench. Or, I thought, by an International Harvester tractor.

"This dame is on the run," I said to myself as I lifted her Adidas-clad feet to the footstool.

I slapped her cheeks lightly. She wasn’t coming to.

You didn’t have to be a detective to know she was beautiful, but it helped.

She had cheekbones like chiseled banisters. Her hair was long and as creamy as Kraft macaroni and cheese. She was bursting all over like an overstuffed laundry bag. Wickedness burst from her dazed eyes like crazed salmon. Even comatose, she exuded the power of a dozen full-tilt microwave ovens.

There was too much to consider. The waders. The shoes. The red hair. The banister cheeks. The slight smell of crabmeat on her breath. Something awfully queer was going on.

I carefully dressed her wound with paper towels and Bactine and waited for her to regain consciousness – an act I found myself performing often in the Tower District.

As the rain pitter-pattered against the slatted windows of my sun porch, I thought back to what had brought me to the Tower District in the first place.

Years before I was a bright and eager Fresno State College criminology major (expelled in my senior year on an alleged lewd conduct charge – how was I to know sheep could talk?) I set up shop as a private detective in the sleepy central Fresno village of the Tower District.

What a time. Repossessing cars. Hunting missing people. Guard duty at the Lube-N-Go. It was the school of hard knocks, for sure. There was the occasional field trip to Firebaugh or Mendota, but the really glamorous jobs people read about were actually few and far between.

And suddenly, this curvaceous green-eyed redhead reclined on my sofa. She snored lightly, and a trace of spittle dripped from her ruby-red mouth.

The window air conditioner cranked jealously though icy slats and hummed a sweet lullaby for my red-hennaed baby doll.

The hairy mole left of her nose twitched a bit. She was coming around.

"Oh, Mr. Armadillo," she said breathlessly. "I’m in trouble!" She toyed playfully with the golden beads around her freckled, pretty little neck.

"You came to the right dumpster," I said. I smiled warmly and burned the filter end of a Marlboro Light. "I’m trying to quit these things."

"The world will appreciate your self-control, Mr. Armadillo," she flashed her bright greens at me, scarlet fingertips clutching heaving breasts. "But for now, I have a job for you!"

"I go for a hundred dollars a day," I said. "Plus One Hour Martinizing expenses."

"Anything, Mr. Armadillo, whatever it takes," she began to cry.

I handed her a towel. This redhead really was in trouble.

"Oh, Mr. Armadillo," she cried.

"Call me ‘Arthur,’" I said. It never hurts to be comforting with a client. Something about improved outcomes.

With the towel she wiped her tear bestained face clean. The hairy mole disappeared. Maybe it had been just an olive pit.

"Mr. Armadillo – Arthur," she corrected herself in between primal sobs. "I’m in trouble!" She sobbed harder for special effect, and spittle flew across her face. "Someone is trying to kill me!"

I realized then that she had never before looked so beautiful.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Here, in my apartment/office with sun porch overlooking the corner of Floradora and Poplar, in the midst of economic recession, with millions out of work and millions more going hungry, I, Arthur Armadillo, Private Investigator, had a job.

I could tell this redhead meant nothing but trouble.

"Mr. Armadillo – Arthur," she said, breasts-a-heaving, spittle flying across chiseled cheeks, sending not-too-subtle messages with those flashing green eyes, "I could use a glass of Chardonnay."

I checked my refrigerator and found nothing but a near-empty carton of Hershey’s chocolate milk, two packages of Ding Dongs and a container of baking soda.

"We’ll have to travel," I said. "I know a place."

I helped her up and enabled her to exchange her bulky waders for a fur I had bought from my neighbor’s yard sale. I escorted her on the short walk around the corner to the Daily Planet restaurant and bar, beneath the thrusting spire of the Tower Theatre.

There was nothing quite like the Tower District as a good, hard summer rain came to an end. Bright and shiny, the streets glimmered like a river of cubic zirconias. Even the air, usually befouled by the stench of a thousand baking chicken pies, was fresh and sweet. Birds tweeted, crickets clicked in the ferns, bag ladies rustled.

