I'll admit that I heartily applauded along with the rest of the nation when Cher won an Oscar for her performance in that movie where she plays maybe twenty years younger than her actual age. "But this isn't the real Cher."

I look at Agent Wade's blacked-out face and get the hopeful feeling that he is experiencing some doubts about this. That he'll just turn on his heel and leave. "I didn't know you were such a fan."

Agent Wade takes a moment, pulls himself together, stands upright, takes a big breath. "Just give me a minute. I'll, uh . . . I'll be all right."

Cher cautiously opens the door wearing a see-through nightgown. It is black, sequined, and flimsy. It's now two in the morning, and she looks great. Under the nightgown she wears a lace teddy, also black. I am in awe of her ability to remain in character whatever the time of day.

As soon as she makes me out, her face contorts into a deep snarl. "You stinking little midget!"

She tries to slam the door on us, but Agent Wade is too fast for her. His arm snakes out and he grips her tight around the throat, pulling her close up to him. She gags, such is the power of his grip.

"Look, uh . . . before Dougie does what he's got to do . . . could I have your autograph? Make it out to Kennet. That's Kenneth without the 'h.'"

By way of an answer, Cher knees Agent Wade hard in the groin. He immediately lets her go and crumples to the ground. I am about to give chase as she races away, but Agent Wade stops me.

"Take this. . . ."

Agent Wade hands me his standard-issue snub-nosed FBI revolver. I take it in my hands and, having never held a gun before, feel slightly in awe of it. It's a lot heavier than I expected.

"Get after her, Doug!"

I feel myself break out in an immediate sweat, lick my top lip, and nearly gag on the taste of the boot polish. I wipe my tongue on the back of my hand and spit black saliva onto Cher's porch.

"I'll go round the back. . . ." Agent Wade climbs unsteadily to his feet and hobbles away.

I try to gather myself, taking deep, calming breaths. The gun makes me feel good, and I grit my teeth and dive into Cher's darkened home. I roll into the large hall, both hands gripping the gun, and come to a kneeling stop, aiming in jerky movements all around me. The place is eerie and silent. I look around and count six closed doors, all leading into downstairs rooms. Why couldn't she have lived in an open-plan? I check the imposing stairway and don't for a minute think Cher could have gotten up it so quickly. I almost lick my lip again but manage to remember not to. I decide the best plan is to test each door as I come to it. The first one is a broom cupboard, but I check it all the same. The second door leads into a kitchen. I take my time edging inside, and I don't take a step until I have checked every angle of possible ambush. There aren't many places to hide, though, and I decide to take a chance and try the door next to the kitchen. This door needs oil as it creaks open. I peer round the door. Here there are many places to hide, and for a moment I toy with the idea of just blasting away in the room, hoping I'll get lucky. I decide this is a ridiculous idea and the sort of thing that only a blindly panicking Chuck Norris would attempt.

Something moves, and I immediately start shooting. I also scream at the top of my voice in accompaniment to the roar of the gun. Bullets fly and crash everywhere. My scream turns into a yell and eventually converts into a single continuous high-pitched Apache war cry as I race around the room, firing indiscriminately.

"Geronimo!"

I hit everything but Cher.

The click of an empty chamber should bring me to a shuddering halt, but I hurl the gun into a gla.s.s cabinet and continue to race around, yelling at the top of my voice. I charge out into the hall and kick open the next door. In that room, I pick up anything I can find and hurl it at any place where I think Cher could be hiding.

I have virtually wrecked her entire living room when I suddenly see Cher's face at the window. She's outside!

I look around wildly, grab a small portable television, and attack the window with it. I heave the portable at Cher, and it smashes through the window; amazingly enough, she doesn't even try to get out of the way. Instead, the television clunks into her face and then crashes down beside her. Somehow she remains standing there, upright and unflinching, and I can't believe she never told the Club she was from the planet Krypton. I grab a large speaker that is attached to an expensive-looking sound system, rip it from its moorings, and then turn and hurl it at Cher, who hasn't moved an inch throughout. Her head is angled to one side, and she has what I can only describe as a sultry come-hither look. Which surprises me, considering what I'm trying to do to her. The speaker misses her completely, and as my initial adrenaline rush gives way, I realize that I am weakening by the second. I am exhausted, and my limbs feel like lead weights. But I will not give in. I stagger over to the speaker's twin and prepare to tear it from its bracket when I hear Agent Wade call out.

"Fooled ya."

I turn, and at first I can't see him. Not anywhere. Cher remains standing, staring in at me, and then I hear Agent Wade speak again.

"Over here."

My G.o.d! His voice is coming from Cher! I start to back away when Agent Wade's head appears from behind Cher's right shoulder and he grins at me. "Guess who?"

I realize that he must have been holding her dead body upright all the time I was hurling household goods at her, and although he thinks it is a hoot, I am not so convinced. Agent Wade steps away and lets Cher drop to the ground, then starts climbing in through the shattered window. "I b.u.mped into her trying to escape out the back way. She tripped when she saw me-and, uh . . . I think she may have broken her neck as she fell."

