1958 was the jittery year I came into existence. Castro was coming to power, the Cold War was growing new and jagged ice crystals, and U.S. race relations were bubbling toward a boil.

As it happens, it was also a fateful year for our Lt. Columbo, who was earning his stripes under the tutelage from a sage old lawman named Sgt. Gilhooley (of whom we learn sketchily in "The Conspirators"). Not much else is known of this Gilhooley, except that he endeavored to teach Columbo the great games of darts and police work. It was in 1958 that the good lieutenant departed his hometown, the Big Apple, for the City of Angels and a career playing fox-and-hound with the rich and famous.

I speculated on Gilhooley's role in training the young Columbo, who from scattered references we know to have been a teen-aged prankster and Korean War veteran. Whence came the cigar, the raincoat, the unique detectival style, the storehouse of esoteric knowledge that was to fuel his deductive genius? What spurred Columbo to transplant his job and family from the East Coast to the West?

When I discovered the New York Yankees (home team to Columbo's baseball icon, Joe diMaggio) faced off against the Milwaukee Braves in the 1958 World Series, the story came to me full-bloom. As I'm found of casting my little movies of the mind, you might be inclined to find more than a passing resemblance between Sgt. Gilhooley and a certain Mr. Connery, who mentored young G-man Elliot Ness (Kevin Costner) in the film "The Untouchables."

So here is Columbo's last New York case, and a historical (if speculative) glimpse at the man who molded one of the greatest sleuths of modern times.

Martin Ross is agricultural affairs editor with Illinois FarmWeek newspaper and a reporter for the past 20 years. He has published ten X-Files fanfics on various sites.

 “Sputnik, Sarge,” his young partner amended, smiling broadly and passing over the requested section of newspaper. Sgt. Gilhooley’s pronouncements of the planet’s decline and demise were as much a part of breakfast as strawberry jam and the ketchup with which the older policeman liberally doused his eggs. “And I wouldn’t give up on ‘the lads’ yet – there’s still five more games, and Bauer and Mantle were burnin’ up the field yesterday.”

 For at least four days, the summer cloud of anxiety that hung damply over New York, and indeed the rest of the country, had lifted. Fears about Fidel Castro’s revolution a mere 90 miles off the Florida coast, the deepening frost that was widening the chasm between the U.S. and the Soviet Union and threatening to spread icy tendrils into Southeast Asia, the racial heat that was threatening to ignite across the country, these were put aside as Casey Stengel’s Yankees took the diamond against a squad of “callow farm boys,” as Gilhooley put it.

A Yankees Series had the Big Apple in an uncharacteristically convivial mood, which is to say dour but grudgingly tolerant, as long as the topic was earned runs or batting stance. That change in climate had little perceptible impact on Gilhooley, who was as impassively observational and imperturbable as always. 

“Ah, and speaking of that fine pastime,” the sergeant perked as he reached into his uniform jacket. He pulled forth two thin pasteboard slips with the flourish of the Great Merlini performing at the Stork Club. “I was hopin’ you might indulge me by attendin’ tomorrow’s drubbin’ of those Milwaukee yokels.” He smiled slightly as his partner’s eyes widened and the grin expanded. “So you might be amenable to sharin’ some suds and few red hots with me?” He waggled a finger at his partner, whose face suddenly creased into a frown. “Now, don’t go cloudy on me, lad – I found a couple of fine fellas willing to stand sentinel over this boiling cauldron of purse snatchings and improperly stored garbage cans whilst we watch our boys play. Incidentally, don’t make no plans this Thanksgivin’ evenin’. We're working.”

 The younger cop was used to such unilateral actions on his sergeant’s part, and although he might have to do some tall talking at his mother’s table tonight, he knew his wife would understand, and indeed appreciate, the trade Gilhooley had made. As for Thanksgiving, one less Columbo at the family’s creaking table would scarcely be missed.

“Fine, then,” Gilhooley nodded. “And to compensate for draggin’ you down to that overpopulated morass of humanity and forcin’ you to consume frankfurters and goober peas, I’ll treat you to a nice piece of beef afterward at O’Toole’s. Nope; it’s the least I can do as you’re willing to humor an old man in an afternoon of trivial sport.” The detective methodically creased his newspaper in half and then lengthwise, out of deference to his breakfast companion. “Ah, and what a splendid place this planet might be, boyo, were it played out on a grassy pasture with the cheers and hisses of humanity to guide it and a ready thumb cocked to eject the malefactors and ne’er-do-wells from the park.”

 Gilhooley’s partner sat quietly and receptively. The sergeant frequently constructed elaborate and complexly satisfying metaphors for society and its foibles, often salted with fresh vocabulary gleaned from the Times crossword, and the young patrolman mentally collected these for some yet-unknown purpose. He’d done a stint in the MPs in Korea before enlisting in the N.Y.P.D. -- in his mother’s view, equally hazardous duty – and had learned the art of patient listening at Uncle Sam’s knee.

 “And where else, I might ask, will you find white men and their brothers of color comin’ together in this poor man’s world of ours?” Gilhooley challenged. He glanced up to see Hank, the would-be novelist and night school student who waited and bussed for Pete’s Diner, waiting with respectful anxiety at Gilhooley’s elbow. “Ah, you grace us with your presence.”

 Hank shrugged. “Sorry, Sergeant. Always packed during the Series – cops and armchair umps. Whatcha want today?”

 “Moira’s disconsolate over all the alterations she’s been makin’ in my trousers, so I believe I’ll err on the side of caution. Fix me up a stack of hotcakes with a ham steak, four scrambled eggs, and a double portion of American fries. And you might throw three or four slices of toast on there, as I expect a hectic day ahead.”

 Hank looked to the young cop. “Aw, just a couple eggs sunny-side up, some bacon, and an order of those fries, please.”

 “A much better use of fine Irish potatoes than what you and your lads were up to,” Gilhooley murmured, sipping his coffee as Hank moved swiftly away with their order. He and his partner had met initially as the latter was affixing an Idaho baker to the tailpipe of a ’48 Chrysler, and after a brief trade of barbs left Gilhooley the clear victor, the teen and the cop became fast friends. When he’d come back from Korea, it had been Gilhooley who’d facilitated his admission into the force and who’d insisted in being his guide to its treacherous ways both inside and outside the squadroom.

 Gilhooley sipped his black coffee and placed pencil to newspaper. “And now, Detective Columbo, would you be so kind as to supply me with a five-letter word for a South Pacific tribesman?”
**
 Henrietta Blane stopped her Panasonic as Columbo fell into grinning silence. “Lieutenant? Columbo?”

 The rumpled man blinked. “Oh, geez, sorry about that. It’s just that I hadn’t thought too much about the old days, back in the neighborhood, for years. Talkin’ to you, it’s all just flooding right back. Sgt. Gilhooley, Pete’s Diner, the ’58 Series…”

 “The case?” Blane prompted cheerfully. “That in there, Columbo?”

 “Clear as a bell,” Columbo responded, tapping his forehead. Blane, who’d snagged a few Pulitzers for her Los Angeles Times pieces on social justice and change, had called the lieutenant a few days earlier, requesting an afternoon of his time for a book she was writing on heretofore untold police cases. He’d been reluctant at first to put himself in the public eye, but he’d known Henrietta for years, and suddenly, that morning, Columbo had relented.

 Now, with the 2 o’clock sun dappling Blane’s flagstone patio, he and the author sipped iced tea and revisited the past. “Oh, yeah, I’ll always remember my last case with the NYPD,” Columbo assured her as she quietly reactivated her tape recorder. 
**
 “Stiff’s Aaron Estes,” the blocky young uniform grunted as Gilhooley and Columbo edged past into the fifth floor apartment. The Knickerbocker Arms was located in one of the 12th Precinct’s more stylish neighborhoods: Elms lined the immaculate sidewalks outside the late Mr. Estes’ bay window, and a stolid middle-aged doorman, apparently in training for Buckingham Palace guard, had nodded silently to Gilhooley as the cops had entered the building. The doorman, a guy named Korman, had been on Robbery detail, the older policeman informed Columbo, until he’d blown a cog in his knee chasing a purse-snatcher.

 “Stiff?” Gilhooley repeated, expressionlessly. “And how did our stiff come to be in this unfortunate condition?”

 “Somebody delivered a lead telegram with his morning Times,” the blue reported.

 “Lead telegram?” Gilhooley’s mustache twitched.

 “Hey, Gilhooley, that you?” an impatient voice bellowed from what looked to be the kitchenette.

 “Aye, Lieutenant,” the sergeant called out with a light Irish lilt from some old Barry Fitzgerald movie. “And a fine morning to you, sir.”

 Lieutenant Melman muttered something incomprehensible, but Columbo knew from experience it reflected the lieutenant’s view of the sons of Ireland – the same view the irritable detective held of the offspring of half the globe’s population.

 “See ya in the movies, kiddo,” Gilhooley told the uniform, snapping off a salute. The kid returned the salute. “Lord save us from kiddie cops who get their dialogue from Misters Bogart and Robinson,” he murmured to his partner.

 The body, thirtyish and dapper in a three-piece suit obviously made from scratch, was sprawled on the now red, white, and black tiles of the kitchen. A lone coffee cup, barely touched, sat on the table next to a bread plate littered with toast crumbs. The Times was scattered on the table’s shiny surface, one piece crumpled into a ball perched precariously on its edge.

 Lieutenant Kurt “Mailman” Melman was perched on the edge of the victim’s stove. Tall and impeccably groomed and far too well-tailored for a New York detective, Melman had come to be known as “Mailman” because as one wag of a desk sergeant once put it, “Melman’s picked up and delivered more envelopes in this precinct than the entire Brooklyn Postal District.” The former desk sergeant now mucked the police stables in Central Park, but the nickname had spread, and Melman’s temper was now the chief sign of brain activity in the corrupt cop.

 “And if this isn’t a fine state of affairs,” Gilhooley tsk’ed, glancing at the entry wound in Estes’ vest. Melman snorted.

 “You’re one observant mick, aintcha?” the lieutenant commented, suddenly frowning as he spotted Columbo over Gilhooley’s shoulder. Though Columbo had been Gilhooley’s partner for more than a year, under Melman’s command, Lt. Mailman always looked at him as if for the first time, with a note of suspicion.

 “Thank you kindly, Lieutenant,” Gilhooley chirped.

 Melman looked back to Gilhooley with a superior smirk. “Dead guy’s Aaron Estes, local lawyer. High-tone shyster, at that – lotta bigshot clients, sips tea with His Nibs the Mayor from time to time. Took one point-blank, probably a .22, something small caliber. You followin’ me, Gilhooley?”

 Gilhooley nodded eagerly. Columbo bit his inner cheek, enjoying the sergeant’s standard routine. The younger cop, afraid of letting a chuckle slip, moved to the sink, peering into the spotless basin.

 “I’m guessin’ burglar, maybe even your Backdoor Bandit,” Melman concluded. “Probably surprised him having breakfast.”

 Gilhooley was silent for a moment. “And I would guess, then, that there was some sign of tampering at the windows or door?”

