It was a night to remember, and if Baby hadn't sprung for the fifth of Four Roses Bourbon, I would've remembered it. I woke to the sweet song of a lark purched on the luggage rack of the Studebaker, the morning sun streaming through the windshield onto Baby's flimsy negligee." You've got to tell me the whole story," I said, taking the bottle out of her hands before she could swill what was left. I drank it myself."You gotta believe me," she pleaded, "I didn't do it. We spent the night at the Plunging Surf Motel in Santa Monica... I woke up and he was gone!" She proceeded to make another tear deposit into the growing account on my collar."Slow down, Sweetheart. Then who wanted your old man dead?" She looked at me with eyes that quivered and jumped like a double order of overeasy eggs on a skillet. "I...I'm afraid..." I looked deep into the blue of her eyes, wondering how I had possibly come up with the fried egg image previously. "tell me,,," I urged. She blurted it out-"Peter Fongoul!"

"You mean.."

"Yes! The leader of the LA Casa Nostra!"

I took a deep breath. The name had hit me like a hard fist after a wet kiss. I put the key in the ignition. "well Baby, I need to go have a talk with Mr. Fongoul." I twisted the key in the starter."Got any jumper cables?"