And now, it's time for another episode of, "Lucky Cashman, Private Dick"!

I was working a job for the Fatman, down in Florida, and when I got the goods, I was supposed to bring it to his suite, at the Fontainbleu.

That's where I found him, sweating worse than the Pronk running out a single, despite the seersucker. Behind him stood his gunsel, Wilmer, sneering worse than Rudy Giuliani when the Snakes beat us down in the desert.

"By God, sir! You have it, sir! Let's see!"

I put the package down on the table before him, and in about two seconds he had cut away the twine and newspapers with a knife he produced out of nowhere. There it stood: a statue of a bird, covered in black shoe polish.

"That the dingus?"

"By God, sir! The 'dingus,' sir! Oh, you are a character, sir!"

By that time he had already shorn away most of the Brogan juice. The bird looked completely different now, shining head-to-foot with jewels.

"What is it?"

"The bird, sir? Why this is the stuff that dreams are made of!"

"Good. Now for my pay."

He looked very pleased with himself, as he gestured to Wilmer to step forward.

"Indeed, sir. Ten thousand, as we agree. Wilmer here, who is like a son to me, will take you down to the back alley via the freight elevator, so no one will see you. We must be discreet, sir, and it is a very discreet spot down there. A perfect place to give you what you have coming, sir. Bwaha. Bwahahah."

Something didn't seem right about the whole set-up. Wilmer was grinning like a Times editor who's just found a new Afghani sport to cover, and there was something jutting out prominently in his overcoat pocket.

Then I got it. That thing in his pocket hadda be a pipe. He had it, and he had it bad.

It all made sense now. Having Wilmer give me the envelope, the deserted alley out back.  No wonder he was grinning like that. The poor bastard was dying to get outside and get a smoke.

"Now, let me make sure that you have followed all our arrangements to the letter, sir. You told no one you were coming here, correct? And you have no identification of any sort on your person?"

"Nope."

"Excellent, sir, excellent! And you did not take public transportation of any kind to get here?"

"No. You know, it was the strangest thing: somebody stole my Ford a couple days ago, but this morning I looked out, and there it was! They even had it washed and detailed, and filled up the tank. And in the backseat—I found the dingus."

"A remarkable story, sir! You are a most remarkable man. Now, if you will go with Wilmer here, you will get your just reward—"

"Now just a minute here," I told him, hauling up my bag. "I got some other things you might be interested in as well. Here's a drury I managed to pick up for next to nothing. It's official, too: you can see the brand on it."

"Very impressive, sir. Not that I knock it, but I'm afraid that I am not in the market—"

"Now hold your horses! I brought you an actual Walker, as well. They were just giving it away at the Metropolitan."

"By God, sir! What on earth would I want with a portrait of a man grown old before this time, clutching his back? What is the meaning of cluttering up my suite with this old junk?"

"Well, you never know what you'll need in this business. I mean, here's an old linder I picked up the other day. A little rusty, I know—"

"Balderdash, sir! Can't you see I have the Bird? And over in that display case there: an original Gleyber! See how it shines! Why would I ever need anything else?"

"With all due respect, you never know when lightning will strike out of a clear blue sky, or when something will just go flying out the window—"

"Ridiculous! Why do you continue to palaver like this? Can it be that you still truly do not understand that you have been set-up? Hornswoggled, duped, put on the spot? That you are about to put out the big light? You are an imbecile, sir! An idiot!"

It happened so fast then that I could barely comprehend it. The lightning bolt hit the Bird dead center, frying it just as black as it had been with the shoe polish on it. Wilmer jumped back out of the way, but he hit the display case when he did, and sent the Gleyber flying out the window.

Damned if he didn't dive after it. Got it, too, and wrapped it close to his chest. But when he tried to get a grip on something solid, he was just clutching air. The Fat Man looked like he might explode.

I was looking at the linder again.

"You know, this really is shot," I said, and tossed it out the window. I heard a weak moan from below, and looked out.

"Well whattaya know? Landed right on him! What are the odds? Maybe I should go down there and see how your son's doing—"

"Leave him to the rats!" the Fat Man snapped.

"But doesn't he have my money?"

"There's a safe on that wall, under that wedding photo of Joe and Marilyn," he said, running a handkerchief over his face. "The combination is 4-18-23. Inside you will find more jewels, gold bars, and cash than you can carry."

I opened it. He wasn't kidding.

"Why, this is too much—"

"Take as much as you want! It's just a small down payment. I can't afford NOT to have a man with your luck on a permanent retainer. Now, come sit over here—closer—I want to tell you about your next assignment."

I did as he said, sitting just across the table from him. He leaned in even closer, looking more frightened than I had ever seen him. He glanced all around the room again, before he said a word.

"Tell me, my friend, what do you know," he whispered, before taking another look around, "of those who practice the dark rituals of...ODOMODU?"