 “Haven’t looked yet,” Melman said evenly. “Kid oughtta check that out.”

 “And just what did our burglar make off with?” Gilhooley inquired innocently. He stooped next to the body and, with a handkerchief from his jacket, extracted an expensive alligator skin wallet. “Ah, something escaped our bandit’s notice.”

 “Probably got scared after he shot the mouthpiece here,” Melman growled. “Look, you got a problem with my theory?”

 Gilhooley straightened, eyes wide. “Heavens, is that the impression I’ve given. My sincerest apologies if—"

 “Stow it,” Melman barked. “And just what the hell are you doin’, boy?”

 Gilhooley wheeled to find Columbo inspecting the cabinet above Estes’ sink. “Oh, nothing, sir,” the younger detective drawled. “It’s just sorta strange, is all.”

 “What’s strange?” Melman snapped, attempting unsuccessfully to bottle his irritation.

 Columbo looked to Gilhooley, who shrugged almost imperceptibly.  “It’s just this, Lieutenant. The sink’s been scrubbed, not too long ago – it’s damp, and I found some Comet powder in the bottom of it. But Mr. Estes’ coffee and plate are still on the table, unwashed. What would Mr. Estes have been washing up before he’d even cleaned his breakfast stuff?”

 “Listen, kid, what’s your name?”

 “Columbo, sir. And the other thing’s this.” Columbo opened the overhead cupboard wide. “Look at these coffee cups. Two rows, lined up like he used a ruler or something. You look around this joint, you can see Mr. Estes was a very neat person, a very orderly guy. Now, me, before I met Mrs. Columbo…”

 “Columbo,” Melman said through his teeth, his eyes beginning to protrude. "I got a daughter whose wedding I’m gonna have to go to in about 10 years or so. You wanna can the horse crap?”

 “It’s the cups. If you’ll look, you’ll see the handles of six of the seven cups in here are facing to my left. The seventh, the one in the front, has been put back so the handle’s facing my right.”

 “Jesus,” Melman laughed, turning to Gilhooley. “Where’d you get this one? Who is he, the dago Sherlock Holmes?”

 Gilhooley just smiled, shrugging.

 “Thing is, I know this guy,” Columbo continued, unrattled. “He’s a neighborhood guy, few years younger than me. Aaron here was a real slugger – when I came back from the war, I liked to drop down to the park and watch the neighborhood guys play, and he was terrific. A great southpaw. A left-hander, Lieuten—”

 “I know what a goddamned southpaw is,”  Melman yelled.  “What the hell’s your point?”

 “Just it looks to me like Estes, a left-hander, put all but one of these cups back in the cupboard. I think somebody else, a right-hander, washed up this other cup and put it back, trying to make us think Estes had breakfast alone. That’s true, then maybe the killer was somebody Estes knew.”

 “You’re a smart little wop, aren’t you?” Melman glared, breathing somewhat raggedly.

 Columbo ignored the slur. “No, sir. You’d have probably noticed it sooner or later. It’s just my wife is a very orderly person, too—”

 “Clam up, kid,” Melman breathed. “Gilhooley, you and the Whiz Kid here hit the bricks and find out who this Backdoor Bandit is, pronto. And maybe you wanna teach this little snotnose a little respect for his superior officers.”

 Gilhooley shook his head with exaggerated sadness. “My profound apologies, Lieutenant, sir. He’s a very eager young pup. I’ll have a word with him.”

 “You do that,” Melman ordered. He stalked toward the apartment door, knocking a fingerprint man off balance. “And you find out anything about our killer, you make sure I know it before you do.”

 “I’ll keep you posted, Lieutenant Mailman,” Gilhooley assured him, almost inaudibly.

 Melman halted, spun around, inspected the sergeant’s face as the other cops in the apartment froze. Gilhooley looked inquisitively childlike as the lieutenant searched for any sign of disrespect or sarcasm. Finding none, Melman yanked the door loudly shut behind him.

 A respectful few seconds passed before the room erupted in laughter.
**
 “Sharing theories with Mailman is like running in place in the ocean – a totally futile exercise,” Gilhooley advised Columbo as he measured the precise angle of trajectory between himself and the dartboard beyond Seamus Quinlan’s gouged bar. He let fly, and frowned at the result. “Building must’ve shifted. However, your observations about the curious incident of the cockeyed cups were worthy of that great Irish sleuth, Sherlock Holmes.”

 “I thought he was English,” Columbo challenged as he chewed his corned beef sandwich.

 “Mother’s side. So if we assume the late Mr. Estes was entertaining an early morning guest, and that that same wholly ungracious guest was the one what prematurely ended his promising legal career, then what may we further deduce?”

 Gilhooley’s partner looked at the saloon’s stamped tin ceiling. “Well, I’d bet it was a spur-of-the-moment murder – if the killer went there to do it, he sure wouldn’t have had coffee and left a lot of evidence he’dve had to get rid of.”

 “Reasonable,” Gilhooley nodded, inspecting the flights on his dart.

 “And I’d like to check with the boys to see if there was any sign of a woman having been in the apartment, but I’m just guessing way he was dressed, Aaron was meeting somebody for business.”

 Gilhooley waggled an uncertain palm. “That one’s a little leakier, but I’d have to say I agree. And if lawyer business is what got our lad killed, then I’d like to know what kind of clients he might’ve been sipping Maxwell House with. Thus the rotund gentleman now approaching our table.”

 Columbo craned around to see a fat, middle-aged man with flaming red hair, squeezed into a shiny dark suit like a bratwurst in a hot dog casing. As he creaked across Quinlan’s ale-pickled plank floor, he waggled fat pink fingers at Gilhooley. Gilhooley sighed and dropped his darts onto the table.

 “Jack,” the sergeant greeted, extending a palm.

 “If it ain’t the soon-to-be Captain Gilhooley,” the chubby man effused, pumping the cop’s hand.

 “Ah, sure, and it must be election time’s come rollin’ around once again,” Gilhooley addressed Columbo. “Jack Herlihy, personal assistant to hizzoner the borough president, meet Det. Columbo, scourge of the 12th Precinct. Seamus,” he called to the muscular man at the bar. “Would you have something suited to a man of Mr. Herlihy’s prestige and repute?”

 Seamus rumbled something obviously sarcastic and went to work at the tap. Herlihy plopped dangerously into a chair to Columbo’s right and eyed the young policeman with lazy suspicion.

 “Fine duds,” Gilhooley said. “Whose baby or backside would you be kissin’ today?”

 The political aide laughed too cheerfully. “Actually, I’m off to old Frank O’Mara’s wake this afternoon. Don’t know if you heard, but he passed on in his sleep t’other night. 87, he was.”

“So he’ll be votin’ for your man next spring, eh?”

Herlihy waggled his index finger at the cop as he grinned at Columbo. “Gotta watch this one, boy. Columbo, eh?” the political aide smiled. “And from what province of the mother country would you hail, lad?”

 “You remember the O’Collums, run the grocery up the block?” Gilhooley provided, taking a sip from his lunchtime brew. “He’s one of theirs’, Joe, only the folks at Ellis Island got the paperwork all cocked up, and listed him Eye-talian. Guess it just took, eh, son?”

 “Sure, and it did,” Columbo agreed in a perfect Irish lilt that raised Gilhooley’s brows and a corner of his mustache.

  Herlihy stared upon the dark ale Quinlan thumped before him as if it were a nubile female campaign worker. “And how might I be of assistance, old friend?”

 Gilhooley’s mustache fell back into line. “Aaron Estes, young barrister, got hisself permanently disbarred this morning. You hear tell of this unfortunate young man?”

 Herlihy lowered his mug, slightly flushed, then shrugged and took a healthy slug. “Well, it ain’t exactly a state secret, I ‘spose. You know Joe Piannetti, of course.”

 Gilhooley looked sharply at Columbo, who rubbed his chin. “Estes is Piannetti’s mouthpiece?”

 “Well, you know Orrin VanHoene, Piannetti’s old consigliere, accidently collided with a newspaper truck last Christmas? Joe’s been shoppin’ ever since, and after the Estes boy got Jimmy Dolan off that truck heist a few months back, the Piannettis’ been throwin’ a lot of business his way.”

 “Explains why the Mailman got his back up when you questioned Estes’ death,” Gilhooley murmured to his partner. “Mailman’s got Piannetti’s pocket lint all over him. Who else has our boy been rubbin’ elbows with lately, Jack.”

 “You didn’t say nothing about no killin’,” Herlihy grumbled, draining his Guinness. “I’d love to help you out, Gilhooley, but…”

 “Of course, my friend,” Gilhooley smiled. “Let’s speak of more pleasant things. How are the Rooneys these days? That night I saw you drivin’ young Fiona Rooney to, now, where did you say, to Mass, I thought about them. Fine people, even if Rooney has something of the fearsome temper. And little Fiona’s blossomed into quite a… ”

 “Of course,” Herlihy blurted, pudgy cheeks reddening, “if we can’t be of assistance to our dear friends, then what are we worth? Now, I do know young Estes has been tusslin’ with Immigration over some Cuban fella they don’t want to let in. Been in the papers, ah, Castena, some kinda singer or somethin’. Oh, and here’s an interestin’ bit. Eddie Walsh over at the party office said he saw this Estes and some pretty young thing at the Four Seasons just a bit ago, jawin’ with no other than Mr. Stengel of the Yankees.”

 “Casey Stengel?” Columbo piped up with a hint of awe. “The Perfesser?”
 Herlihy basked even in indirect awe, and he beamed. “None other but himself. Eddie says Estes helped one of Stengel’s pitchers out with some difficulties with a young lady, and Stengel took him an’ his girl out in return.”

 “Hmm… You wouldn’t happen to know this girl’s name, Jack? Estes’ ladyfriend?”

 “Sorry.”

 “And would you happen to know what monkey business Joe Piannetti’s been up to lately?”

 Herlihy shook his large head vigorously. “On my mother’s grave, Gilhooley.”

 “What you said about Fiona Rooney,” Gilhooley reminded him. “By the way, tell your dear mother I hope her bursitis clears up.”
**
 “Geez, you sure this is a good idea, Sarge?” Columbo said as the partners stood in the foyer of La Fiore’s. It was nearly 1:30 p.m., and the lunch crowd was beginning to thin out. Joe Piannetti’s gray head could be seen bobbing conversationally in a red leather banquette at the far end of the main dining room, under a well-wrought mural of the Venetian canals. “I heard these guys can be real tough customers.”

 “An egregious stereotype,” Gilhooley murmured dismissively as the maitre d’ approached the table. Piannetti’s hawklike profile emerged from the cluster of heads around his table. He shook his head once, violently, and returned to his plate. “Well, looks like we’re in. C’mon, lad – don’t waste Mr. Piannetti’s valuable lunchtime.”

 The maitre d’ held up his hands, but shrunk away at Gilhooley’s questioning stare. A meaty member of Piannetti’s party started to rise from his chair, but the sergeant clamped a hand on his shoulder and nudged him back onto the seat.

“No need to stand up, son,” Gilhooley informed the hood. “Joe Piannetti, what a delightful surprise this is. It warms my old cop’s heart.”

