"A portable phone lay on the gleaming black tile of Jaime Esquival's kitchen counter. I grabbed it and started to punch the glowing buttons when something punched me, hard. As I dropped to the tile floor (on the bad knee, of course), he or she punctuated their point with a sharp blow to the back of my neck. I considered the merits of developing my own entourage, complete with sunglassed tough guys, as I kissed the kitchen floor..."

Werewolves of Burbank A Rockford/X-File By Martin Ross Somewhere, right now, there’s a Rockford Files fan screaming (or more likely, quietly grumbling and sighing a lot in true Rockford fashion). A Rockford/X-Files crossover, huh? Why not just send Detective Andy Sipowicz to the prom with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or maybe move the Hill Street Precinct into Judge Amy’s jurisdiction? When I wrote this story for The X-Philes site, run by an earnestly encouraging college student named “Stacy” (in the wonderful surname-less universe of the Internet), she responded with gratifying enthusiasm that although she’d never seen this Rockford Files show before, she had enjoyed the tale and its first-person telling by a world-weary middle-aged private eye. No matter that her (and my) heroes, Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, played what amounted to a strong supporting role in favor of Gentleman Jim; no matter that the necessary supernatural element of the story was subordinated to a Rockfordian plotline involving Hollywooden whackos, menacing cops, and under-medicated mobsters. But while Stacy was delighted by such crossover oddities as Dana Scully’s dignified dressing down of the rabidly blustering Lt. Chapman (Scully also teaches Jim a lesson in dealing with mob gorillas), and the web counter on the story’s page indicated it was a favorite of her (assumedly) youthful fan base, I remained unconvinced any hardcore Rockford fan would tolerate such an invasion of Gen-X boogeymen into Jim’s meat-and-potatoes universe. Until I got the e-mail. It was from a guy, a fellow Rockford aficionado who shared a name with the killer in my story (uh-uh, can’t give away the ending). He was amused by the coincidence, but even better, he was one of me. One of those kids of the ‘70s who could groove not only on Rockford and Columbo and McCloud but on The X-Files, The Practice, and The Sopranos. One of those middle-aged types who periodically slips down to the basement for the nostalgic pleasures of Peter Falk on A&E or the second-childish delights of Homer Simpson. As Agent Mulder might have said, I was not alone. Now, don’t look at me like I just asked to put pineapple on your pizza or wear those goofy low-slung shorts that bag at your shins and show three inches of boxers. If you can accept Jim delving into the otherworldly, Mulder and Scully are actually perfectly acceptable characters for the Rockford Universe. After all, Jim’s L.A. was home to the zoned-out love child Skye (“Quicky Nirvana”), the supernaturally flawless Lance White, and a whole psycho ward full of West Coast goofballs. And, of course, a couple of feds popping up on Jim’s doorstep at the crack of dawn, waiting to bust his chops, is certainly nothing new. So give it a try. If you don’t like it, you can send Gandy over to rearrange my nasal structure or have me hauled downtown to listen to one of Capt. Diehl’s funny cop routines.  Martin Ross is the author of several X-Files, Columbo, and Rockford fanfics, as well as an agricultural policy writer with Illinois FarmWeek.

Paradise Cove, California
6:37 a.m.
 "Hi, this is Jim Rockford. At the sound of the tone, leave your name and a message, and I'll get back to you."
 "Yeah, Mr. Rockford? This is Special Agent Fox Mulder, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'd like to ask you a few questions about a case of yours. How much do you know about vampi--?"
 (Woman's voice off the line): "Mulder!"
 "Yeah, OK. Mr. Rockford, my cell phone number is (classified federal information). I'd appreciate it if you'd call me at your earliest convenience. Thanks."
--
Burbank, California
10:42 p.m. the previous evening
 I don't know how many times I have to get knocked on the head, showered with sob stories, yanked around like a Rottweiler at obedience school, and elegantly stiffed before I quit taking these celebrity cases. Two out of three times I have to haunt these guys like a paparazzi vulture to get an autograph on a check, and generally, they've got more stories about why they can't pay up than Stephen King has tales for the fall book season.