I can't seem to close my mouth. I stare wild-eyed at Agent Wade as he looks around at the chaos and mess I have caused.

"That's the boy, Dougie. You just keep that level head of yours."

I still can't close my mouth.

Agent Wade takes a moment to light a cigarette. He looks at me, blows smoke toward the small chandelier swaying back and forth. "Should've heard her neck crack-beautiful, just beautiful. Star quality all the way to the bone."

I don't help Agent Wade drag Cher into the living room because I'm too busy looking for a memento.

"I got you, babe . . ." Agent Wade has a fine voice, but it is nothing compared to Cher's.

I can't seem to decide between taking Cher's entire CD collection or perhaps taking her state-of-the-art automatic bottle opener instead. I give up on these ideas, though, and find myself turning round and reaching for Cher's dark black wig. It seems to be stuck, and I give it a couple of hard tugs until I realize that it isn't a wig but is in fact Cher's real hair. I let her head drop and step away as if I have just received a high-voltage electric shock.

No . . .

Surely not . . .

I look at Agent Wade, who is now taking photos of Cher's prostrate body. He glances over at me and grins. "The boys at the Bureau aren't gonna believe this."

Agent Wade grins and clicks away with his camera, the flash popping on and off, on and off.

KENTUCKY-FRIED CHICAGO.

I HAVE TO STAY FOCUSED. HAVE TO STAY FOCUSED. I have to stick to my original plan, even though it keeps changing practically every minute. I take a bus to the west side, clutching an eight-by-ten envelope. I've just been to KlippyKlap Snaps and picked up a photograph of Burt Lancaster's final moments on earth, courtesy of Tony Curtis and his rusting saw. The guy who did the developing figured I did special effects work for some film company, and I told him he was absolutely right and that just now I was working on a sequel to I have to stick to my original plan, even though it keeps changing practically every minute. I take a bus to the west side, clutching an eight-by-ten envelope. I've just been to KlippyKlap Snaps and picked up a photograph of Burt Lancaster's final moments on earth, courtesy of Tony Curtis and his rusting saw. The guy who did the developing figured I did special effects work for some film company, and I told him he was absolutely right and that just now I was working on a sequel to Mary Poppins Mary Poppins where she comes back as a murderess. where she comes back as a murderess.

Together with the photograph, I also have three letters in my pocket that I have written to Betty. I've got three because I don't know which sounds more appropriate.

Dear Betty, Please find enclosed a photo of your half-brother, Tony. I took it the other night. I can tell you I was as shocked as anyone. What should we do? Please find enclosed a photo of your half-brother, Tony. I took it the other night. I can tell you I was as shocked as anyone. What should we do? Yours sincerely, Yours sincerely, Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

Betty, Betty, It's your favorite person ever here. Thought you might be interested in this photograph. It proves beyond all doubt that Tony, your half-brother, is the RAT!!!!!!! I don't think this is the way the Club chairman should behave, do you? It's your favorite person ever here. Thought you might be interested in this photograph. It proves beyond all doubt that Tony, your half-brother, is the RAT!!!!!!! I don't think this is the way the Club chairman should behave, do you? Talk soon, Talk soon, Doug My dearest Betty, My dearest Betty, I don't know what to say. It's tragic. Truly and hideously tragic. I'm afraid I lied to you about being blackmailed. It's just that I couldn't bring myself to show you what Tony, your half-brother, has been doing. But I can't live with this knowledge or my guilt in lying to you any longer. I don't know what to say. It's tragic. Truly and hideously tragic. I'm afraid I lied to you about being blackmailed. It's just that I couldn't bring myself to show you what Tony, your half-brother, has been doing. But I can't live with this knowledge or my guilt in lying to you any longer. WE MUST MEET!!!! I'm going crazy keeping all of this to myself. WE MUST MEET!!!! I'm going crazy keeping all of this to myself. Poor Burt . . . I really liked that guy. Poor Burt . . . I really liked that guy. Yours with faith (and not a little hope), Yours with faith (and not a little hope), Douglas Douglas P.S. I also liked Tallulah, Errol, Richard, Will, Carole, Cher, and all the others Tony must have murdered. P.S. I also liked Tallulah, Errol, Richard, Will, Carole, Cher, and all the others Tony must have murdered. The last letter seems to me to have hit the right note and says all the things I think need to be said. The last letter seems to me to have hit the right note and says all the things I think need to be said.

I had intended to just leave the letter and the envelope at the library for Betty, but as soon as I step inside I get this huge urge to seek her out. I badly want to see her, and I quickly sweep my matted hair into an effective Agent Wade style.

Betty is browsing through Potted History of Italian Clay Pots Potted History of Italian Clay Pots when I eventually find her. The lights are low, and the library is surprisingly warm. She has removed her crocheted shawl, and I note that she is wearing a rust-colored satin-look blouse that shimmers whenever she moves. when I eventually find her. The lights are low, and the library is surprisingly warm. She has removed her crocheted shawl, and I note that she is wearing a rust-colored satin-look blouse that shimmers whenever she moves.