The mobster continued to chew his lunch. As he dabbed the corners of his mouth, he looked up. “We got no corned beef here, Irish. I think there’s a soup kitchen down the street about five miles or so.”

Gilhooley chuckled, then burst into a hearty laugh that turned the few remaining heads in the restaurant. As he wound down, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his eyes. “Corned beef. You’ve brightened my day considerably, Joe.”

Joe pointed his butter knife at Columbo. “And who’re you? I seen you somewhere, Mass or something. Yeah, shit, I know – you’re Columbo’s kid, from the neighborhood. You was in that Korean thing, right?” He turned to the meaty enforcer glaring at Gilhooley. “This boy’s a real patriot, did his country proud. You get young Columbo here a chair, Nick. And see if they can get together another plate of scallopini for this young soldier.”

 “No, thanks,” Columbo responded evenly. “I ate already.”

 Joe smiled. “Suit yourself. You want something from old Joe, Paisan?”
 Columbo started to look to Gilhooley, who waved him off with a barely perceptible twitch of the mustache. “Well, Mr. Piannetti, I guess you heard your lawyer got killed today. Mr. Estes?”

 “Wasn’t my lawyer; just a lawyer I used from time to time,” Piannetti grunted, chopping a slice of veal and plugging it into his mouth. “Way I heard it, some piece a’ shit burglar put a few in him.”

 “I don’t think so, sir,” Columbo said. “The evidence seems to say he knew the guy that killed him. And since you’re an important man in the neighborhood and you know most everybody, I told the sarge here you might be able to help us figure out who might’ve killed him ”

 Piannetti nodded. “That’s what you thought, huh? Listen to this kid, Nick. ‘The evidence said.’ Look, kid, Aaron had a lotta clients, some not so reputable as me. Real lowlifes, you know. But he was a real smart guy, knew his way around a courtroom.”

 “Was he working on anything for you, sir?” Columbo asked casually. Joe’s smile froze.

 “Maybe I should call my lawyer, but I guess he’s kinda indisposed, huh?” the mobster laughed harshly. Nick barked.

 “Geez, sir, I didn’t mean nothing. I’m just sayin’ maybe somebody, a business competitor or something, maybe some heavy hitter…”

 “I don’t know nobody like that,” Piannetti snapped, returning to his plate. “Nice to meet you, Soldier Boy. You tell your old man I said hello, capisce? He’s a good fella, takes care of his own business real well.”

 “Hey, I’ll tell him, Mr. Piannetti,” Columbo grinned brightly, appearing to miss the criminal’s double meaning. 

 Gilhooley continued to play the Invisible Man until they reached the curb. “Do you know, son, why they call us flatfoots?”

 His partner had learned the sergeant’s seemingly aimless verbal wanderings usually led somewhere fruitful. “No, Sarge.”

 “Because when a citizen offers us the rare opportunity to take a load off our poor tired arches, we don’t have the sense to seize it,” Gilhooley replied pleasantly. “I appreciate your valiant effort to avenge Mr. Piannetti’s affront to your old partner, but I would doubt very much a man like that cares if a couple of flatfoots choose to share his table. And I believe I can withstand being called ‘Irish,’ given of course that I am.”

 “It wasn’t just the insult, Sarge,” Columbo protested. “In one of the police journals I read, some headshrinker said that if you stand and your suspect’s sitting, you gain a ‘posture of superiority.’ "

 “With Piannetti, that would work only if you were standing over him with a howitzer and half the precinct , and he were dead. Look, Columbo: How well does your posture of superiority appear to work for our Lt. Mailman? A position of inferiority’ll get you further when you’re workin’ with big guns like Piannetti. When you come on like Eliot Ness, that’s when they’ll clam up on you. But you bow and scrape and tell ‘em how much you like their new pair a’ Florscheims, and they let down their guard. That’s when they’ll confess to the Lindbergh kidnapping, the sinking of the Lusitania, and the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre and perhaps thank you for the privilege. All right, class is over. Let us review what we learned from our Mr. Piannetti.”

 “Diddly,” Columbo suggested.

 “Reasonable evaluation,” Gilhooley nodded.

 “I did notice he was right-handed,” the junior detective dead-panned.
 “Another case closed. Actually, however, our encounter was mildly instructive. I got the strong sense our boy is innocent of young Estes’ death, if nothing else, but I was interested in his reaction to your theory about the murder being linked to an unhappy rival. Makes me think Mr. Piannetti lacks the graciousness to share all he knows with us.”

 “But why would another Mob guy go after Piannetti’s lawyer? It don’t seem, I don’t know, real direct.”

 Gilhooley shrugged. “I would venture a visit to Mr. Estes’ office would be educational. And perhaps a call to a friend of mine. Any other suggestions?”

 Columbo frowned and scratched his forehead. “Well, geez, Sarge, I had a thought, but…”

 “Thoughts were made to be spilled, lad.”

 “OK, it’s this. Why was that newspaper crumpled up on Estes’ dining room table? Looked to me like somebody got pissed off about something and mangled it. Problem is, I remember when Aaron played ball, he was about the coolest customer I ever met. The catcher, the other team’s crowd would try to rattle him into swinging on any garbage the pitcher would hurl, and it was like he was in one of those soundproof booths you see on the quiz shows. He was a very well-controlled guy, what I recall. I don’t see him losin’ his temper over something in the morning Times.”

 Gilhooley’s mustache twitched in appreciative reflection. “Perhaps his breakfast guest took issue with the news of the day. We shall have to cough up a quarter twixt the two of us, and peruse the morning edition for clues.”

The older cop started for their car, then shook his head. “Man offers him a seat, and he doesn’t take it,” he murmured with a mournful chuckle. 
**
 “Ah, Jesus,” Phil Rizzi spat as the detectives jingled the bell above his barbershop door. “Gilhooley, you don’t got more’n three hairs on that dome a’yours, and I swear to God you trim that soup strainer with one a’them things, you know, the thing the draftsmen use…”

 “Compass,” the sergeant supplied pleasantly as he eased into the first chair. The barbershop was empty, though Columbo could hear dim thumpings and ringings beyond the “Private” door.

 “Nah, that ain’t right,” Rizzi rasped, coughing something up and spitting it precisely into a cuspidor. “Point is, you don’t need me, and I sure as hell could get through the week without you. Why you gotta bother me?”

 “Because no one else in the neighborhood provides the high caliber of service as one finds here in your estimable establishment,” Gilhooley supplied pleasantly, nodding toward the closed door in the back. “’Fact, I was contemplating recommending your services to a few fellas in Vice I know. Large, hairy individuals, could use you expertise.”

 “Awright,” the gray-haired barber growled. “Whaddya want?”

 “I want what every man desires – knowledge and insight into the human condition. Be a good man and check to see there’s no stray bristles actin’ up back there, could you, please. You hear about that lawyer fella passed on this morning?”

 “Estes,” Rizzi murmured as he glanced at Columbo browsing his outdated magazines.

 “Indeed. Say, you service a couple of his friends, don’t you? Them that works for Mr. Joseph Piannetti.”

 “Jesus, Gilhooley, gimme a break.”

 Gilhooley closed his eyes and settled into the chair. “And who would the favorite be in tomorrow’s third race at Saratoga? Shall I step into the back room and find out?”

 Rizzi sighed. “Awright, you don’t gotta be inhospitable. I guess I did hear somethin’ kinda interestin’, you know what I mean. But you gotta keep your trap shut, or they’ll use my own straight razor on me.”

 “It’s as if I was in the confessional, my son,” Gilhooley said soothingly.

 “Awright. You know Bobby Ogliopozzi, big ape of a guy works for Piannetti?”

 “Lunched with him just this afternoon.”

 Rizzi stopped, then sighed again. “Okay, him and this other mook sharks for Piannetti are getting’ their ears shortened, Bobby in my chair, the shark in Kenny’s. Anyways, they’re small-talkin’, the weather, the Series, the Roosians puttin’ that cat into space.”

 “Dog,” Columbo piped up.

 “Whaddever. So they get to talkin’ how they’re gonna teach this Aaron guy a lesson. That was the stiff’s name, right.”

 “Correct,” Gilhooley said, frowning. “And what brand of education did they plan on providing Mr. Estes?”

 “I dunno. Look, jus’ cause I’m some dumb barber don’t mean folks are just gonna spill all their business in fronta me. Bobby just says that this time, they may carry this Aaron out in a blanket.”

 Gilhooley sat up. “This time. What in my sweet mother’s name did he mean by that?”

 “I dunno. Bobby musta decided he was sayin’ too much, cause then he starts back in on the Yankees, how he’s gonna drop a wad on ‘em Thursday. There, neat as Eisenhower’s Rose Garden.”

 Gilhooley popped out of the chair. “Excellent work, Phil. And would you recognize this ‘mook’ in the other chair, were you to peruse some mug books?”

 “Only face I remember is the one in my chair,” Rizzi mumbled, brushing the two to three hairs he’d trimmed from Gilhooley’s coat. “Now, do me a big favor, and get yours’ and your kid’s outta here.”
**
 “It didn’t look like a hit,” Columbo insisted as they ascended the stairs toward the 12th Precinct squadroom. “I mean, the killer sits down at the table and has a cup of coffee with Estes, and then kills him? It don’t wash, Sarge.”

 “Not with a truckload of Ivory soap,” Gilhooley agreed. “And how do you interpret Mr. Ogliopozzi’s cryptic comment?”

 “About them carrying Aaron off in a blanket THIS time?” Columbo shrugged. “Ya got me.”

 The mid-afternoon squadroom was relatively deserted, with the exception of a couple of uniforms tussling with a drunk in a Yankees cap. “Wha’s this, Nazi Germany?” the weaving man slurred. “Couple guys can’ even hava simple diff-, y’know, a l’il disagreemen’…”

 “Not when the other guy’s got a busted jaw,” the larger of the uniforms responded calmly, tugging the drunk toward the cell toward the back of the room. “Kinda interferes with his constitutional right to free speech when his teeth are all over the sidewalk. You’ll find out, you throw up on me.”

 “Series always brings ‘em out,” the second uniform informed the detectives as they passed.

 “Hey, Gilhooley,” the desk sergeant called out from behind his Times. “Melman wants to see you, ASAP. Hope you wore your iron drawers today.”

  Mailman looked up darkly as Gilhooley rapped on his office doorframe. “It ain’t Abbott and Costello. Heard you tried your little comedy routine at some wop restaurant today.”

 “And how did this come to your attention, sir?” Gilhooley inquired politely.

 “You never mind,” the lieutenant said through his teeth. “Listen, you dumb mick, I thought we agreed some prowler shot the shyster. The hell you roustin’ innocent citizens for?”

 “Beg pardon, Lieutenant,” the sergeant nearly bowed, and Columbo had to suppress a nervous chuckle. “The lad and I were just eliminating the possibilities a bit…”

 Mailman’s fingers drummed the scarred oak of his desktop. “Well, I’m gonna save you two some trouble by eliminating all the possibilities except the right one. I want you to get your asses over to talk to the Backdoor Bandit’s latest victim. This Feldman broad.”

