Groucho Marx's corpse made for poor company, as I sat there trying to catch my breath.  The back of my head pressed against the cool bricks, the rough edges jabbing at my scalp.  There was still the sound of sirens, faint and off in the distance.  They sounded like an echo from another world.  I picked up his Pewter and stared at it.  How was this a replacement for my life?

   The slim black box shook in my hands.  I couldn't tell if I was in shock, or if it was just a chill brought on by my drenched suit.

   It felt wrong to just leave Groucho there in a pool of his own blood, but there was little I could do. There was no one around to help.  And even if I used his Pewter, who would I call?  The police certainly weren't an option, and it's not like there's an agency that goes around collecting bodies in New Hollywood.  People don't just die in the streets here, like some places.  At least they don't on a normal night.

   The pistol felt alien to my hands, but I pocketed it along with the Pewter.  I couldn't help but be bothered by the thought that I was just following the dead man's orders, and not acting on my own instincts.  I needed to get away from there and get my head straight.  Using a grimy garbage can for support, I raised myself to my unstable feet.

   Then stepping over Groucho as ceremoniously as possible, I left the stoop and carefully circled around to the front of the store.  I sidled across the narrow ledge trying to avoid another spill into the water, as my feet slipped on the moss and the slime that coated the old stones.  When I reached the firm ground of the sidewalk, I saw that I was on Bogart Place in front of Sprocket's Doughnuts.  It now made sense that the trash in the alley had such a horrible sweet stench to it.

   Speaking of stink, the canal water that permeated my tuxedo filled my nose with a nauseous mixture of algae, trash, and worse.  I needed a shower, clean clothes, and a stiff drink — not necessarily in that order.

   I wanted to run straight to Liz's apartment to see her, but there would be no clothes for me to change into there, so home would have to be the first stop.  I figured I could avoid trouble by sneaking in the back.  I'm embarrassed at how naïve I was.  Even then, I should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

   Huddling in doorways and keeping to the shadows, I made my way through the dark streets and plazas.  Never in my life did my city seem so lonely and dangerous.  The canal lights let off an ominous orange glow that at once seemed gloomy and too bright.  Whenever I had no choice but to pass beneath one, it would cast my shadow far in front of me, creating a long, angular figure across the uneven paving tiles.  As I dashed to the safety of the next darkened alcove, my imagination conjured images of snipers training their barrels on the source of that black wraith that sprung from my feet.  Each step produced thunderous echoes, which should have alert everyone to my presence, but somehow didn't.  Not that there were many others out at that time of night.

   Only once did I have to stop and wait for people who blocked my way.  A group of revelers had stood on the Fairbanks Bridge, that iconic arch of marble carved with figures of his more swashbuckling roles.  The two couples stood there, just above the Zorro carving, singing to the night and to the water.  Even drunk they crooned California Dreaming in perfect harmony.  They must have been tourists from the territories.  They always need to get a picture on that bridge.  I'm sure if I was close enough, I would have seen that one of them was recording a vid of their little act.

   After what seemed like an eternity, I came to the wharf behind my building.  It was only at that point that I wondered how I'd get in without my Pewter.  Luckily, downtown was so safe, few people bothered to lock up, and the utility door had been left open.

   The first thing I did when I got to my apartment was pour myself a gin.  I drank it in my kitchen and then poured another.  I left the lights outs.  I may have been clueless to the risk I was running by going back there, but I wasn't stupid.  Sliding the drape aside with a cautious hand, I took a look out my window.  The cops were there waiting.  A blue and white Mascaret van was floating right out front.  It wasn't going to be safe to stick around too long.  I had to hurry.

   Still damp from a quick shower and in the pitch black, I threw on the gray flannel suit I wore earlier to The Times.  I transferred Groucho's Pewter to my breast pocket.  I contemplated leaving the gun behind, but ended up stuffing it into my waistband like I'd seen done in the movies.

   Now to get to Liz's.

   Liz and I had been dating for five years or so.  We met at an observance of Key Largo.  This was back when I belonged to the cult of Bogart and she to Bacall.  I had just picked up my popcorn in the anteroom of the church, when I turned and saw the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen.  I contrived to sit next to her during the show.  After the movie, as soon as the lights went up, she turned to me and said: "The name's Liz.  What's yours?"  We'd been seeing each other regularly ever since.

   We we're pretty serious, although we each still had our own apartment, and our careers kept us busy enough that we'd only get together once or twice a week.  It might not seem like it, but I couldn't imagine my life without her.

   When the elevator doors opened at the canal level, I realized what a big mistake I'd made coming back.  There were two Execs guarding the lobby.  They were dressed in black raiding uniforms.  I might have missed them until it was too late, but their neoprene armor gleamed under the single bulb by the door.

   My finger jabbed the close button, and my body pressed against the side of the elevator as they opened fire on me.  I was lucky they had hesitated a second.  But it was no more than a second.  If I had any doubts before, it was clear now, they weren't looking to arrest me.

   The steel doors shut with the slugs clanging off of them, and I was heading back up.  I got off on the first floor and stepped out to hear boots racing up the stairs.  The door right in front of me seemed as good as any.  Once inside, I slammed it shut and locked it.

   The lights were on, and my neighbors were standing in the doorway of their bedroom.  They were an older couple I'd seen around the building.  They must have been woken up by the gunfire.

   "What are you doing here?" The man yelled.  "Get out or I'll call the Execs."

   I knew there were already at least two of them heading down the landing behind me.  I had to think fast.  The balcony was the only way out.  I ran for it hoping that I could release the fire ladder and climb down, but somebody started screaming, and the moment I reached the fresh night air, the door was kicked open.

   There wasn't even time to feel déjà vu; as soon as I saw the gunmen walk in, I dove over the railing.  I hit the water with an awkward and painful belly flop, but the second I recovered I was swimming.

   The police van came to life, its siren and search light fracturing the night.  I dove beneath the surface and went as far as I could, until my lungs were burning for air.  After three more dives, I somehow managed to get to a drainage pipe and climb inside.

   I could hear the search going on.  The sound of sirens multiplied, and every now and then I'd see a boat pass by the dank hole I was hiding in.  It was only a matter of time before they found me.  I would never make it to Liz's — I needed to contact her somehow.

   In desperation, I pulled out Groucho's Pewter.  I hesitated before activating it.

   As a reporter, I'm used to sifting through people's private affairs, but I had never before dreamt of using someone else's Pewter.  A Pewter is a person's most private possession.  My Pewter was an extension of my own mind.  It was my link to Network.  I imagined accessing another person's Pewter would be like becoming a ghost in someone else's consciousness.  But what choice did I have?

   It was definitely strange and foreign but oddly stark and utilitarian.  Instead of feeling like I had entered the mind of another person, it felt like I had entered the mind of an android.  It took me a while to work out the pathways and navigate my way around, but I finally passed the security wall and entered the command center.

   My breath caught in my throat, when I heard Groucho's voice say: "Well, this is a fine pickle you've gotten us into."