We walked past the neighborhood newspaper boy, a young fellow wearing droopy jeans and a "Mad Max" jacket. His hair was white and he carried a small carbine and a grenade launcher. I reminded myself not to fool with him at collection time.

At the Daily Planet the green-eyed redhead moved toward a table with a glide as strong and graceful as a rabid badger. Ella Fitzgerald sang "I’ve Got a Crush on You" on the stereo.

"Gimme a glass of Chardonnay," she instructed the waiter. "An’ don’t be stingy, baby."

I felt some late nights coming on and ordered a double espresso.

I gazed out the window at Roger Rocka’s Good Company Players dinner theatre across the street as the evening’s audience arrived by chartered bus. A polyester parade included a very large woman all dressed in white. I figured she was big enough for 70-millimeter projection with Dolby. It must have been buffet night.

I was suspicious. I was wary. I was hungry.

The waiter reappeared with our beverages. "How about an appetizer?" he inquired brightly.

The green-eyed redhead turned disconsolate with sobs.

"Maybe later," I said and motioned the waiter away. With a look between rejection and clock-watching, the waiter turned abruptly and left.

"Lagoon" she said.

"What’s that?" I asked.

"It’s French," she smiled. "The waiter is an oaf. Lagoon."

"You’re bilingual," I said.

"I am also ambidextrous," she replied.

"What you do in the privacy of your own home is no matter to me," I said. I took a deep gulp of boiling espresso.

"Arthur," the redhead returned my attention from my scalding throat to the matters at had. "I need your help desperately."

She pulled a Gitanes from her bag. My Bic flared. "I’ve been involved," she was crying once more.

I downed my double espresso in a long, quick gulp. She doused the Gitanes in her Chardonnay and rearranged her fur.

"I have to be honest with you," she said, tear-stained green eyes staring straight into my new Bette Midler tee shirt.

"I expect nothing less," I said as a man looking remarkably like Cary Grant sat at a nearby table. I eyed him as he was joined by a geek.

"Dig the sophisticated icon," I said to myself, "and the geek."

The green-eyed redhead grew increasingly nervous and lighted two cigarettes at once.

I heard Cary Grant and the geek order chicken livers in Marsala sauce and coffees to go.

"I can’t talk here," she said. She lighted another two cigarettes and nodded her tousled head at Cary Grant and the geek. "We must go someplace else."

This woman, I made a mental note, wasn’t wearing her Adidas for fashion alone.

I suggested we walk around the corner.

I signed the ticket to my Daily Planet tab and we walked out the door to Wishon Avenue, then west on Olive. I had the feeling we were being followed.

In the grimy but reflective rock-resistant windows of Sonia’s Polynesian Fashions (The "Come on I wanna lei ya" sign had been in the window for years) I spied Cary Grant and the geek just a few steps behind us and closing in fast.

The geek had his hands inside his rain slicker pockets.

The green-eyed redhead was chewing gum and walking at the same time. I realized she was truly something special.

We walked faster. Cary Grant and the geek remained close behind us. I was eyeing a terrific 1930’s bamboo chair in the window of an art deco store when gunshots rang out. A horrible, gut-searing, terrifying pain ripped across my left ankle as I slammed to the damp, mucky sidewalk.

My redhead screamed.

I heard Cary Grant and the geek laughing.

I heard Elvis Costello on a passing car radio.

I had torn my new Bette Midler tee shirt.

As my left ankle seared and bruised, I realized my green-eyed redhead meant nothing but trouble.

She, Cary Grant and the Geek were gone.

She’d left me no way to reach her, no money – not even her American Express card – but I knew I was on a case. Maybe the case of my career.

Besides, MediCal wouldn’t cover the ankle wound without a lot of paperwork, so I knew I had to find her. Plus, someone had to pay for the damage to my brand-new Bette Midler tee shirt.

I had always figured I would fly from adversity with a confirmed first-class ticket.

There was something about my green-eyed redhead that puzzled me. I didn’t know what I was up against, exactly, but it was too clean, too obvious, too easy. I was headed for trouble like a bowler to chili cheese fries.

And my redhead was missing. Green eyes. Ruby red lips. Corinthian cheeks. The waders. The fur. The crabmeat on her breath.