 “Sir,” Columbo started.

 “Off on wings of angels,” Gilhooley promised Lt. Melman as he tapped his junior’s shoulder.
**
 “We got a special dinner Friday at the temple – the rabbi’s 10th anniversary with us,” the tiny old woman informed Gilhooley and Columbo as she poured them hot, potent coffee. A huge old European clock loudly ticked off the minutes behind the cops’ ancient but immaculate armchairs. “I saw a great pair of shoes down at Macy’s, perfect for Friday, so I went downtown yesterday afternoon with Hester Kimmel. She’s not my favorite people, always schmoozing and spreading gossip, but she’s got an Oldsmobile and terrific taste in shoes, and she’d mentioned at the diner the other day about how they were having a sale at the store. So, what, I spose I can live with a little schmoozing for one afternoon, eh?”

 Gilhooley sipped his coffee, smiled beatifically, and selected a macaroon from the selection of cookies Ida Feldman had placed before her guests. “Excellent blend, Mrs. Feldman. And you discovered your loss when you returned from shopping, I take it.”

 Mrs. Feldman beamed momentarily at the sergeant’s praise of her coffee brewing skills, then darkened. “They made off with the silver tea set my Tante Goldie left me, she should rest in peace, and my subway and bridge money – maybe $30.” She paused. “Not that it’s any kind of high-stakes game, you understand, Sergeant.”

 Gilhooley held up a hand. “I’ve been known to break out a deck with the boys every once in a while, and I know in his younger days, my colleague here was not averse to a wee bit of wagering.”

 Columbo grinned, grateful the sergeant hadn’t mentioned his juvenile gambling usually had been conducted in the alleys of the 12th Precinct. “So, ma’am,” the younger cop inquired. “None of the neighbors saw anybody suspicious?”

 “Not a peep, and old Mrs. Lewis upstairs, she makes it her business to know every man comes in the building,” Feldman related with a measure of heat. “She’s one a’them holy rollers, thinks everybody’s making whoopee all hours of the night. I should have the energy. No, if Commandant Lewis didn’t see nobody, then I don’t know how he would’ve got in.”

 “Anybody in the building you think mighta had eyes for your silver?” Columbo posed.

 Feldman shook her head vigorously.  “Mr. Kuzak down on two may take a nip or two, and he does work in TV, but no, I can’t see any of the folks here casin’ my apartment. Isn’t that what they say on Boston Blackie, Sergeant?” The woman suddenly cocked her head and held up a finger. “You hear something out in the hall?”

 Columbo craned. “Sounds like people talking.”

 “You want to be a dear and check for me? On top of everything else yesterday, I missed the Avon lady.”

 Det. Columbo peeked out the front door, and returned to his armchair. “It sounds like the woman in 303’s arguin’ with the woman in 304 about her garbage or something.” 

 Feldman looked down at her lap. “Too bad, Mrs. Bruns up in 405 showed me some new lipstick she got yesterday – Fiji Coral. Be perfect for the temple dinner. Plus, it’s always nice to have a little company in the afternoon. Is there anything else I can tell you boys?”

 Columbo started to his feet. “I think that oughtta—”

 Gilhooley, cocking his brow toward Ida Feldman’s imploring, slightly woebegone smile, lowered his partner back into his chair with a twitch of an index finger. “Actually, Mrs. Feldman, if I could trouble you for another cup of this fine coffee? If it’s not too much of an imposition…”

 “Oh, pssh,” she said, practically leaping from her chair. “I always make too big a pot, anyway…”

 “Bless you. So, Rabbi Kleiner’s celebrating his tenth, eh?…”
**
 The first thing Detective Columbo noticed as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the Club Caribe was what to the untrained nose might initially have seemed to be Italian food on the verge of scorching. Living and working this close to Greenwich Village and the growing beat scene, he recognized the scent of reefer, marijuana, immediately.

 “Barkeep,” Gilhooley called, loudly enough so the group on the small club stage could safely extinguish their “cigarettes.” “Detectives Gilhooley and Columbo. We’re here to talk to a Mr. Diego Castena.”

 A tall guitarist with longish hair and a neat mustache looked up from the bridge of his instrument. “I am Castena,” he called, removing the guitar and placing it reverently on his wooden stool. “Let’s take a break, and then we’ll go over the third chorus, OK?” he told his fellow musicians as he stepped deftly from the stage. “You gentlemen like something to drink, maybe?”

 “I could do with a Pepsi,” Columbo considered.

 “Two, if you don’t mind,” Gilhooley requested. “We’re on duty still.”

 “Me, too,” Castena smiled. “Rum, Manuel, por favor? I am happy you called. My fingers are sore, but the music is not any better for the pain this afternoon.” He plopped into  a captain’s chair at the table nearest the bar. Would you join me in a cigar?”

 “Cuban?” Gilhooley asked. Castena nodded. “Then, by all means. I’ve always wanted to try one. Lad?”

 Columbo started to pull a pack of Lucky Stars from his jacket, then looked at an expectant Gilhooley. “Oh, what the hey. Sure, you don’t mind, Mr. Castena.”

 Castena nodded to the bartender, who nodded in return and soon arrived at the table with a tray of rum, cola, and Cubanos. Columbo watched Gilhooley and Castena prepare and ignite their cigars before attempting to light his own. He puffed carefully, then smiled. “Say, that ain’t bad at all.”

 Castena whirled his drink absently, grinning wistfully. “My friend, you had better enjoy while you can – you may not see another for awhile. I’d venture to guess Presidente Batista will be running for the hills within months, and when Castro takes over, well, I may be staying in your country for quite a while longer than I had anticipated.”

 Gilhooley regarded Castena through a blue cloud of smoke. “I thought there was some trouble in that regard.”

 Castena shrugged. “Your Immigration people are none too happy with my bloodline – my brother, Carlo, owns, or maybe owned by now, a few nightclubs in Havana. Some of your -- what do you call them, gangsters? – frequent his clubs and engage in some activities that here might be considered disreputable.”

 “And you?” Gilhooley queried, blowing a ring.

 Castena spread his hands. “I’m a musician, maybe to some an artist. I want only what your Tomas Jefferson and his compadres desired – life, liberty, and the pursuit of a recording contract. Ever since my countryman, Senor Arnaz, hit it big with that ridiculous redhead, I’ve found a new tolerance here for my music and my culture. ‘You got some ‘splainin’ to do, Lucy.’” The guitarist rolled his eyes. “I suppose cultural acceptance is an evolutionary process, rather than a revolutionary one. But I am babbling. You’ve come about Aaron, am I right?”

 Gilhooley nodded.

 Castena savored his cigar, then exhaled, snagged a Club Caribe matchbook from the table, and scribbled a number on its inside cover. “This should clear up all questions you might have about my guilt or innocence in this matter, although I would assume you would not suspect me of murdering the man who was to be my ticket to citizenship.” He slid the matchbook to Columbo. “This young senorita will tell you I was in her company until about 8:30 a.m. this morning. Jill Peters is her name. And she’s not a redhead.”

 Gilhooley’s mustache twitched. “Can anyone else verify that you two were keeping company this morning?”

 Castena chuckled. “I suppose her next-door neighbors might have heard evidence of my presence. But I assure you, Miss Peters is trustworthy: She is a clerk at the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service, and a fan of mine. As well as of my music,” he added slyly.

 Columbo coughed a large clot of smoke.

 “Ah, and who says our federal government is a heartless beast?” Gilhooley murmured.
**
 “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

 “And when was your last confession, son?”

 Silence. “Just last Thursday, Father O’Donnell. It’s me, don’t you recognize my voice?”

 Father O’Donnell sighed as he addressed the screen between himself and young Columbo. “It’s just part of the routine, Thomas. I ‘spose it’s force of habitat. Yes, I recognize your voice. What grievous sins would you like to offer us today?”

 “Pride’s a sin, right? Not like I’m proud of my new car, the other kind. You know, the—”

 “The deadly sin one, yes, I read about that one. Go on. But first, did you see Gerald Ekstrom out there? Was he working?”

 “Yeah, Father, he’s right outside, polishing the pews.”

 O’Donnell grunted satisfaction. “Too often, he’s more interested in polishing the rail  at the horse track than he is the pews. Sorry, you were about to relate a lurid tale of pride.”

 “It’s just, the thing is, things are goin’ real well,” Columbo began.

 “Tsk, that’s only too tragic.”

 “I mean, I got a great wife, I got back from the war in one piece, with everything workin’, thank God for that. Oh, is it OK to say that?”

 “Gratitude for divine providence? Last I checked, it was kosher.”

 “And I love my job. Ever since Korea, I wanted to be a cop. And Sergeant Gilhooley, well, he’s like a father to me. I mean, a second father. You know the first one’s still alive, of course.”

 “Better be – I served him Communion him last Sunday.”

 “But the thing is, I wonder more and more if I like my job cause I get to put bad guys away or because I get to feel like a big man. You know my pop – oh, yeah, that’s right, you just mentioned him. Well, he’s a swell guy, the best, but you know he was never exactly John D. Rockefeller. An’ I know a man’s worth ain’t measured by the size of his wallet…”

 “You were awake last week, and they say there are no modern miracles. Thomas, you were working toward some point about your monstrous dark pride.”

 “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Anyway, today, me and Sgt. Gilhooley handled a murder, guy from the neighborhood you might remember, Aaron Estes.”

Father O’Donnell’s tone turned somber. “The family called today, yes.”

 “Well, this is gonna sound horrible, I know, but when I saw where Aaron’d been livin’ and thought about how me and Mrs. Columbo have been scrapin’ by, I gotta admit I felt a little steamed. I mean, here’s this poor young dead guy, an’ all I can think is how much I’d like to be livin’ in this swank apartment with a fancy doorman and a laundry chute.”

 “Goodness -- envy, too. Two deadly sins in one confession. Carry on, John Dillinger.”

 “An’ then I find out this smart, successful young guy’s workin’ for gangsters and gangsters’ friends’ brothers and the like, and I gotta wonder where he went wrong. I mean, I see some guy with that much goin’ for him, I wonder what could make him do such bad things. I use to watch him bat down the street here, and now I think he shoulda been playin’ for Stengel in the Series, who by the way I’m gonna actually talk to tomorrow, you can believe that. Is that being prideful?”

 “Not if Mr. Stengel consented to the conversation.”

 “Naw, Father, I mean…”

 “Because you question the evil ways of the world, and you occasionally stray into envy and self-righteousness as you strive toward the path of decency?”

 Silence. “Uh, sure?”

 “Thomas, Thomas,” Father O’Donnell sighed. “Sins like yours, I feel like I oughtta put one of those men’s room coin slots on the confessional door. I can’t tell you why boys like Aaron go wrong, or why they come to such grief. It’s the nature of Man, and the best you can do is the best you can do. Use your badge to root out the evil of the world and, where you can, set the strayed lambs back on the path. Goodness, I sound like Father Spencer Tracy, himself. By the by, you wouldn’t happen to have any clue what happened to our poor young Aaron? As you might judge from our present surroundings, I won’t tell anyone.”

