With a rumble and a flash the LA sky cut loose it's burden of rain. A fresh breeze whistled through the window and I clicked into my e-mail with my left hand, as I poured a tumbler of Four Roses bourbon with my right. My name is Madison. Blake Madison, Private Dick. " Close that, wouldja Tina," I said. The tall red-head rose from her desk and her duties( which primarily consisted of finding creative ways of putting off my numerous creditors) and stalked to the window. The breeze flung the split-skirt she was wearing back, revealing a pair of long legs that would make Suzanne Summers give up her thigh master. Taking a sip of the whiskey, I turned my attention back to the computer, finding a message from my old college pal Philip Letourneau.

" Blake, hope and trust this finds you as much of a useless freeloading bastard as you have always been. Congratulations on getting a computer. I know you would have preferred cash, but considering your clientele you were lucky to get any kind of payment, and a Pentium 2 should certainly meet your needs in terms of cruising the internet for porn sites and exchanging useless information in late-night chat rooms with other substance abusers.

You may be wondering why I am being so uncharacteristically nice to you- it's because I need your help. Do you remember Bobby "Three Hands" Washington? We saw him in that little club called Poteet's on Basin Street 5 or 6 years ago. Well, two nights ago somebody emptied a 357 Magnum into him in a back alley by Toulouse Street. We are at a dead end, and since I'm a DA in this town, you know I've turned over every slimy rock in New Orleans as well as across the river in Algiers looking for the perpetrator. You see, Blake, this is personal. The old man wasn't just a blues legend- he was my friend.

I've taken the liberty of wiring you two tickets on the Saturday AM flight to the Big Easy, and two grand in cash to your account. I'll pick you up at the airport. I realize you are a truly worthless and shiftless son of a bitch, but I also know your innate sense of loyalty and the two grand will make sure you don't let me down. Phil Letourneau."

I drained the glass of Four Roses and laughed. Philip was about as subtle as a blackjack at the base of the skull, but he was persuasive. I'll need to pack, I thought. Then I realized I had never unpacked after that last little excursion to Montana. I would be ready in the morning, but first I had time for a nightcap and a little reconnaissance at The Blue Bayou . The owner, Pete Martell, had connections in New Orleans. Maybe he knew something. I pulled on my trench coat and ran through the rain to the Studebaker. I woke the bum who was passed out in the passenger seat, gave him two bucks, and sent him on his way. I really needed to get the locks fixed on this piece of shit.