Waders! A clue! The Fresno State College criminology department had taught me a few things, and one of them was something about clues.

I limped east on Olive to Bob’s Bass Masters, resisting the temptation to stop along the way at the Chicken Pie Shop for a bowl of little red Jell-O cubes.

"Little red Jell-O cubes will have to wait," I said to myself. "I’m on a case."

"What kind of waders?" the little man I assumed was Bob of Bob’s Bass Masters asked.

"They could have been rubber," I replied. "Or they could have been plastic. How am I to know? I’m a private detective, Bob, not a bass man."

Bob shrugged his shoulders. "I sold a pair of waders just recently. I’ll have to try to remember. Can you check back?"

I staggered out of Bob’s Bass Masters feeling defeated.

My ankle pounded.

I was suspicious. I was wary. I was hungry.

As much as the Chicken Pie Shop beckoned me, it would have to wait. There was a redhead to find.

I decided to stake out the Tower District and do my laundry at the same time. Granny’s Wash-N-Dry afforded a good view of the street and there was no use running up One Hour Martinizing expenses on a client that, for all I knew, could be in Cannes or Coarsegold. I stumbled home and dragged my dirty laundry duffel back.

Pouring a level cup of fresh-mint Gain detergent into a Granny’s washing machine, I was astounded to look up and see Cary Grant and the geek stuff a large canvas bag into a dryer. They didn’t see me as I hid behind a large woman hanging her lingerie on a cart.

I was suspicious. And wary. And lacy.

They put a single quarter in the machine, slipped out the back door of Granny’s, hopped in a tan BMW and sped away.

I made a mental note that, while stuffing a large, overly plumped canvas bag into a Granny’s dryer was not a particularly odd occurrence in the Tower District, trying to dry anything with just one quarter was exceedingly optimistic. Two quarters, maybe. But only if you plan to leave your jeans in the sun for a day or two.

"Wait a minute!" I screamed.

I ran to the twisting, tumbling dryer and slammed it open.

"Oh, my God!"

As I helped my green-eyed redhead crawl out of the Granny’s dryer, I realized that she had never before looked so beautiful.

But then, she’d been through quite a tumble.

Under the bare fluorescent lights, even her Adidas shone with a special brilliance.

"Oh, thank you!" she said, hugging and kissing me in a passionate and meaningful moment. She smiled and tried to rub her ruby-red lipstick from my face.

I noticed that the hairy mole left of her nose had reappeared. Had she had time to east since I last saw her?

"Oh, Arthur! You’re bleeding!" she cried.

"It’s nothing," I said, and caressed my swollen ankle. "Just a flesh wound.

"Good!" she said, and pushed me playfully, her fluff-dried tresses bouncing. "Let’s eat!"

Over quesadillas at Cuca’s Mexican restaurant on Olive she began to open up. A Mexican band cooed Stevie Wonder songs over a polka beat on the jukebox.

"Dos Equis," she had told the waitress.

Was that some kind of code?

"Arthur," she said, beaming those bright greens at me, "I’m in so much trouble."

The waitress arrived with two dark, foaming beers. How did she know?

"Arthur," the redhead said, "there are secrets in the Tower District that people will kill for, and I’m afraid I’m going to be one of those people."

"One of the people they kill?" I asked. "Or that kills?"

"They kill me," she said.

I sipped my beer. It tasted, weirdly, Mexican.

"What secrets? Who’s trying to kill you? What’s going on?" I asked.

"Time," she said, "will tell." She winked and let her fur drop below her shoulders. A sign, I knew from my Fresno State College criminology classes, of comfort or something.

I reached across the table, my sleeve drooping in the tri-bowled selection of salsas, and grasped her fingers. "Tell me now," I said.

"I need to," she said. Tears welled in her eyes and mascara sluiced down her bas relief cheeks. Was she serious, or was it the salsa?

"Here are your quesadillas!" the waitress intoned ever-so-cheerfully. I asked for two more beers.

"Dos Equis?" she asked.

Again, that code. I was suspicious. And confused. "Beers, beers! Bring beers!" I shouted forcefully. The waitress backed off.