 Jaime Esquival was, as it had turned out, equal to King in his ability to spin an imaginative yarn. He'd hired me a month ago to check out a potential stalker, some girl he'd supposedly romanced back in the days before his smoldering smile began to ignite the fire of every American girl old enough to wheedle $14.95 in CD money out of their folks. He'd called me up to his mid-high bracket ranch home in Burbank personally -- he didn't want to air his dirty laundry, not while he was topping the Billboard pop charts.
 It took me only a license plate check (more goodwill squandered), a phony insurance background survey, and a run down to West Hollywood to locate the lady in question, who tearfully related a tale of unrequited love and unabated obsession. I offered Debi some over-the-counter counseling over Whoppers and fries, reported to my client, and left everything to reason and probably some monetary compensation for the girl. Excellent job, Jaime said; could I bill him?
 That's when Debi hit the media circuit with the same soppy confession I'd swallowed like a double beef patty. Every tabloid, every cheesy fringe-time entertainment show, every late-night talkfest for the next week featured either contrite Debi or Jaime Esquival relating his guilt over exuding too much sexual power and his plans to personally oversee Debi's psychological counseling. It was a scenario that wouldn't have held water with most grownups, but hot-running hormones run shallow, and his popularity boiled over, even into a movie offer. God help teenage girls and fifty-something private eyes.
 That's what I was doing up in Burbank. I'd just closed out an insurance case in the neighborhood, and I was in just the right mood to make the music man pay his unwitting piper. Esquival's place on Chupacabra Drive was big and fairly secluded, but he wasn't quite hot enough yet to merit a full entourage or even one tough guy in shades and a black T-shirt to give old private eyes the heave-ho, so I left my cannon and Kevlar jacket in the glove compartment as I crunched up the lava rock drive.
 I could hear the heavy bass throb of rap from behind the house. Good; if he was entertaining, maybe he'd pay up to get rid of me. I found a gate in the huge privacy fence that surrounded the rear of Rancho Esquival, and shoved through. The pool/patio was dark, except for a full moon and the flickering glow of intermittent candles and the teal aura of underwater lights. And a blob of white amid the cabana chairs clustered at the far end of the pool. I hustled over; in the cloudless night, all I could make out was an old man flat on his back on one of the pool chairs, gasping for breath. From the sound of the white-haired man, I guessed he had only a few left.
 "Hey, lay back, mister -- I'll call 911," I assured him, patting him uselessly on the shoulder.
 The old man muttered something, reaching toward me.
 "What?" I asked, leaning toward him.
 "Asswad," he repeated. Or something like that. I scrambled up and raced into the house to get Mr. Personality some medical attention.
 A portable phone lay on the gleaming black tile of Jaime Esquival's kitchen counter. I grabbed it and started to punch the glowing buttons when something punched me, hard. As I dropped to the tile floor (on the bad knee, of course), he or she punctuated their point with a sharp blow to the back of my neck. I considered the merits of developing my own entourage, complete with sunglassed tough guys, as I kissed the kitchen floor.
--
 After Dennis made lieutenant, he'd become a little less responsive to the call of friendship, especially when it came at about midnight. But after I told him about my cranial insult and the disappearance of the old man on the patio, he offered to send an ambulance over. I told him I was all right, which was a generous assessment. He then suggested I go to Missing Persons in the morning. I suggested where he might go. Lt. Becker told me he'd be there within an hour.
 "I don't understand this, Jim," Dennis said. "You won't let me get you any first aid. You find some old guy on the patio, but then he conks you and runs for the hill…"
 "Dennis, this guy was in no condition to conk me, much less run for the hills," I insisted, rubbing the emu egg forming on the back of my skull. "I think I walked in on the middle of a murder, or something, and the guy who 'conked' me made off with the old man. Or his body. He was in pretty bad shape, Dennis."
"So what am I supposed to do about it?" Becker half-shouted, waving an arm. "Oh, boy, Jim; I really wish you'd think before you just jump on your charger."
 "That's why I called you," I retorted, with growing exasperation toward my friend. "I wanted to keep things on the QT until we could get a better handle on the situation."
