It was one of those hot days in summer when the newspapers are filled with pictures of some kid who has fried some other kid's eyeballs on the sizzling sidewalk, at least in my town. I had finished off a difficult case, and was considering whether to return the empties, when the phone rang. This was a shock, since I hadn't paid the bill, but I guess it was my lucky day -- though looking back on it, I wish they had cut the service off.

"Hello, Bette Monroe, Private Eye."

"Is this Bette Monroe?"

I counted to three, which was obviously more than the dope on the other end of the line could manage.

"Yes, sir, can I help you?"

"I need some help." It was going to be a long day.

"Yes, sir. What kind of help?"

"You might know me. Name's Johnny Thorn." I sat up. I knew those buns anywhere. The Coppers first baseman. Many a night I had fantasized about being the first female first base coach in the American League. Slow-mo: nice stretch, Johnny, way to get the runner, friendly bum pat, freeze frame, melt frame.

"Hello?" said the voice at the other end.

"Um, Sorry, Johnny, bad connection. What's the problem?"

"I can't talk about it over the phone. Can you meet me in an hour at the Split Fastball?"

"No problem. I'll be the one in the detective costume."

He hung up. Great phrase, must remember that: he hung up. Could come in handy.

I looked around the office. It had brightened up considerably in the last five minutes. Even the Georgia O'Keefe flower paintings perked up their little, well, anyway. The phone rang.

"Hello, Bette Monroe, Private Eye."

"Hi, Bette. Guess who?"

"I'm sorry, Your Holiness, but we talked this over the last time. Celibacy means celibacy. Hi, Blake."

"Bette, this is a friendly warning."

"Why, Blake Madison, are you threatening me? Competition getting a little tough for you?"

"Bette, you couldn't find your way out of Nancy Drew's roadster. This is a warning I got on the q.t. You're going to get a call from one of the infielders of the Coppers. I was told that you should watch out."

"Why, Blake Madison, are you worried about little old me? How flattering, considering I'll never have a 14 inch waist again."

"Look Bette, I want you to stop muscling in on my turf, but I don't want you dead. Not until you see things my way, anyway."

"I gave you 10 bucks for the sex change operation, oh it must be 6 months ago. Did it take?"

An expletive undeleted filled the receiver.

"Anyway, Blake, nice to chitchat, girl to girl, but I gotta move."

"Bette, there's police in this. That's all I know."

"Well, Blake, you know the Monroe Doctrine - 'If you're on top, you better be a cop'. See you around." I put down the phone with a tender crash. Blake Madison. I would have to think about that some day, like the day I sit down and learn about mutual funds.

I went out onto the Boulevard of Broken Condoms.