 “I dunno, Father. I’m kinda stumped. I guess I’d like to think it was Joe Piannetti, you know Mr. Piannetti?”

 “A bad one, indeed.”

 “But I don’t see why he woulda killed his own lawyer, less maybe Aaron knew something he shouldn’t. And there’s the newspaper.”

 “The newspaper.”

 “Today’s Times. A section of it was crumpled up on Aaron’s dining room table. Now, we’re pretty sure he had a cup of coffee with the killer, but we don’t know whether Aaron or the killer crumpled that paper. So I’m thinkin’, why would a man crumple up a section of newspaper?”

 “Well, we got a few fellas down at the mission who use the Times for protection when their shoe leather runs thin, but I don’t suppose a man of Aaron’s means would’ve needed to resort to such a desperate measure. Perhaps Aaron or his homicidal guest might’ve had a household spill, and absent of any napkins or paper towels, they employed the morning Times…”

 “Nah, no sign of any spill, and the paper was clean.”

 “Well, since you seem to be entranced by the Deadly Sins this day, I would have to say we’re down to an act of wrath.”

 “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, but I gave that section the once-over, and I can’t figure out what might’ve set Aaron or a killer off. A feature story about Fidel Castro, some stuff about the next Sputnik, of course, a police blotter piece about a brawl between some Yankees and Braves fans, the comics, some word puzzles, and the lovelorn column.”

 “Well, I do on occasion find that Beetle Bailey maddeningly slothful and disrespectful to his commanding officers.”

 “Only other thing I can think is either Aaron or the killer got mad and grabbed the nearest thing he could find, that section of newspaper. But there wasn’t any other sign of anybody havin’ a temper tantrum.”

 “Except, of course, the shooting of poor Aaron.”

 “Well, yeah, that. Anyway, you probably got other confessions to hear, and Mrs. Columbo wants to take me to hear that new New York Philharmonic guy, Bernstein, tonight, so I better get goin’.”

 “Oh, my, rampant pride, unbridled envy, and now the need of wearing a bowtie and listening to classical music. It’s a time of spiritual crisis, now, isn’t it?”

 “Hey, that reminds me, what do you want me to do about my sins?”

 “Ah. Give me one Hail Mary sound? And get me Mr. Stengel’s autograph.”
**
 “And how was your ordeal at the hands of the nefarious Leonard Bernstein?”  Gilhooley asked as Yankee Stadium loomed before their windshield.

 Columbo swerved slightly to avoid an early morning laborer in the other lane whose alarm obviously had failed him. “Aw, it wasn’t so bad. I only fell asleep three or four times, and they had a bad habit of not bein’ done with the song when you thought they were. But Mrs. Columbo liked it fine, and we stopped for a couple egg creams on the way home. Just thinkin’ maybe next time I’ll see if Bernstein has any records out, and we can have egg creams at home without me havin’ to wear the monkey suit.”

 “Moira prefers a good tenor, but she feels there hasn’t been one worth salt since Enrico Caruso, so she usually settles for Mr. Sullivan on the television,” the sergeant yawned. “Ah, and here’s the turn, lad, don’t want to miss it.”

 “Why you wearin’ that raincoat, Sarge?” Columbo asked as they headed across the concrete toward the stadium entrance. It was only 8:20, and the Series crowd wouldn’t arrive for hours. “There ain’t a cloud in the sky.”

 “You never know, boyo, you never know,” Gilhooley murmured. “Ah, Lawrence, what a sight for sore eyes you are.”

 A stocky stadium security guard limped slightly over to the cops, beaming. “Gilhooley, you old bastard,” he called. “How’s that doll you was lucky enough to fool with that line of bullshit blarney of yours?”

 “Moira sends her regards and her invitation to get blind stupid drunk and embarrass yourself at my wake,” Gilhooley returned, pumping the man’s paw warmly. “Detective Columbo, I’d like you should meet Sergeant Larry McCloskey, formerly of the Fightin’ 12th Precinct.”

 McCloskey clamped Columbo’s fingers in a slightly painful grip. “’Til a couple cheap hijackers pumped some birdshot into my right knee. Luckily, your friend here gave him back good as they got before they could put me into permanent retirement. Glad to meet you, kid. So, you’re here to see the Old Professor, huh? He’s kinda busy, you know – after yesterday’s win, he wants to keep the steam goin’. He’s still hurtin’ from the trouncing we got off the Braves last year.”

 “We won’t keep Mr. Stengel long,” Columbo promised. “Just a couple questions in a homicide we’re workin’.”

 “Jesus,” McCloskey whistled as he ushered them inside the gate. The trio’s steps echoed in the nearly-empty stadium. “Hope it ain’t anything got to do with the team. Things already been nervous enough around here, what with the letters.”

 “Letters?” Gilhooley perked.

 McCloskey waved his great sausage-like fingers. “Ah, we ain’t sposed to be talking to the press or even you guys about it, but you know there’s still some folks who ain’t real thrilled about the coloreds playin’ longside our boys. I mean, you remember last year, when they carried ol’ Hank off on their shoulders at the end of the Series? That got some of these white trash types all up in arms. So naturally, we got a few letters, some threats about what was gonna happen to the colored players we lost. Redneck bullshit is all. Don’t worry yourself about it. OK; there’s the man, down by first. Hey, Mr. Stengel! Here’s those detectives called!”

 The white-haired Yankees manager looked up from his apparent study of the pitcher’s mound and jerked his head toward the home dugout. When they arrived, he was sitting contemplatively, one leg propped on the dugout rail. “You fellas wouldn’t be from the Senate, wouldja?” Casey Stengel twinkled. “You tell ‘em we’re gonna sell Pittsburgh to the Chrysler folks and start making toasters at Wrigley Field.”

 A few weeks before, the former New York Giant-turned-GM had testified before the Senate Subcommittee on Antitrust and Monopoly on why the national pastime should be exempted from corporate antitrust laws. He’d buffaloed the lawmakers with the special brand of brain-twisting, logic-busting “Stengelese” the press and the fans had come to expect, and his pet player, Mickey Mantle, had followed him to the mike proclaiming his position was “about the same as Casey’s.”

 “Actually, I used to watch you field for the Giants,” Gilhooley said, lowering himself onto the weathered bench. “Was lucky enough to have saved my pennies to see those two game-winning runs in ’23.”

 Stengel shrugged. “I was such a dangerous hitter I even got intentional walks in batting practice. You a Yankees fan, kiddo?” he asked Columbo.

 “You betcha, sir,” the young detective enthused. “I’da come down here on two broken legs to see DiMaggio play.”

 “Joltin’ Joe,” Stengel smiled. He’d inherited the powerhouse player when he’d revived his career as a manager with the Yanks in the late ‘40s, and had been working to mold Mantle as a baseball god of equal statute. “Hey, tell you what, guys – I’d love to jawbone all day about the great sport, but I got a little game to get ready for this afternoon. What’s up?”

 “You know a young man named Aaron Estes?” Gilhooley asked.

 “Estes, Estes. Aw, jeez, the lawyer guy. Smooth as Marilyn Monroe’s left ass. Yeah, I had supper with him and his girl, once. He’d pulled one of my guy’s nuts out of a blender – one of my guys, not one nut -- and I said we’d have to grab a beer or two some time. This was about, oh, back last January. Who knew he’d call up a week or so ago and take me up on it. Kid dead or somethin’?”

 Gilhooley nodded.

 “Shame, but he was the type. Always has a great stance, a powerhouse windup, but there’s always somethin’ wrong with the pitch. See, we go to the Four Seasons, and all he wants to talk about is The Game. I guess he was a pretty good player before he started hustling law, but he was workin’ more angles than Isosceles or whatever that dead Latin guy’s name was. Wanted to know about the players’ families, how much practice we got in each day, even what I knew about the Braves. Tell you the truth, there was a dinner went into extra innings. Never heard from the kid again, and never figured out what his game was.”

 Gilhooley stood. “You wouldn’t happen to remember the name of the young lass who accompanied Mr. Estes that evening?”

 “Jenny, Joanne, no, Jill,” Stengel snapped his fingers. “Now she was a looker.”

 Gilhooley glanced at Columbo, who raised a brow. “All right, Mr. Stengel; thanks for your time, and if you happen to recall anything else, would you be so kind to call Sgt. Gilhooley at the 12th Precinct?”

 “Hey, anything for a fan,” Casey grinned. “You fellas comin’ out this week, aren’t you?”

 “This afternoon,” Columbo reported, containing his excitement. “We’ll be rootin’ for the boys. You’ll get those Braves this time around.”

 “There comes a time in a man’s life,” the Old Professor shrugged, “and I’ve had plenty of them.”
**
 “Jill Peters?” 

 The tall blonde looked analytically at Gilhooley. “Irish, right? County Cork? Second generation?”

 “You have a flawless ear, as well as the features immediately surrounding them,” he said.

 Peters’ blue eyes rolled toward the water-stained ceiling of the cramped Immigration office. “So what do you want, Mr…?”

 “Sergeant Gilhooley, and this young Neapolitan here would be Detective Columbo. We’re with the NYPD. We’re having a bit of trouble determining just who you might be with.”

 Peters’ eyes twitched toward the inner offices. “What’s that crack mean?”

 “Well, my colleague and I hear that you’re quite the social butterfly these days. First, you appear to be keeping company with a prominent young attorney, and then with his dashing young client, whose fate your agency has in its bureaucratically calloused hands.”

 The clerk grabbed Gilhooley and Columbo’s arms and yanked them into the Federal Building corridor. Gilhooley said nothing until they had reached the maintenance closet at the end of the hall. “All right, so why’s who I’m dating any of your damned business?”

 “Since one of your beaus is no longer among the living,” the sergeant replied amiably, “And you are the purported alibi of the other.”

 Peters eyed him narrowly for a half-minute. “Who taught you how to talk?”

 “The good sisters of St. Matthews. Now, would like to tell us the juicy details, or will we have to watch The Guiding Light to find out?”

 She sighed. “OK, there wasn’t nothing crooked goin’ on. When Aaron came in the office the first time for Diego, I mean Mr. Castena, oh, hell, Diego, he started puttin’ the big moves on me. It was kinda flattering, you know, sharp young lawyer wantin’ to make time with me. Plus, he tells me he’s got this dinner with Casey Stengel, you know, the big shot with the Yankees. Don’t take me long to realize all he wanted was some window dressing. Didn’t hear a thing from him after that night. He just wanted something pretty on his arm when he broke bread with the Mighty Casey. He is the Casey in the poem, right?”

 “I dunno,” Columbo shrugged. “That bother you, that he was just usin’ you to make points with Mr. Stengel?”

 “Yeah,” Peters exhaled. “It just kept eatin’ at me ‘til I took out my six-shooters and pumped the mangy varmint fulla lead. I look like some high school virgin to you, Buster? Hey, I don’t need an answer. Naw, I got a nice dinner in a fancy joint and I got to meet the Mighty Casey, who was a real gentleman, by the way. Even if he did talk kinda strange.”

 “Estes seem impressed with the Old Professor?” Gilhooley inquired.