 Dennis was silent. I suddenly picked up sirens in the distance. Not distant enough, though.
 "Aw, Dennis," I groaned, slapping the formica counter.
 "I had to call it in, Jim," Dennis yelled, defensively. "Just tell 'em the complete truth, buddy, OK?"
 "Aw, gee, there goes Plan A," I said sourly.
--
Paradise Cove Beach, California
10:52 a.m.
 I thought I'd seen Doug Chapman at his most charming and ebullient, but Lt. Chapman at 1 a.m., without coffee, is a thing of beauty -- if you enjoy rabid packs of dogs killing bunnies for sport. Chapman kept me at the Esquival house for nearly three hours, alternately grilling me at high heat and allowing me to cool my heels while he made vague threats about my incarceration within earshot. Dennis meanwhile discussed the Lakers with techs and uniforms, glancing nervously over at me and Dougie every once in a while, just generally being a real sport.
--
 They cut me loose about 4 a.m., and by the time the sun finally got me up, it was mid-morning. I sat at my desk, sipping tepid instant pseudocoffee and scanning the Times. As luck would have it, Jaime Esquival stared up from Section C, grinning goofily in the photographic company of Ricky Martin, Enrique Iglesias, and Lou Bega and under a 48-point subhead proclaiming him "Ice Cuban" for his mix of "rhumba-ling romanticism" and "rap reality." The editorial copy was a little less creaky and related Esquival's self-professed struggles as a Marielito who'd lost his parents in the sea between Havana and Miami. He was vague about his youth, but somehow he'd wound up at Hollywood High School, where a supportive choir instructor had cultivated his genuine talent. I'd listened to one of Esquival's CDs, and if his patter about relationships was a little stale, he did have what us old-timers called a real set of pipes.
 A knock at the door interrupted my sidebar survey of salsa, mambo, and the general Latino pop tidal wave. As my eyes adjusted to the blinding morning light, I saw a young couple in conservative suits, she with a noncommital but vaguely uncomfortable expression, he with a pleasantly pre-occupied smile. Jehovah's Witnesses or cops.
 "Mr. Rockford, I'm Agent Fox Mulder and this is Agent Scully," the man said laconically, flashing a federal shield. Cops. The badge caught the light, and the combination of the glare and a couple of feds on my doorstep spurred the beginning of a first-class headache. "I called you this morning; did you get the message?"
 I ushered the pair in. "Just got up. Pardon the mess; had a late night last night."
 "That's what I heard," Mulder smiled boyishly. When a fed smiles, he's usually about ready to make you eat your lunch or an IRS audit. "Actually, that's what Agent Scully and I came about."
 I poured myself a cup of Folger's and lifted the pot questioningly. Mulder and Scully shook their heads. "Pardon me for asking, but why are a couple of feds interested in some local missing persons beef?"
 "Missing persons, plural, isn't it?" Mulder inquired. "I mean, both Mr. Esquival and this older man you reported seeing at the Esquival home are missing."
 "No obstruction intended," I said cheerfully, "but could I repeat the question?"
 I expected at that moment for Mulder to throw my past felony record (pardoned by the governor, thank you), my questionable future as a private eye, and maybe the old lamp my dad Rocky had given me back in '78 at me. But although Scully's jaw tightened, Mulder smiled and shrugged.
 "We just happened to be in Hollywood for the week, consulting on a movie for the Bureau," he smiled. Scully snorted. "A buddy of mine on the force knew I was in town, and he called me about the Esquival case."
 "So, what? You're investigating on spec? This is a hobby of yours?"
 "There are some interesting elements of this case you may not yet be aware of," Mulder said. "For instance, did you know Jaime Esquival was actually Jaime Gracia?"
 "No, I didn't. Should I know a Jaime Gracia?"
 "Jaime Gracia is a second generation Filipino-American. His dad's a mechanic in Bakersfield, his mom's a nurse. The whole backstory about floating in from Cuba, all that, was just that -- a story."