"Hi . . ."

"Douglas?"

"Am I disturbing you?"

"No . . . not at all. I was just filing stuff."

"You don't mind my coming here?"

"It's nice to see you."

I warm to this, start to relax. "Well . . . it's nice to see you, too."

I sit at one of the study desks. Betty remains standing, and I find that her bosom is now directly at my eye level, some six inches away. To my consternation, it is extremely hard to look anywhere else.

I feign a big "someone's just walked over my grave" shiver. "Things are really getting spooky, Betty. I needed to talk to someone. Can't quite figure out what's going on."

"Well, I sure can. We're being stalked, Douglas. I know it."

"You think?"

"What else can it be?"

"Heard from Tony?"

"Nothing. He won't answer my calls, is never at his desk. I can't find out anything from him."

I look down at the study desk and notice someone has gouged "Murder Rap Murders Music!" into the wood veneer.

Betty looks so scared and vulnerable that I want to reach out for her and hold her in my arms. Instead my hand slips into my jacket pocket.

"Listen . . . I, uh . . . I think I might have found a reason for Tony lying low."

"Really?"

"Yeah . . . I don't think you're going to like it, though."

"I'm feeling lousy anyway, so what difference will it make?"

"This is major league lousy."

Betty sighs, looks into the distance. "Whatever happened to the good things in life?"

The Club members happened.

"Maybe it'd better wait. This is a bad moment. I'll show you another time."

"Show me what?"

"This." The photograph is out of my pocket before I know it. I thrust it into Betty's hands before I've even had a chance to think it through. She is so shocked by the picture, she stands motionless for several seconds before fishing out her cigarettes and lighting one nervously. And this is despite the NO SMOKING NO SMOKING sign plastered to the wall only inches from Betty's head. sign plastered to the wall only inches from Betty's head.

"Oh G.o.d . . . no . . ."

"When you called I just had this weird feeling. Tony never liked Burt . . . well, no one did, really, but Tony totally hated him."

"He never told me that."

"Tony tells me everything. We're real tight." I twist my first two index fingers in that age-old hand gesture that shows just how compatible two men can be. Though I have to admit, I don't understand how what basically looks like one flesh-colored snake mating with another could ever be truly representative of male bonding.

Betty looks a little vague, unconvinced. "How did you come by this photo, Douglas?"

"I worked on the theory that because Tony told you he smelled a rat, he was very probably smelling himself. So I followed him one night, having the hindsight to take a Kodak camera and special night film with me."

"Foresight."

"What?"

"You had the foresight. You only have hindsight after the event." Betty's voice is weak, troubled. Smoke curls mockingly in front of the NO SMOKING NO SMOKING sign. sign.

"Well, whatever-my sight was good enough to get this picture."

I can feel myself reddening, hoping Betty's going to buy this. She glances back at the photograph, and the shock wave hits her for the second time. "Jesus."

"I, uh, I wrote this to go with the picture."

I hand her the letter I wrote. In fact, I hand her all three, and she looks confused, not knowing which one to read first. I realize my mistake, grab the letters back, sift through them, and then hand her the right one.

"Yeah, here it is. This one. I wrote this to you."

Betty reads the letter and looks as though she is going to faint. I pull out the chair next to mine, and she sits down on it, heavily. She holds the photo and the letter limply, stares ahead, wondering what on earth she did to deserve all this. Half a dozen murders at the last count.

"I'd say it was pretty conclusive. Wouldn't you?" I try my best not to ram home the point, but I'm also aware that I need to make sure she gets the gist of it.

"You couldn't get a more complete picture of a rat at work."

"But why's he doing it, Douglas? Why's Tony killing the members? I thought he loved the Club?"

That's a very good point, and one that I truly don't have an answer for. I try to buy myself time by pretending to fall into a sudden and deep thought. "Mmm . . . well . . . there's all sorts of reasons, I guess. The strongest being that he does seem to enjoy killing people. And to be honest, Tony doesn't really have a set pattern-he just kills anyone that takes his fancy."

"But eventually he'll have no Club left. There'll only be him."

"They say creative people are very destructive."

"Tony's not creative. Show him a work of art and he'd try and eat it." Betty gives me a slightly dismissive look, and I admit it was a weak thought.

"What theories have you got, then?" I decide to put the ball right back in Betty's court. "Why do you think he's doing it? You've read a lot of books."

Betty takes her time, still reeling from the shock of the photographs. "I dunno . . . I really don't. It's not the brother I know."

"Half know-he's a half-brother, remember?"

Betty doesn't bother responding to that, which is a shame because it's a pretty clever play on words. I glance at the photographs, give a big shrug and a loud tut.

"Poor old Burt, huh? I really liked that guy. I was truly fond of him."

"Me too."

I knew it! Boy, am I glad that round-shouldered, wiry-haired freak is dead.

"He made me laugh. I, uh . . . I don't meet a lot of men who can do that."