Alone again – at last – with my redhead. She curled her Adidas beneath her in the booth, I knew she meant business.

"Tell me more," I said. "It’s the only way I can help you."

"I can’t tell you," she flashed those bright greens at me again.

My quesadilla drooped. "Why not?" I asked.

"Because, I’m," she gasped for breath. "I’m … not … able …"

"Tell me," I leaned forward, smiling.

"Food …" she sobbed.

"Yeah, what about it?" I asked. "Some pretty good grub, huh? Salsa isn’t too hot for you? You want some more? Want some more chips?"

"It’s … it’s …" in between gasps and sobs, she struggled for breath. "It’s the food!"

My mind raced. "It’s a food scam?" I asked.

"No!" she shouted hoarsely. "Food!"

"Someone’s stealing food?" I asked. "Is that it?"

"Food! Food!" she panted. "Food poisoning!"

And she was gone.

It was only then that I realized the funny resemblance the waitress had to Cary Grant.

As she tossed her quesadillas on Olive Avenue, I realized my green-eyed redhead had never before looked so beautiful.

There was a trace of dark, Mexican beer mixed with cheddar cheese, tortillas and crabmeat on her breath as I pressed my lips to hers in a long and passionate embrace.

"I’m feeling better now, Arthur," she smiled and readjusted her fur.

"You need to settle your stomach," I said, and suggested we cross the street to the Chicken Pie Shop for some little red Jell-O cubes.

She started to cry.

"Can the tears, Red," I said. "We’ve got work to do." I was tough. I was comforting.

I was also hungry. A chicken pie, some mashed potatoes, creamed niblets and a cola seemed just the thing.

Thoughts of Apple Brown Betty danced around my brain.

My redhead daintily blew her nose and we ran through traffic across Olive Avenue. The lights from the Tower Theatre spire were on and reflected romantically in her bright greens.

I made a mental note to inquire why the Chicken Pie Shop was open so late. I hoped too, that they would have little Red Jell-O cubes.

As we entered, I was suspicious. All the waitresses were wearing green commando fatigues, Army boots and M-16s on their backs.

"They’re werewolves," my friend Speedo Puente once said about the Chicken Pie Shop waitresses.

Inside the Chicken Pie Shop, near the "Please Wait to Be Seated" sign, I was hit hard on the back of my head with a blunt object. Like a baseball bat. Or an International Harvester tractor. As I plowed into dreamland, I heard my redhead screaming.

When I came to, it was morning and I was seated in a bright green Chicken Pie booth.. A 101 Strings version of Blue Oyster Cult’s "Don’t Fear the Reaper" played throughout the restaurant.

"Coffee, sir?" asked a pleasant-faced, if slightly aged, waitress.

"Where am I?" I shouted. "What time is it?"

"Oh, dear," the grandmotherly waitress sang. "We’ve had quite the evening! We do need our coffee this morning, don’t we?"

"Buns," I said.

"Pardon me?" the waitress asked.

"Buns," I muttered. "Bring me buns and butter."

The waitress left to retrieve my order, her heavy Army boots clump-clumping across the shiny orange and green tile floor. I tried to recollect the events of the last several hours. My pounding headache brought it all back.

The redhead.

My redhead.

Where was she?

I wolfed down the buns and splashed coffee in my mouth.

I had to find her.

I was suspicious.

Leaving a larger tip than necessary, I paid the bill and rushed outside into a dry summer day. I realized I never would find her without help.

Zelma would know. Nothing passed through the Tower District without Zelma knowing. I sprinted to the Tower Market on my weakened ankle and skidded into the express check-out lane where Zelma worked.

"Red hair," I told her. "Green eyes. Ruby-red lips. Fur. Adidas."

Zelma smiled as she weighed a zucchini. "Crabmeat on her breath," I said. Zelma cackled as she weighed bananas.

"Have you seen her?" I begged.

"She was in just a few minutes ago," Zelma said, caressing a package of sausages. "Looking for some fancy French cigarettes. I sent her over to Drug Fair."

Outside Tower Market I heard the screeching of tires. I heard Elvis Costello on a car radio.

I looked up to see a tan BMW racing toward me.