 I sipped my coffee, waiting. "Okay. I guess I see that. The Cuba story's a little flashier for the MTV crowd. But what's this got to do with the case? And wait a minute. You said 'was.' Esquival was Gracia. You think he's dead?"
 "I have reason to believe so," Mulder said.
 "Hold on. This old man; could he have been the father?"
 "Mr. Gracia was alive and well in Bakersfield this morning, and he has a stone alibi for last night," Mulder said. Scully had wondered to my desk and was examining Rocky's portrait. "Mr. Rockford, have you ever heard of sudden unexplained nocturnal death syndrome?"
 "I gave to Jerry's kids last Labor Day," I deadpanned cautiously.
"Sudden unexplained nocturnal death syndrome is also called 'sleeping death.' In 1955, a medical examiner, Dr. Nils P. Larsen, published 21 case histories of native Hawaiians who'd died of heart failure in their sleep apparently in stark horror. Generally healthy young men who die with a look of absolute terror. Since the '50s, sleeping death or nightmare death's been diagnosed in a number of cultures, notably in Southeast Asia and The Philippines."
I looked at Scully. She looked more intently at Rocky.
"The cause of the syndrome isn't clear, though some believe it may be caused by a combination of genetics and cultural folk beliefs," Mulder continued. "You ever heard of the aswang?"
Something didn't quite click in my brain, something familiar and recent. But we didn't get to explore the topic, because someone was banging on the door, and when I opened it, I found out I had a date with Dougie Chapman.
**
 "Let me see if I've got this straight, Chapman," I said as patiently as I could as the lieutenant paced the squadroom. "Incensed that my client had made me the laughing stock of the Greater L.A. Private Investigators Benevolent Association -- oh, and don't forget, he owed me a whopping $1,300 -- I mustered my erstwhile indignation, huffed over the Esquival -- Gracia -- estate, clubbed him with my trusty tire iron, and dumped his body in the La Brea Tar Pits.
 "Then, realizing I could be linked to the murder by this overwhelmingly compelling motive, I returned to the scene of the crime, clubbed myself on the back of the neck, and made up this diabolically clever alibi about a disappearing septuagenarian. I can see the Times tomorrow: 'Chapman cracks case; mentally defective mastermind tearfully confesses.'"
 "Keep it up, Rockford," Chapman growled. "I'm gonna punch your ticket on this one."
 "Punch my ticket, Dougie? Cinemax showing 'Detective Story' again? Listen, I think I'll just hold tight until Beth gets here."
 "His lawyer," Chapman informed Mulder and Scully, who were standing nearby, watching the policeman chewing up the scenery. The lieutenant had yanked me in after they'd found Esquival -- Gracia -- in some bushes near Mulholland. His skull had been caved in -- after, apparently, it had been shaved clean. Mulder'd found that last detail inordinantly intriguing.
 "His law-yer," Chapman repeated loudly. "The battle cry of the career lowlife. Yes, by all means, let's get the lawyers in on this!"
 "Chapman," I said through my teeth, "Forget Johnny Cochran. It wouldn't take Johnny Depp to knock a hundred or so holes in your theory."
 "I'd like to knock a hundred or so holes in your --"
 "Gentlemen," Mulder interrupted. "This is a fascinating study in modern police psychodrama, but maybe we should chill out a bit and look at the facts."
 "And what facts would those be?" Chapman snapped.
 "OK, number one, why did the killer give Gracia the Jesse Ventura haircut? For what purpose? Mr. Rockford, you said it was dark on Mr. Gracia's patio -- only candlelight, right?"
 "Yeah…"
 "On what basis did you determine that the man lying on the lounger was a senior citizen?"
 "Well, he had white hair, and, well… He had white hair." I shrugged. Chapman for a priceless few moments was speechless.
 "OK, what if the old man actually was Jaime Gracia? He was apparently having a heart attack; couldn't his face have been contorted not by wrinkles but by pain and fear?"
 "Whoa," I said, holding up a hand. "You mean he was made up to look like an old man?"
 "Nooo... What if Gracia's hair had turned white, and the killer wanted to conceal that fact by shaving his head?"
 Scully pushed off a nearby desk. "Mulder, could I see you in the hall for a minute?"