 “Nah, that was what was so oddball. Aaron was tellin’ me all about his big neighborhood ball career, what a first-class snore, so I figure he’s gonna fawn all over Casey. But this was like some Perry Mason story or something. He kept grillin’ Stengel about the Yanks and the other guys, the Milwaukee guys, like he was real interested, but it was like he was trying to sweat out evidence or something. He drops me off, he just thanks me real nice, like I’d served him lunch or something, and drives off. Creep.”

 “And Mr. Castena. Would he be a creep?”

 Peters grinned. “Who cares, you know what I mean? It’s like bein’ with Ricky Ricardo, ‘cept better.”

 “So I’ve heard,” Gilhooley murmured. “As I also have heard that you can verify Mr. Castena’s whereabouts during the breakfast hours of yesterday morning.”

 She flushed. “Hey, he tell you that? I guess he ain’t a gentleman after all. Oh, well, guess the ship sailed on my virtue years ago. Yeah, I was with him. ‘Til time for me to go to work about 8:30 a.m. That clear him on Aaron?”

 “If your account is accurate. He was with you the entire time?”

 “Well, I didn’t stay up and watch him snore, if that’s what you mean. Even though I could’ve. We got up around five.”

 “And had breakfast?” Columbo asked.

 Gilhooley coughed lightly.

 “Oh,” Columbo looked intently at his notes.

 “He calls me his Lucy,” Peters oozed with an uncharacteristic sweetness.
**
“So what’s with the raincoat, Sarge?” Hank asked absently, filling the salt shaker at Gilhooley and Columbo’s table. “It’s gonna be a beautiful day for a game.”

“I’m preparing for the deluge of tears that will sweep the invading Milwaukeeans back to their wheat fields,” Gilhooley responded, sipping his coffee. The detectives had decided to reconnoiter at Pete’s Diner before heading back to the stadium. They’d casually attacked the Backdoor Burglar case, then launched full-bore into the Estes murder. “So, lad, Occam’s Razor would seem to indicate Mr. Piannetti as a favorite, but I sense you’re not so certain.”

“Occam’s what?” Hank interjected.

“The proposition that the most straightforward, obvious possibility in any case is usually the correct conclusion,” the sergeant recited. “It is cited often in conjunction with Gilhooley’s Precept.”

“What’s that?”

“The proposition that one’s tip is directly proportionate to the amount of disruption one causes during the course of one’s customer’s business.”

“Gotcha,” Hank grinned, heading back for the kitchen.

“Gotta remember that one,” Columbo chuckled.

“You don’t see too many waiters or waitresses yachting about Newport,” Gilhooley observed. “Hope I wasn’t unduly brisk there.”

“Hank can take it,” Columbo assured him. “You’re right, Sarge – I don’t know that I necessarily buy Piannetti for the killing. It still seems to personal, with the coffee and all. Even though what Mr. Rizzi said is kinda curious. I can’t for the life of me figure out what Piannetti’s guy meant by carrying Aaron out in a blanket ‘this time.’”

“So who do you like?”

“OK, I’ll admit it’s kinda weak, but how about the triangle with Aaron and Miss Peters and Castena.”

“Miss Peters seemed to have gotten over Mr. Estes in fast order,” Gilhooley mused.

“But what if she read Aaron wrong, and he really was interested in her. Maybe HE didn’t get over her. Maybe he found out about Castena and her, and he was blackmailing her cause he knew she might lose her job if they found out she was dating both a guy who was trying to get citizenship and the guy’s lawyer. I don’t mean blackmail for money, Sarge, I, uh…”

“Yes, I understand. And you think she plugged the mouthpiece before he could carry through on his threat? Well, we do have a tendency to underestimate the fairer sex, don’t we? You ever see Mr. Hitchcock’s films, son?” the cop asked as he looked about the diner.

Columbo’s brow wrinkled. “One of his older ones was called ‘Blackmail,’ right?”

“Yesss, but my favorite is ‘To Catch a Thief.’ Mr. Grant and the exquisite Miss Kelly.” Gilhooley fell silent, then started. “Sorry, lad – little woolgathering, I suppose. Any further theorizing?”

“Well, if Aaron knew about Castena, I’ll betcha Castena knew about Aaron. If he thought Aaron was still after Miss Peters, and he knew Aaron could probably get him sent back to Cuba, with Castro and all, maybe he decided he better get Aaron out of the way.”

“Hmm…Don’t suppose you noticed…”

“They’re both right-handed,” Columbo supplied.

Gilhooley picked up his cup. “You start getting three answers ahead of me, boy, and I’ll be ready for the bughouse.”
**
 Hank’s prognosis had turned out to be accurate – the day was beautiful, if only from a meteorological standpoint. Warren Spahn had ended Hank Bauer’s 17-game series hitting streak, as well as besting Whitey Ford on the mound, with a two-hit shutout, and the Braves emerged 3-0, three games up on the Series.

 As a result, the departing Yankees crowd was sluggish, sullen, and looking for an outlet for their frustration.

 “What happens when ya let them on the field,” the large man just ahead of Gilhooley slurred loudly in Brooklynese. “S’a slap inna face to decent workin’ folks who lay down the better part a’ their pay to see real players play.”

 “Jerry,” the man’s not-so-nearly-inebriated, much smaller pal murmured warily.

 But, Columbo noted, the verbose Brooklynite had caught the attention of his target: A black man with two children, all in Yankees caps, bout three people ahead in the swarm. The man studiously pretended not to heed the drunk fan’s remarks, but his head was inclined slightly behind him, and he hugged his sons to him as they crept toward the exit.

 “Nowadays, ya gotta let ‘em in everyplace,” the burly man growled. “In the restaurants, at church – nex’ thing ya know, some spook’ll be movin’ in down the block.”

 The black man halted, then continued to move.

 “What?” the large fan demanded, looking at the man’s back. “You gotta problem or some—”

 Gilhooley’s move was so sudden Columbo only registered it after the fact. The older cop shoved his knee into the back of the angry fan’s knee, bringing him straight down. The man came up roaring to find his face pressed into the cold metal of Gilhooley’s badge.

 “You been drinkin’, friend?” the sergeant asked in a dangerously calm voice. “Cause I’m wonderin’ why else you’d assault an officer of the law in full view of a few hundred people.”

 “Assault? Hey, you banged into me, you—”

 “What,” Gilhooley breathed into his face. “You dirty Paddy Irish what?”

 The drunk staggered back, struck dumb, trying to remember if he’d actually said such a thing aloud.

 “A policeman just asked you if you was drunk,” Columbo snarled, getting into the game.

 “I hadda coupla beers…”

 “More like six or seven,” Gilhooley appraised. “Public intoxication on top of assaulting an officer?”

 “Iss a ballgame,” the man wailed. Columbo noted the black man and his children moving safely into the sunshine outside the park. “Everybody hassa beer at a game!! Hell, you gotta beer in your han’.”

 “Thanks for holding my beer, Officer,” a spectacled young man next to Columbo piped up, reaching for the paper cup. Gilhooley arched a brow, then nodded appreciatively to the stranger. “And I’ll make sure and just stick to the one, like you said, sir.”

 “Good man,” Gilhooley said, turning back to the drunk. “Look, Columbo; I think we got ourselves a flasher, as well. Public indecency.”

 Columbo then saw the man’s fly was wide open, betraying a swath of red-striped jockey.

 “I jus’ got outta th’ john!!” the man whined, looking ready to bust into tears. “C’mon, c’mon. Lemme go – I’ll be good.”

 Gilhooley looked to Columbo, who shrugged, then leaned in. “You’re lucky my partner’s a softy, Mac. You be good, Mr….?”

 “Davidson, Jerry Davidson,” the man choked out.

 “I’m gonna put your name and description on the NYPD grapevine, Jerry. You better shape up and keep that spewing, malodorous sewage hole you call a mouth quiet in front of decent folk. Keep it zipped, Jerry, above and below. You gonna see he gets home safe, mister?” Gilhooley addressed the man’s friend.

 The friend nodded somberly, and jerked the drunk toward the exit. The sergeant turned to the short man who’d intervened and who still held Gilhooley’s beer.

 “Thanks for holding my beer, son,” he smiled. “Sgt. Gilhooley and Detective Columbo.”

 “Woody Allen,” the man grinned, pumping Gilhooley’s hand. “Glad to help. I’d have leaped in and thrashed him soundly, but it looked like you had matters in hand. Good thing you were here. You like ‘Your Show of Shows’?”

 “Mr. Caesar’s my all-time favorite,” Columbo said.

 “Well, I write for the show. Some time, you bring your wives, and I’ll get you in for a taping.”

 “Most gracious of you,” Gilhooley nodded. “Now, may I have my beer, please?”
**
 Columbo leaned back from his bloody plate. “Geez, that was some piece of meat. Almost makes up for the game.”

 Gilhooley masticated his last sliver of T-bone, washing it down with a slug of ale and glancing around the crowded dining room at O’Toole’s. “Probably a good thing we interviewed Mr. Stengel this morning. I have a feeling he might not be in such great spirits at this particular moment.”

 “Well, we still got three games to pull it out, Sarge,” Columbo suggested. “Maybe this year, they’ll carry Mantle or Berra off the field on their shoulders.”

 The sergeant lifted his pilsner. “Here’s hoping, Lad.” Suddenly, Gilhooley’s eyes widened, and he thumped his glass back onto the tablecloth.

 “Sarge?” Columbo ventured, slightly alarmed. “Sarge, you havin’ a heart attack or somethin’?”

 “This time,” Gilhooley mumbled, smacking the table. “This time. ‘This time they’ll carry him out in a blanket.’” He looked up at his partner. “Last time, they carried him off on their shoulders.”
 “Who, Sarge?”

 “Aaron, boy, Aaron.”

 “Aaron?” Columbo frowned. “When did Aaron…? Wait a minute. Not Aaron Estes. Hank Aaron. The Brave?”

 “Henry Aaron,” Gilhooley confirmed. “Look, Son, you saw back at the park how some folks still feel about fellas like Aaron playing in the major leagues. McCloskey told us they’d got some poison pen letters at the stadium. You know what’s been goin’ on down South. It happened here, who’d suspect some hoodlum like Piannetti?”

 “Piannetti? Why would Joe Piannetti wanna hurt Hank Aaron?”

 “Same thing that motivates all the Piannettis of the world – money, and only money. Bet if you’d check the betting line on the Series, you’d see there’s some pretty heavy sugar on the Yankees. You take out Aaron, maybe a couple of players around him, and you not only take out a top hitter, you ruin the team’s spirit. The Braves’d probably only be half-playing.”

 Columbo slumped back in his chair. “So you’re sayin’ Aaron – Aaron Estes, I mean – Aaron was pumpin’ Mr. Stengel for information? Information for Piannetti?”

 “Likely thought he was just scouting the team,” Gilhooley fretted his beard. “At worst, maybe that Piannetti’s boys might break an arm or a leg. Columbo, you bring the car around – I gotta find out where the Braves are stayin’ in town and get the cavalry over there.” He tossed a couple of bills on the table.

 Columbo bee-lined for the front door. He stepped out into the humid night and felt a sharp coldness on his neck.

