Hobby and I had been about to take off with a drug dealer in the back seat of the car -- we wanted to question him about T.V. Producer Bailey Mack's murder -- when his cohorts came to the rescue.

Suddenly I was under attack by a steroid freak shaped like the Michelin tire man.

Pulled from the car, I narrowly escaped having my head stomped by a size 14 boot. Before he could launch another kick, Hobby cold-cocked him with a karate chop. As we jumped back into the car I saw the other bozo laid out on the sidewalk. "What happened to him?" I asked.

"I saw him coming to the door and laid across the seat. As soon as he stuck his ugly head inside, I launched both feet. He sailed backward and cracked his head," Hobby answered with satisfaction.

I was palpitating, trying to normalize my adrenaline rush while I assessed our situation. "Thanks for saving my butt, Hobby. I'm afraid my plan was ill-conceived, not to mention this reckless kidnapping."

"Don't sweat it, Joe. No way sleaze-ball will complain to the cops, but what do we do now?"

"I'll park where we can interrogate in private. But you should tie him up and blindfold him before he comes to." Hobby was pleased to oblige. I drove into a remote corner of one of the large overflow lots for LAX and we climbed into the back seat to sandwich our captive between us.

Hobby slapped him lightly. The head jerked upright and he struggled against his bonds. With a shaky voice he said, "What the hell is going on? Where am I?" I gave him a harder slap just to clarify he was not in friendly hands. He winced and cringed. Good. This was no tough cookie.

"Take my money and my junk," he pleaded, "but please don't kill me. I'm just a delivery man."

Getting to the point I said. "You killed Bailey Mack!"

"No! I didn't. He was already dead when I got there."

"I don't buy that. You shot him in the head."

"No, I swear, but . . . but maybe I seen something."

"Got a name?"

"No, but he's a redheaded guy. He was driving away. That's all I know. I swear. Let me go!"

"What about the car."

"Yeah. It was a black Vette convertible."

I was satisfied. We took him back, still blindfolded, and dumped him near the Duchess Hotel.

Back on Lazybuns, Hobby asked, "What's next, Joe? Do we look for the redhead?"

"You bet. Any idea who he is?"

"I'll make some phone calls."

"Good. While you're doing that, I'll turn on that poker game show you mentioned." After watching only a few minutes I knew I'd been had.

"Hobby, this is my show, exactly as I planned it." Hobby was engaged in a conversation and didn't hear my comment, but thinking out loud I said, "How could this happen with Bailey dead? Unless maybe...maybe it's connected?"

Hobby broke into my train of thought. "I've got him, Joe. His name is Cary Lang, and here's the hooker: He's a TV producer!"

Immediately, I picked up the phone and asked the operator for the telephone number of Channel 12. I made my inquiry, then said to Hobby, "Wouldn't you know? Lang is the producer of the poker game show I just saw!"

"Wow! He must have killed Bailey. And then he stole the show."

"I can't imagine killing someone over a TV show," I said, "but it's a possible motive and he was at the scene. I'd like to go after the bastard, but right now I think it's time to call Tom Victor."

I told the detective everything, except why the drug supplier was so cooperative.

"I'll get onto it," Tom said, and then added, "meanwhile stop playing detective."

For two weeks I kept calling Tom about the case. All he would say was, "It looks promising." Meanwhile I watched the poker game show with growing irritation. According to Variety and industry buzz, it was a big hit. Someone was raking in a lot of dough and it wasn't me. Murder aside, I was increasingly annoyed about getting ripped off and thought about asserting my claim.

I asked my lawyer about suing the producer, Lang, and the show. He said, "Joe, you've got a case, but first you'd better talk to your friend who's conducting the murder investigation."

Tom answered with little enthusiasm until I said, "I'm going to sue Lang for stealing my idea for the show."

He perked up then and said, "Joe, I think we can do each other a favor. We're not getting anywhere with Lang. Maybe you can shake him up. Start harassing him. Tell him you wrote the show and you know he killed Bailey. Tell him you'll go to the police unless he pays. If this guy was stupid enough to kill once, he'll probably try it again."

"You've got to be kidding," I exploded. "You expect me to be a target for this nut?"

"Joe, let's face it, you have a vested interest. Don't worry, we can protect you."

"Easy for you to say, but it's my life."

Tom and I batted it back and forth until finally, stupid me agreed. They needed a couple days to wire my place and set up surveillance. They confirmed Lang had phone caller I.D, so I made the call at 5:00 a.m. from my condo. "You're in trouble, Lang," I said by way of openers. "I wrote that show; I created the whole idea, and I know you killed Bailey for it."

Immediately he started screaming and cursing, "You son-of-a-bitch," he yelled, "you don't know anything!"

My laugh was cold and cutting. "I know everything, you stupid bastard! Unless you pay up I'm going to the cops."

"You're wrong," he said, but he began to hedge... "but . . . tell me . . .what do you want?"

"One hundred thou in small bills and no crap or you're history," I answered. "How do I know that will be the end of it?"

"Ask yourself, Lang, what choice do you have? Bring the money to the Montrose Restaurant, two o'clock, today. Get a table for two and come alone." I hung up and called Tom. He was elated. "We've got it all down, Joe. Good job. I hope he's smart enough to find you. We'll be watching."

Hobby, who was prone on the sofa, said. "Wake me up if you hear anything?"

I tried to sleep, but was too jazzed-up. I made coffee, picked up the paper and settled down with the sports section. About an hour later Hobby woke up and went to the bathroom. I was fixing him a cup of coffee when I heard a crash. A man with a bandana over his face, gun in hand, lunged through the shattered patio door. Swallowing my fear, trying to be in charge I said, "Lang, you look like a twobit outlaw from a cheap Western and your red hair is showing. Don't be stupid. The cops are all over this place." With my hands held high I walked to my right so he would move between me and the bathroom.

"Bullshit! I don't believe you. You're finished. Turn around."

"You don't have the balls to look a guy in the face, huh? Just like the way you killed Bailey?"

"Yeah, and you're next smart-ass. Turn around!"

He should have been the one turning around. He would have seen Hobby pouncing like a leaping leopard. Within seconds Tom and company were through the front door with enough fire power to quell an armed conflict, but Hobby had already disarmed and subdued Lang.

Ripping off the bandana, Hobby said, "You dumb bastard. Killing Bailey for a poker show!"

Lang snarled. "Damn the poker!"

"Hey, don't blame poker," I said. "It was your own stupidity and greed that did you in."

Hobby got his two cents in as they left. "I just knew you'd have to stand up for poker, Joe."

"Damn straight," I replied. "The problem's not that poker screws people up. It's the screwed up people
who play poker!"