 "In a sec, Scully," Mulder said, distracted. "In some cases of sudden unexplained nocturnal death syndrome, the fright victims experience in sleep causes hair to turn white. I was telling Mr. Rockford here that Filipino men are among the groups with a higher incidence of the syndrome…"
 "Hold on, J. Edgar," Chapman said. "What the fuck does this little anthropology lecture have to do with some hotshot teen idol with a dented cranium?"
 "Actually, there is medical literature to back my partner's theory," Scully said reluctantly. "It is possible a victim of sudden unexplained nocturnal death syndrome could display symptoms such as those Mr. Rockford reported."
 I smiled up at Chapman.
 "Have you ever heard of the aswang?" Mulder asked. Scully slumped back against the desk. "The Philippine culture is full of demon legends, including tales of demons roosting on the chests of sleeping people, in some cases causing their victims to suffocate."
 "What?" Chapman yelled. He looked at me, at Scully, and back at Mulder. "You're fucking crazy."
 Mulder took it with aplomb. "I merely meant that deeply engrained nightmare legends, combined with a genetic propensity toward nocturnal cardiac failure, could account for sudden unexplained nocturnal death syndrome."
 "I think what Agent Mulder means…" Scully sighed.
 "Hold up, toots," Chapman waved her away. "Agent Mulder, what kind of bullshit--"
 "Scully," Scully said with an edge that cut through the rampage. "Special Agent Dana Scully, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Dr. Scully, if you wish to defer to my medical background. Scully, if you care to indulge in rough-and-tumble squadroom camraderie. Dana would be satisfactory should we ever, God forbid, get to know each other. As long as I opt for a career path in law enforcement rather than a job at Bruno's Strip-and-Beer, I don't believe 'toots' will ever be included on this list. Agreeable, sweetie?"
 Chapman's square jaw waggled, but no sound came out.
 Billings, a uniform I'd known some years, ventured uneasily into the squadroom. "Loot?"
 "Lieutenant Chapman," Chapman barked.
 "Yeah," Billings murmured. He held a manila folder at arms length, as if feeding a mountain gorilla a raw piece of ground chuck. Chapman snatched it. "M.E.'s report on Gracia."
 Chapman flipped the jacket open, scanned its contents, and flung it across the room.
--
 "Way to go, Scully," I commended the agent as we pushed into daylight outside Parker Center. Mulder had stayed inside to sort out a few details. "I haven't seen Chapman so dumbfounded since he found out the Queen was the bad guy in Snow White."
 "Agent Scully, Mr. Rockford," she turned to face me. "Just because I have little tolerance for your friend in there doesn't mean we're suddenly on the same bowling team."
 "Hey, Agent Scully, I didn't show up at your home first thing this morning, rattling your chain with some Grimm's Fairy Tale about demons and the dreaded sleep of death. Believe it or not, I don't generally find either Douglas Chapman or a couple of Yuppie G-men the most stimulating company. I got stiffed, I got clobbered, and now I've been grilled by Abbott and Costello."
 "OK," Scully said. "I guess it has been a rough day for you. My partner's somewhat impetuous, as this case is proving."
 "Impetuous?" I asked. "I'd call it a few Mountain Dews short of a twelve-pack. Does he really believe all this voodoo crap?"
 "Thanks for the pop analysis, Mr. Rockford. Or is that Dr. Rockford?"
I cranked it down a notch. "Look, Agent Scully. You gotta admit all this Bela Lugosi stuff's a little odd coming from an agent of the federal government. You guys have a rough job, and I know things can build up and boil over. Your partner seems like a stand-up guy -- get him some help, or at least get him to take a little time to depressurize…"
 The small redhead pursed her lips. I immediately knew I'd rafted into the whitewaters. "Your compassion for my partner is duly noted. But since the medical examiner's report concludes Mr. Gracia's wounds were sustained after he had died of a cardiac arrest, there appears to be no need for our involvement. As if there was, anyway. I think I'll collect my partner and blow this popsicle stand. It's been real, or whatever it is you guys say out here."
"Yeah," I returned. I opened my mouth, then clamped it.
