Foul-smelling? What the hell had he meant by that? Considering I was a rather low-rent private eye, driving a rusted Studebaker, living in a one-room, cold-water flat, and wearing a suit that had caught my eye hanging in the window of the Goodwill Store on Alvarado Street, I had considerable pride in my level of personal hygiene. Maybe he was talking about my baited breath.

After three "wrong password" messages, two "server not available" glitches, and a rather disturbing notice that my "program has performed an illegal operation and will be shut down", I was able to access my e-mail and assure Martell that my story was on the level. He seemed to relax a bit in his swivel chair." May Ling!" he called out," bring us some drinks. Snifter of Courvoisier for me. Madison...?" I smiled at May Ling, an oriental beauty clad in a tight gold skirt that showed off a plethora of dangerous curves, any one of which threatened to send my out-of-control libido skidding to disaster."Four Roses neat please." She gave me a smile that sent a shiver up my spine like the shrill ultra-sonic whistle from a possum ocarina.

I took my drink. "What brings you here, Madison?" said my jovial host. " What do you know about an old Bluesman named Three Hands Washington, played at a place called Poteet's in Algiers?"