“Some game, eh, Tommy Boy?” Columbo recognized the voice behind him as belonging to Piannetti’s hulking henchman, Bobby. A second thinner man stepped to Columbo’s side and quickly frisked him.

 “I don’t much like guns,” Columbo explained drily. “What do you fellas want?”

 “I want you to shut up and enjoy the nice evening,” Bobby said pleasantly as the trio moved to the unlit side of the restaurant. “We’ll just wait for your Mick partner to show up, and we’ll take a little ride upstate. Maybe see one o’them apple orchards, fertilize a few trees.”

 “I dunno what you guys are talkin’ about.”

 “Like hell,” the skinny one snapped. “We saw you talkin’ to Stengel, that gash that was seein’ Estes. Then you show up at today’s game. Don’t you give us no bullshit you don’t know what’s goin’ on.”

 Columbo shrugged. “All right, ya got me. But why’d you kill Estes? Didn’t he know you were gonna kill Aaron?”

 Bobby looked at his slender partner and laughed harshly. “You ain’t exactly the world’s greatest detective, are ya, Tommy? We didn’t hit Est—”

 “Take me out to the ball game,” a drunken voice erupted from the alley. “Take me outta the crowd! Buy me some peanuhs an’ crackerjacksh, I don’ la la la la la la laaaa…”

 “Jesus, some effin’ wino,” the skinny guy whispered.

 “Calm down, calm down,” Bobby snapped. “Just let the old soak pass. Talk ‘bout the Series or somethin’.”

 “So iss roo, roo, roo for the home team, if they don’ win iss a shame,” the old drunk, shrouded in a rumpled raincoat, stumbled toward the men, bouncing a few times off the brick wall. “Hey, you guys gotta light for a Yankee fan?” he asked, rooting inside the coat.

 “Get lost—” Bobby growled before the “wino” came up with a sawed-off shotgun and pumped the chamber. The sound filled the night, and two guns clattered to the concrete.

 “Evening, boys,” Gilhooley greeted. “Looks like you’re outta the game.”
**
 Lt. Columbo squinted into the late afternoon sun. “They found a couple of guys hidin’ in the stairwell a floor down from Aaron’s hotel room, with a Molotov cocktail. Piannetti’s boys, tried to tell us they trying to avenge the white man’s game, that they were actin’ on their own. They knew they’d get worse than a couple of cells at Riker’s Island if they ratted out Mr. Joe Piannetti.”

 “So you and Gilhooley saved Hank Aaron from a fiery death and the city from a major scandal and maybe a race riot,” Henrietta Blane murmured, awestruck. “How did you keep something that big secret?”

 Columbo leaned forward. “You gotta understand – it was a different time. The media ran on typewriters and notebooks. There wasn’t any CNN, and the average reporter was about as honest as, well, as the average New York cop back then. Even if they’d found out at the Times, the mayor woulda known what buttons to push to keep things quiet.”

 “And Piannetti got away with it?”

 The graying lieutenant grinned. “Not exactly.”
**
 “No, Mrs. Dominguez, I would doubt the Prince of Darkness would use televised wrestling as a device to lure your husband from the bosom of his family,” Father O’Donnell assured the agitated woman before him. “However, I promise you I’ll drop down to the factory and have a word with your mister about his paternal responsibilities. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

 The priest had seen Gilhooley and Columbo enter the sanctuary, the older cop’s hand resting on his sidearm, and he rapidly strode the center aisle toward them.

 “Father, have you seen Gerald about?” Gilhooley inquired with polite briskness.

 O’Donnell stayed planted. “And what need would you have of him, Sergeant? He’s got a full plate today.”

 “I generally don’t bring my lead pipe to church with me, Father,” the older cop said mildly. “If I might merely have a word with the man?”

 “Is it about the gambling?” the priest persisted.

 “Long as he ain’t bet on them sheepherders from Milwaukee, I don’t figure I care a rat’s – ” Gilhooley began. Columbo coughed. “Um, a rat’s immortal soul about his gamblin’. Now could you do me a service and move to the side before I haul you in for runnin’ a rigged Bingo?”

 “All right – he’s in the men’s lavat’ry, fixing a clog.” Father O’Donnell sighed and stepped aside. Gilhooley nodded and moved past as Columbo smiled and ducked his head in respect to the clergy.

 When the policemen entered the toilet, Gerald Ekstrom started and bumped the pipe under the sink. The custodian let loose with a torrent of words unseemly for Father O’Donnell’s domain, then sat up on the tile rubbing his forehead.

 “Gerald,” Gilhooley began congenially. “The good father says you have a love for the equine species.”

 “Eq-what?” Ekstrom frowned.

 “The ponies, lad, the ponies. But I wonder if you have the best horse sense, if you’ll pardon my unpardonable pun.”

 Ekstrom glared at Gilhooley. “Look, I got a sink and a couple steps needs fixin’ before supper, so you got a point, whyn’t you get on with it?”

 Gilhooley smiled and leaned on the sink, planting his foot firmly on the large pipe wrench within Ekstrom’s reach. “Quite the enterprisin’ fella, eh? I understand you been doin’ a chore or two as well for Mr. Joe Piannetti. Possibly as a result of your equine activities? Fellas down to that tavern you frequent say you couldn’t tell a good horse if Francis the Talking Mule his own self was to finger one for you. And speakin’ of which, this young lad here might have a few words about your fingerin’ him to Mr. Piannetti’s lads.”

 Ekstrom tried to climb to his feet. Gilhooley nudged him back to his knees. “Perhaps I should step out for a moment, say a few Hail Marys, perhaps, and allow you and Mr. Columbo to discuss his displeasure. Perhaps arrive at a suitable remedy for the predicament you placed him in.”

 “They wasn’t sposed to do nothin’ to him,” Ekstrom protested before clamping his mouth shut.

 Columbo kneeled before the handyman. “What did they ask you to do, Mr. Ekstrom. Listen in on my confession? See if I knew anything about Mr. Estes’ murder, if there was anything private Piannetti might be able to hold over me?

“You see, Mr. Ekstrom, you made one mistake. We don’t know each other except to pass each other at Communion, and I’m sure to a big wheel like Mr. Piannetti, I’m just ‘Gilhooley’s partner,’ maybe ‘Columbo.’”

“Atrocious lack of regard for one’s betters,” Gilhooley tsk’ed.

“When Mr. Pianetti’s man tried to kill me, he called me Tommy,” Columbo continued. “You wouldn’t know it, but that’s not my Christian name.” The younger cop blushed. “I don’t advertise my first name, especially down at the squadroom. But for some reason, that gunman thought my name was Tommy. Or Thomas. Only one man calls me Thomas, and then only in the confessional.

“See, I’m the kind of guy that questions things, I guess. I see something off, I question it. Something don’t ring true, I gotta wonder why. That can be kind of an irritating quality for some folks, I’ll admit that. I think Father O’Donnell gets a charge out of it. That’s why he calls me Thomas, Doubting Thomas, after the skeptical disciple. So how did the father’s nickname for me get into that gangster’s mouth?”

“Priest’s not necessarily the most lucrative calling in the world,” Gilhooley reminded his partner. “A few sawbucks might make up for the good father’s lack of personal, ah, enrichment.”

Columbo grinned. “So if I assume my priest for the last 20 years didn’t sic that hood on me, then it had to be somebody in a position to hear my confession. Any of the regular parishioners would’ve looked awful strange, straining to listen at the curtain. But nobody would think twice of you polishing the pews nearby.”

“Bright young fella, don’t y’think?” Gilhooley posed proudly. Ekstrom glared at him. “I will accept that as a yes. Now, would you grant me the pleasure of your company down at the precinct, or would you care for me to come around that tavern of yours some evenin’, maybe express my gratitude for your good citizenship in informing us of Mr. Piannetti’s nefarious doins’?”

Ekstrom made a gagging sound. Gilhooley allowed him to dive for the toilet.

“That’s probably a no, Sarge,” Columbo decided.
**
 “California?” Gilhooley’s steel-gray brows rose incredulously. “And what would possess you to seek out such a godforsaken outpost of sunstroked dementia?”

 Columbo yanked at his tie before lining up his shot. “Ah, Sarge, it ain’t so bad, from what I hear. My third cousin Harry, he and his wife moved out to Los Angeles after the Big War, they love it. Warm all year round, grab an orange off a tree you want one, movie stars all over the place. Harry saw Marlon Brando just last week, eatin’ a burger on Wilshire.”

 It was three days after they’d hauled Joe Piannetti and his new legal counsel in, and Gilhooley waited respectfully until his partner let fly for a 20-pointer. 

“And is that your grand plan? You gonna be in the pictures with Misters Welles and Heston?”

 The younger cop chuckled. “I was thinkin’ I might take a shot at joinin’ the force out there. I got a few years under my belt here, and with my MP experience in Korea and maybe a good word from a well-respected law enforcement officer…”

 “You’re not gonna tell me you ain’t Irish, with a line of blarney like that. So happens I know a fella out there. I’ll send him a post tomorrow, assumin’ they still got the Pony Express runnin’ out there. Joe Friday’s a cop’s cop, and he’ll teach you everything ELSE you need to know about this business. You thought this through, Lad?”

 Columbo lowered himself onto a stool and drained the last dregs of his beer. “Mrs. Columbo and I agreed that it might be better for my long-term health – and our kids, when we have ‘em – if we settled someplace doesn’t have as many Joe Piannettis runnin’ around.”

 Gilhooley’s dart-loaded hand fell to his side as he considered his protégé. “And I’m to believe the intrepid Detective Columbo, who faces down armed gunsels and Mr. Leonard Bernstein alike, is fleeing the jurisdiction for the pastoral streets of Los Angeles? What’s the rest, son?”  He asked the last somberly. “Go on, now – you’ve no need for secrets or fancy dancin’ with me. Spill it.”

 “Well, Sarge,” Columbo murmured reluctantly, “I guess I’m wonderin’ why you killed Aaron Estes.”

 Gilhooley turned abruptly about and released his feathered missile. It lodged, vibrating, in the center of Quinlan’s dartboard. “Lad, I couldn’t imagine that it would be possible to feel such shame in one’s self and such pride in another simultaneously. As always, you have affirmed my faith in your shrewd copper’s eye. Well, come on, tell me about it.”

 “It was the newspaper, the crumpled paper on Estes’ table,” Columbo said. “Everybody we talked to told us what a cool customer Estes was, how he never lost his temper. I couldn’t see him throwing a fit and crumpling that newspaper in anger. And I couldn’t find anything in that section that might have made him react that way. But you know what was in that section?”

 “Your show, boy,” Gilhooley coaxed.

 Columbo reached into his jacket and brought out a small notebook. “The New York Times crossword puzzle. The very one you finished over breakfast the day we took the call on Estes. You’ve taught me a lot, Sarge, including an appreciation for the language. You pick up all these great new words out of the Times puzzle, and you pass ‘em on to me.”

 “Cut the blarney, and proceed with your deductions.”