I jumped out of the way in time, but further ripped my brand-new Bette Midler tee shirt.

I heard my redhead screaming.

Cary Grant and the geek, in the front seat of the tan BMW, wore green commando fatigues.

My redhead was in the back seat.

Sprawled on the gummy sidewalk, I raised myself to one elbow.

I was desolate. I was wary. I was hungry.

I slumped on the sofa of my Floradora Avenue office/apartment with sun porch in a dead heap. The slight smell of crabmeat lingered. I turned on the TV and called Me-N-Ed’s Pizza. The works. Medium. Hold the anchovies. Heavy on the crabmeat.

I pondered the events of the previous 24 hours.

The green-eyed redhead in fur and Adidas was in my life with two killers after her. What did I do to deserve this? I remembered, I’d never come across a dame like this pulling guard duty at the Lube-N-Go.

A knock at the door.

"Who’s there?" I shouted.

"You ordered a pizza?" the voice replied.

I rushed hungrily to the door. Instead of a pizza, I ate a knuckle sandwich. It was Cary Grant and the geek. They pummeled me into an unrecognizable jumble of bones and bruises.

"Stay away from the girl," the geek growled as he realigned my jaw. "She’s nothing but trouble."

I made a mental note not to argue with that.

"What has she said to you, boy?" Cary Grant asked in his stuffy tone.

"She’s a client. It’s confidential," I mumbled through swelling lips. I, of course, knew nothing, but my Fresno State criminology classes had taught me about aggressive stances or something.

The geek pulled out a purple Bingo dauber and drew a large, crude bulls-eye on my forehead. "You stay away from the girl, my boy," Cary Grant smiled. "Or I will use you for skeet shooting." They dropped me to the floor and beat a hasty exit.

I pulled myself up and filled the sink with the cold, slightly coppery-colored tap water indigenous to the Tower District. I pushed my swollen, bloody mug into the water and thought.

There was another knock at the door. I was suspicious as I lifted my dripping head to shout, "Who’s there?"

"You ordered a pizza?" the voice said.

I wouldn’t fall for that one again. "No one’s home," I shouted.

"You ordered a pizza," the sinister voice said, "or not?"

I was, after all, hungry. Cautiously, I opened the door.

"Ten bucks," the delivery boy growled.

I eyed him suspiciously. "Put it over there," I said and pointed to the sofa. "Will you take food stamps?" I closed the door, enveloped by the sweet smell of crabmeat, and looked closer at the delivery boy.

The mole left of his nose trembled.

I was filled with delight.

My redhead!

As my green-eyed redhead removed her Me-N-Ed’s delivery boy baseball cap, I knew I was in trouble. As she readjusted her white work shirt with "Bart" stenciled near her heaving right breast, causing the "B" and then the "T" to appear and reappear simultaneously, I realized she had never before looked so beautiful.

"Oh, baby!" I said and rushed to her. We embraced passionately.

"I had to get back to you!" she cried breathlessly, her throbbing, quivering red-hennaed tresses revealing ugly blotchy welts and bruises on both ears.

"They’ve hurt your ears," I said tenderly.

"Huh?" she answered vacantly.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs and shook my office/apartment.

"They know I’m here!" she shrieked, traces of spittle flying in my face. She moved gracefully, quickly to the window. The footsteps on the stairs lumbered ominously closer.

Halfway out the window. my redhead flashed those bright greens at me. "I won’t see you again, probably," she smiled. Before dropping down to the ground, she whispered, "It’s the Chicken Pie Plan." She looked scared. "Remember, Arthur, the Chicken Pie Plan!"

And she was gone.

A pounding on the door.

I was doomed. I was frightened. I was hungry.

The pounding on the door grew louder, stronger.

The aching in my heart for the redhead grew, too. "Maybe," I thought to myself, "a slice of pizza could help."

I answered the door.

I was in trouble.

It was my landlady.

"Heidi," I smiled to my Hessian landlady. "How are you today?"

"What are you doing, alla these people coming and going?" Heidi, a big woman by any standards, grabbed me by the neck and inflicted bruises deeper than those caused by Cary Grant and the geek.