 The young cop flipped open his book. “I went down to the Times and got the paper from the day Estes was killed. I wrote down a few clues from that day’s crossword. You remember telling me how Mrs. Feldman had been robbed by the Backdoor Bandit? How she’d been deprived of his ‘hard-earned lucre’? Well, here’s clue 18 Across – ‘A French looter’s objective.’ That’d be lucre – I did the whole puzzle, with a dictionary and Mrs. Columbo, and that’s the right answer. You called the crowds down at Yankee Stadium an ‘overpopulated morass of humanity.’ Clue 87 Down – ‘Teeming confusion.’ The answer’s morass. I could go on, but you used at least five words that were in that day’s puzzle, before you even started working it. That’s an awful strange coincidence, Sarge.”

 “And as we know…” Gilhooley encouraged, smiling.

 “There are no coincidences, not really,” Columbo finished. “I think you went to see Estes before you went to breakfast, to talk about something. It’d be just like Estes to make you cool your heels while he made some phone calls or something, and to kill time, you looked over the day’s crossword puzzle in his Times. He kept you waiting, and I’ll bet you decided it might ruffle his feathers to find you defacing his Times. Or maybe it was force of habit. But you folded the crossword section into quarters like you do every morning at Pete’s. Estes came back before you could start it, but you’d already scouted out some of the clues. That’s what makes me think Estes’ death was an accident, was unplanned.”

 “Premeditated.”

 Columbo grinned, sadly. “Yeah. I think he and you got into it, and after you’d killed him, you realized you’d left a clue at the scene with that folded paper. You couldn’t just take that section or even the whole paper with you – that’d just draw attention to it. So you disguised your handiwork by crumpling the paper up, so nobody could make out the folds.

 “What’s botherin’ me is how you came to kill Estes. I got a guess about that – he was a neighborhood boy, wasn’t he? Did you try to talk him into coming forward about Piannetti? You caught wind of what you thought was a plot to fix the Series, and you figured as how Estes was such a baseball fan, you might convince him to turn on Piannetti?”

 Gilhooley placed the rest of his darts on the table and rubbed a calloused paw over his thick brush moustache. “Ain’t the same world as when I took up arms against the Huns at Normandy. I suspect it’s changed much for the worse even since you came back from your little turn for Uncle Sam. Things like patriotism, faith, honor, they surely don’t mean what they once did. I tried to talk some sense into that boy, remind him of what the sport and the law once meant to him, and he laughed in my face right before he pointed a pistol at it. Fortunate for myself he wasn’t nearly as nimble with a .22 as he was with a Louisville slugger. At that point, I realized he and his associates were up to something far more serious than fixing a baseball game. Unfortunately for the both of us, he wound up taking the bullet he meant for me. ’Spose I should’ve called it in, but my mind was muddied with guilt, and if I’m to be honest with myself, with my pension and Moira.”

 The sergeant leaned over the table and placed his hand on Columbo’s arm, a determined focus in his eyes. “I want you to take two things with you to the Wild West – a couple of gifts from old Sgt. Gilhooley, if you please. You just remember how easy it is when you tote around that shopworn piece of stamped metal to imagine you’re God’s own personal angel of justice. Just because I maybe helped you get on the righteous path didn’t mean I was gonna wave the flag and Joe DiMaggio in young Aaron’s face and have him doin’ Hail Marys like a penitent schoolboy in the confessional. Had I been less the crusading Father Gilhooley and more Gilhooley the Cop, we might not be havin’ this chat now. We’re not here to deliver absolution, nor are we swathed in the judge’s robes. Murder is man’s work, man’s weakness, and it’s only our job to wield the broom and clean house when it’s needed. You remember that while you’re bakin’ in that hellish California sun.”

 Columbo nodded seriously until Gilhooley removed his hand. The sergeant nodded back once, decisively, and pushed out of his chair, motioning his partner to remain seated. He lumbered to the front of the dark saloon, coming back a few seconds later with the tan raincoat that had saved young Columbo’s life.

 “Hear there’s some ungodly weather out there in the so-called City of the Angels,” Gilhooley murmured, placing the coat on the table before Columbo. “You never know when you might need protection from the elements, and maybe when you’re spared a cold or two, you’ll recall your old friend Gilhooley.”

 Columbo smoothed the worn material. “That I will, Sarge. Hey, you know what, I still got a couple of those Cuban stogies Castena gave me. What say we light a few up for old times’ sake?”

 Gilhooley sighed. “I knew there was a fine Irish lad in there somewhere. Barkeep!”
**
 “You know the rest,” Lt. Columbo smiled sheepishly as he came fully back to the present. The late afternoon sun bathed Henrietta Blane’s patio in orange, and the ice in the policeman’s tea had melted long before Columbo had completed his narrative. “The Yankees took the ’58 series in the seventh game on a 3-run homer by Bill Skowron. Castro took Cuba and never gave it back, and the Russian launched another one of those flying junkpiles that fall.

“And me and my wife moved out here. Sarge’s LAPD buddy, Joe Friday, helped me sidestep the paperwork so I could get on the force, and I rode a patrol car for, oh, about a year. Sgt. Friday would have lunch with me, have me out to his house for cookouts, just generally show me the ropes in the department. Then I lucked on to a good tip in a murder case out in Belair -- you remember, that big-time movie agent whose girlfriend ‘accidentally’ drowned in a locked bathroom? Once I was back in plainclothes, it wasn’t any time ‘til I got reassigned to Homicide.

“I was still riding patrol out of Rampart Division the day the call came in. Joe Friday himself told me. Sgt. Gilhooley’d got shot on a call, they thought by the Backdoor Bandit. I went back for the funeral, and a few of the guys said he was onto something, but wouldn’t say what. But the Backdoor Bandit seemed to just disappear after the sarge died. I had the guys keep me advised, and no more burglaries popped up fitting the bandit’s M.O.”

“I remember the sergeant’s funeral,” Blane said quietly, looking off at the smog-obscured L.A. skyline. “My dad took us; the reception line was a block long and the ride to the cemetery blocked traffic for almost a mile. Sgt. Gilhooley made his mark on the neighborhood, didn’t he?”

 Columbo nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, he sure did. He helped a punk kid from the street become a soldier and a policeman. He saved Hank Aaron and probably the ’58 World Series. And, indirectly, he turned a thief and a killer into a respected columnist and author.”

Blane’s gaze abruptly moved from the horizon back to her interviewee, and she reached over to switch off her tape recorder. “Would you like to explain that last remark to me?”

“You mind if I have a cigar? Thanks.” When the fragrant tube was lit, Columbo leaned back. “Those last few days on the job there in New York, I could see the sarge was chewin’ on something. He never shared it all with me – I guess he wanted to be sure first – but he kept bouncing thoughts off me. Stuff about Grace Kelly and Alfred Hitchcock and how a person couldn’t make much money waiting tables and how we tended to underestimate women. You remember how it was back then.”

 Despite the forthcoming accusation, Henrietta smiled in agreement.

 “The Backdoor Bandit’s burglaries all occurred in the late afternoon and late at night,” the lieutenant continued, a blue cloud forming around his unruly hair. “After you called me about the book, I got to thinking about the case. They got all those old casefiles on microfiche, and I still got some connections on the N.Y.P.D. who’re happy to do me a good turn. Well, once I started thinking about it, it occurred to me that those robberies happened at very specific times, no matter what day of the week. That suggested the burglar was working around a set schedule, a job schedule or maybe, maybe a job schedule and some other, regular evening commitment.
 “And then I remembered somebody in the neighborhood who fit the bill perfectly. A morning job, seven days a week, that ended promptly at 1 p.m. every day. This person was going through night school, probably could barely make even city college tuition on the wages they made. And, back in the late 1950s, this person had the perfect criminal disguise. Nobody would ever suspect them of these burglaries. You ever see To Catch a Thief?”

 “The Hitchcock classic?” Henrietta brightened. “Of course. Grace Kelly, Cary Grant…”

 “Exactly. Cary Grant gets framed for a series of jewel robberies that turns out to have been committed by his best friend’s daughter. Great movie – the wife and I rented it again last week. The point is, everybody on the Backdoor Bandit case was looking for a man; it never would have occurred to us to think about a woman thief. But if you think about it, it was genius. A man sneaking around a house or an apartment building in the middle of the day or late at night would naturally draw attention, maybe even a call to the cops. But back then, you’re a woman, you put on a nice outfit, carry around a Welcome Wagon basket, a make-up sample case, and nobody would think twice about it. And that empty basket or sample case would make an ideal place to stash your loot.”

 Henrietta crossed her hands in her lap. “And you think this master thief – or would it be mistress thief ? – was me?”

 Columbo smiled as he twirled his cigar. “Sarge said the bandit always seemed to be one step ahead of us. You worked in a place that was filled with cops every day. Nobody pays attention to the waiter or waitress who’s bringing their eggs or topping their coffee – the Robbery guys probably discussed the case openly without realizing you were eavesdropping. You knew everything we knew, and to us, you were the cute little tomboy waitress, Pete’s girl. Good old ‘Hank.’”

 Henrietta dramatically fluffed her silvery $150 Beverly Hills hair, crossed her leg with a nylon swish meant to accentuate her feminity. “I always did hate that nickname, you know. Worse than Henry-etta. After you left, after Hank Aaron got the name Hammerin’ Hank, you know what your colleagues on the force starting calling me? Ham-and-Egg Hank. Oh, you like that? By the way, I’m going to assume that a man of your experience realizes that the statute of limitations for a 1958 burglary would have run out years ago.”

 “But not for felony homicide,” Lt. Columbo emphasized.  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder. I bet you could get it knocked down to second degree, maybe manslaughter. You might even get it kicked by a sympathetic jury, with enough good press.”

 The writer looked to the sky, the sun sparkling off the wetness in her eyes. “You know, Columbo, it’s ironic. I’d only started carrying that gun the night before the thing with Gilhooley. Hated the things – I only wanted the money, not to hurt somebody. But then some drunk tried to assault me while I was coming out of one of the apartments, and I got the piece through a friend. Walking testimony for gun control, huh? I guess I won’t lower myself any further by asking you to just let it go. I don’t expect you to believe me, but shooting Sgt. Gilhooley has haunted my dreams over the last four decades.”

 “I don’t doubt that for a minute,” Columbo said. “And I can see you’ve committed your life to making amends for that fatal mistake. But as a cop, that’s not my concern. Sgt. Gilhooley taught me I’m not here to deliver divine justice or absolution. I’m just here to keep the order, to clean up accounts, I guess.

 “But you know the great thing about the sarge? He knew when the rules needed a little interpretation, when they maybe didn’t fit the situation. I broke the rules for Sarge, and I’m guessin’ that once he realized who the Backdoor Bandit was, he was gonna break ‘em for you. I gotta ask what the sarge would want me to do here, and I don’t have the slightest damned idea. 

 “So I’m just gonna say good afternoon, and leave the rest to you. You talk it out, just you and Hank. Come clean, don’t, it’s OK by me either way.” The lieutenant clapped his aging knees and creaked to his feet. “I think it’d probably even be OK with Sgt. Gilhooley. He stopped the Backdoor Bandit, and I’m guessin’ that woulda been good enough for him. Good afternoon, and thanks for the tea…Henrietta."