"I’m gonna warn you, I’m gonna give you the toss," she growled. "Now, if you don’t give me some peace and quiet, you move!" Heidi dropped me to the floor in a heap. She stormed out and slammed the door behind her.

The telephone rang.

I was suspicious. I was wary.

As I crawled across my living room to the phone on my sun porch, each movement caused rivulets of pain throughout my body. With my last ounce of strength, I answered the phone. "Hello?" I croaked.

The voice on the other end was deep and sinister, sort of like Lucille Ball in the final years. "Mr. Armadillo?" she graveled.

"Yes," I wheezed.

"Mr. Armadillo?" she repeated, ominously, soullessly.

"Yes!" I said. "Yes!"

"Mr. Armadillo, I am so glad I could reach you," she confided. "I’m calling because our truck will be in your neighborhood next week to pick up your rummage. Do you have any rummage?" I slammed down the phone.

I picked myself up, showered,, shaved, slipped on a freshly-laundered new Bette Midler tee shirt, put Bette’s deeply meaningful and ironically titled "Songs for the New Depression" album on the stereo and called my friend Speedo Puente.

"Hey, Dillo! My man," Speedo laughed. "How are you? Dillo, you know, you’ve called just in time, man. I just got a new shipment of enchiladas."

"That’s going to have to wait, Speedo," I said. "I’m on a case."

"You’re working?" Speedo asked.

"Yeah," I said. "A case. I’m working."

"Well," Speedo said, "what’s the unemployment department going to say about that?"

I made a mental note to be sure my redhead paid me in cash. If I ever saw her again.

I quickly filled Speedo in on the events. Green-eyed redhead. Romulan cheeks. Fur. Adidas. Cary Grant and the geek. Chicken Pie Shop waitresses in commando uniforms.

"They’re werewolves!" Speedo exulted. "You didn’t believe me, man! I told you so!"

And I told him the redhead’s final words.

"El Plan de Pollo, huh?" Speedo said. "Commandos." Speedo was incredulous. He was also twisted. But IU realized this case could use his alternative perspective.

"Yeah," I said. "I’ll come over to your place, Speedo. I think I’m being watched here. It’s dangerous.

"By Cary Grant and the geek?" Speedo asked.

"No," I said, and a chill ran the length of my spine, raising the little hairs on the back of my neck. "My landlady."

I put down the phone and realized I was on to something here. The Chicken Pie Plan. Maybe the very fabric of the American way of life was at stake. Or maybe they were out of little red Jell-O cubes. My body tingled. My stomach rumbled.

I left my Floradora Avenue office/apartment and rushed to Speedo’s place on Elizabeth Avenue.

Whistling ("Mr. Rockefeller", a misunderstood tune Bette Midler wrote herself) I confidently walked along Van Ness Avenue through a pleasant neighborhood of Gothic-inspired homes.

My vision crossed the street and I stopped dead in my tracks. There, in the alleyway behind the Chicken Pie Shop, was a large truck. Before crossing over one-way Van Ness, I looked both ways.

Creeping closer, I searched for a better view of the truck. In the dimming light of a squinting summer sun, I could barely make out the men in commando fatigues that unloaded heavy boxes from the truck and carried them into the back door of the Chicken Pie Shop.

I moved through the crowded parking lot of the Tower Market for a much closer look.

There was writing on each box. Coming up fast behind me, I heard Elvis Costello on a car radio.

I heard my redhead screaming.

I looked inside the back door of the Chicken Pie Shop. I couldn’t believe what I saw!

I made a mental note to visit my optometrist.

I made Speedo’s Elizabeth Avenue apartment in minutes flat. Boxy, low-slung and gray, the apartment buildings were depressing, but cheap. The swimming pool, deep and cool, was surrounded by electrified chain link and concertina wire after they caught me sneaking into the summer before.

I started swimming at the YMCA instead. It was kinda creepy, but it was a pool.

"Speedo," I said as I was ushered into his second-floor studio. "I don’t know where she is."

The air conditioner barked out icy breaths.

Speedo handed me a chilled Budweiser light and reclined on a purple plastic chaise lounge. "Someday," he said, and tapped the chaise lounge, "this will be an antique. And I will be rich."

"Speedo," I said, "you’ve got to listen to me. She’s gone." I took a deep breath and sucked down the froth oozing from my Bud light. "On my way over here, I saw something. Something you won’t believe in a million years. Something incredible."

"What is it, man," Speedo asked.

"I was in back of the Chicken Pie Shop," I said. "There’s this big truck. These guys dressed like commandoes carrying heavy crates inside."

"They’re werewolves," Speedo said.

"No, not the waitresses," I said. "Big guys. Big heavy boxes. These guys are unloading these boxes from the truck. Heavy, heavy boxes, Speedo."

"They use hand trucks?" Speedo asked.

"No," I said. "On the boxes are initials. Initial letters. Like a logo. On every box."

"What’s it say?" Speedo asked.

"A-E-C," I said.

"What’s that?" Speedo asked.

"A-E-C," I said. "Think about it."

"A-E-C?" Speedo asked.

"Yeah," I said, and let it sink into Speedo. In his other-worldly condition, these things took time. Finally, he got it.

"Atomic Energy Commission," Speedo shouted. Then it really hit him. He shuddered in his Hawaiian shirt. "Nukes?" he asked. "Nukes in the Tower District?"

"Boom," I said. "Advance to Park Place my boy."

"This is worse than when Starbucks moved in," Speedo grimaced.

"Face it," I said. "It’s the end of civilization, however you look at it."

"Next thing you know," Speedo said, "there’ll be a Blockbuster." I didn’t have the heart to remind him there were two Blockbusters in the Tower.

Speedo’s baby blue princess phone rang. Speedo answered. "It’s for you," he said and handed the phone to me.

"Arthur!" my redhead cried. How did she find me? "I need to see you right away!"

My heart beat hard.

I was suspicious. I was wary. I was hungry.

"Where are you? I asked. "Are you okay?"

"Arthur, I’m safe," she whimpered. "I can meet you at Bobby Salazar's."

"You’re in the cantina?" I asked. She was calling from a Mexican bar on Olive Avenue a block west of the Tower Theatre.

"It’s dark and loud," she said. "The band is good. I feel safe here."

"How did you find me?" I asked.

Suddenly, a dial tone. Was this a trap?

I had to see my redhead. Besides, the band at Bobby Salazar’s was particularly hot.

"I’m going to need help," I said to Speedo.

"Anything you need, I got," Speedo said. "How about some Vicodin?"

"No," I said. "I need your help. I need you to watch the Chicken Pie Shop. There’s something big going on over there."

"Starbucks. Blockbusters. Now nukes in the Tower District," Speedo shook his head slowly. "Next thing you know, parking meters."

Nukes, indeed.

At Bobby Salazar’s, I found my green-eyed redhead at a table by the restrooms, sipping a glass of Chablis and sucking nervously on a Gitanes. I thought of burning a Marlboro Light, but instead ordered a double espresso and sat.

The band was doing Elvis Costello’s "Watching the Detectives" to a bouncy Latin beat and I made a mental note to ask if they knew "Do You Wanna Dance?"

My redhead’s hands were shaking. The mole on her left cheek trembled.

"Arthur!" she cried, Chardonnay-soaked spittle splattering her leonine cheeks and dripping from her chin.

I realized then that she had never before looked so beautiful.

In the overly-dim lights of Bobby Salazar’s, her fur glistened with a supernatural quality. Her ruby-red lips looked luscious as she spoke. The unmistakable aroma of crabmeat lingered. "Arthur," my red-hennaed baby doll whispered above the din, "we’re both in trouble now!"

As Cary Grant and the geek emerged from the restrooms I found I could not disagree.

I downed my double espresso in one long, burning gulp and rushed my redhead to the dance floor. We danced a close and slow tango when I felt a long, cold needle jab into my arm.

I turned to see the geek smile and pull the needle back.

I heard my redhead screaming.

As the drug kicked in and my eyes rolled back into my head and I collapsed to the dance floor in an ecstatic stupor, I made a mental note to find out where I could get some more of this good, good stuff.

It was cool and dark when I opened the door to my Floradora office/apartment. The lights burst on with uncertain warmth and a hundred people screamed. They were all there; everyone I had ever met and some I had yet to know. Colored lights revolved, banners swayed from the ceiling. Smiles, drinks, cakes and candles.

Over in the corner by the refrigerator she stood stiffly, long dark hair curling over big sunglasses. She sucked alternately from a small bottle of Schnapps in one hand and a Benson and Hedges Ultra Light in the other. She held herself tensed as though she were prepared to turn and scramble away at a moment’s notice.

I held my hands out to her and she brightened visibly. We clutched. "Jackie," I said, "how kind of you to come to my birthday party."

She smiled wistfully, graciously. "Oh, Arthur," she replied. "I wouldn’t have missed it for the world."

Suddenly, I was flying. I had wings and was flying 50,000 feet over Missouri. I was piloting Air Force One. Richard Nixon sulked in his compartment. I was the pilot of Air Force One, flying evil President Nixon somewhere over Missouri. I grabbed the controls and pushed. The plane went down, down, down …

I awoke in darkness.

"Arthur!" my redhead said. "You’re awake! Finally! I’ve been waiting all night! Are you all right?"

I realized that my redhead and I were lying on the floor of a darkened room, face to face, wrapped head to toe in Bungee cords. We were naked. Where was my brand-new Bette Midler tee shirt?

Fresno State College criminology had prepared me for a lot of important, stressful events and stuff, but not this. But then, I never took Bungee cords 101.

"Wriggle," I told my redhead.

"What?" she answered.

"Wriggle," I said. "Wriggle and we can be free."

We began to rock back and forth. Slowly at first, then, in unison, our writhing took on an animal force all its own.

"Don’t stop!" my redhead said.

"Faster," I said. "Faster!"

My redhead emitted a long, low moan as a Bungee cord snapped and we broke free.

"Oh, Arthur," she panted. "That was beautiful."

I jumped up and felt the walls for a light switch. I found a lamp and switched it on. My redhead flashed her bright greens at me.

I was suspicious. I was wary. I was all goose-pimply.

"Oh, Arthur, that was wonderful!" my redhead cried.

"No time for words, Red," I said. "We’re in some serious trouble."

I saw that we were in some kind of furniture storeroom. My clothes were nowhere to be found. I ripped the shade off the lamp and slipped it up to my waist. It was confining, but necessary.

I helped my redhead up as she readjusted her fur, then opened the door and stepped outside into the bird sounds and sunny warmth of a beautiful blue sky Tower District day.

I had my bearings immediately. We had been held hostage in the back room of the International Furniture Mart on Olive Avenue, three blocks west of the Tower Theatre.

A motorcycle stood outside the door.

"Hop on!" I said excitedly.

"Again?" my redhead said. "Already?"

"The motorcycle, honey," I smiled. I made a mental note to remember how beautiful she was.

I kick started the motorcycle and heard Elvis Costello on an approaching car radio. Cary Grant and the geek rounded the corner in their tan BMW as me and my redhead raced off.

This called for evasive action. I shifted uncomfortably in my lampshade as my redhead’s fur fluttered madly in the breeze. I ran the red light at Palm and Olive and made a mental note to return my copy of "The Godfather" on DVD to Blockbuster.

Cary Grant and the geek remained in hot pursuit.

We steamed north on Palm and hooked another dangerous, skidding right on McKinley.

The tan BMW stayed directly behind us. Gunshots cracked in the air. My speedometer passed 80 as I turned the motorcycle on Wishon and headed back into the Tower District.

Racing even faster now, we passed Me-N-Ed’s in a blinding flash with Cary Grant and the geek just yards behind us. Bullets whizzed menacingly past my lampshade.

"Hold on!" I shouted to my redhead. We jumped the curb and crashed through the glass door of the Daily Planet. Waiters and customers leaped out of our way. Careening through the kitchen, I drove to the back door of the restaurant. Me and my redhead jumped off the bike and ran through the door to the Tower Theatre parking lot and safety.

"Oh, Arthur," my redhead shouted breathlessly. "That was so exciting!"

As I readjusted my lampshade, I realized we weren’t out of the woods yet.