"What?" Scully sighed.
I screwed on a weak smile. "Well, I didn't have the heart to give Chapman another aneurysm by asking him for a ride back to the trailer…"
Scully lifted an eyebrow and nodded. Then she stalked off to the civilian parking area.
"You got a real way with the ladies, don't you, Rockford?" an amused sandpaper voice behind me asked.
I wheeled around. One of Dian Fossey's lost gorillas had come out of the mist and surfaced in downtown L.A. It was wearing a mauve polo shirt and microfiber slacks and a huge crease on his forehead from the days when they did racketeering with baseball bats and pistols instead of FAX machines and computer money transfers to the Cayman Islands. The primate's costume identified him as one of Donnie Divot's "staff."
"C'mon, I'll give you a ride home," it grinned. "First, though, Mr. Diversey wants you to join him for a few holes and a couple brewskis down to the Beverly Hills Country Club."
"Gee, the club's selection committee must have gotten really tingly over that application."
"Just about crapped themselves," he laughed, sincerely. "What size shoe you wear?"
"Huh?"
"Shoe size. For the course. Mr. Diversey's real respectful of the club rules."
"I think the size is on the back of my left heel. See if you can read it while I get a cab."
The mauve gorilla drove a fist into my gut. My eyes watered as I saw a passing cop -- guy from my Wednesday night poker game -- smile maliciously. Guess I shouldn't have gloated so much after I'd won the last three pots.
"Great day for a few holes," I agreed, wheezing.
--
Beverly Hills, California
1:23 p.m.
Donald Diversey became Donnie Divot during a stint at a minimum security prison upstate. Donnie'd built a front for his gambling, laundering, and sharking activities thicker than Hitler's bunker, and the feds had had to use the old Capone ploy -- some penny ante tax charge -- to put him away for even a deuce. Donnie, ever the one for self-improvement, began to hob-nob with computer embezzlers, country club business frauds, and others who'd tried to crack the Fortune 500 through unorthodox means. When he came out, Donnie had a taste for understated suits, pastel sportswear and an addiction to golf, thus the nickname. Never mind Donnie the Divot was invented after Mr. Diversey tried to score a bogie off the scalp of a smartass accountant/hacker in the "yard."
 "Gimme the nine," Donnie growled at his huge caddy, who looked more like Goodfellas than Caddyshack. "You like golf, Rockford?"
 "Never cultivated the game," I admitted, feeling stupid in the tight golf shoes they had ready for me when we'd got to the club.
 "It's a great, what-you-call-it, metaphor for business and life."
 "Uh huh? How so?"
 Donnie stopped lining up his shot, and looked up to see if I was being lippy. His gloved hands tightened on the club, then loosened. "Look, reason I asked you to network with me this afternoon is 'cause we have a mutual friend -- Jaime Esquival."
 "Gracia, and I wouldn't call him my friend," I said.
 "You're welcome," the mobster responded, puzzled, "and I wouldn't either. He owes me about a hundred large on some NBA and college football action, and now, mysteriously, he's taken a powder."
 I chewed on that for a second, and pondered Donnie's use of the present tense. I decided to let Donnie pick up the news of the singer's demise from the media -- it would probably hit within the next few hours. Unless, of course, Donnie was testing me, seeing if I knew anything about his possible involvement in the murder.
 "Hey, he's into me, too," I empathized, a little too heartily. "If I find him, I'll let him know you're concerned."
 Suddenly, the head of Donnie's club was lodged just under my Adam's apple. "Yeah, you do that. You helped him set up that little publicity stunt a few weeks back; maybe he greased your palm to help him blow town, huh?"
 "Hey," I protested, my vocal cords squirming against his Jack Nicklaus special.
 "Jim!" I looked up to see Mulder behind the wheel of a club cart about a hundred feet away. Donnie dropped his club instinctively. "Jim Rockford, as I live and breathe!" the agent called as he jogged over. "Guess we both had the same idea -- a little workday hookie, huh? Hey, guys -- Fox Mulder, Federal Bureau of Investigations Organized Crime Unit. Old fishing buddy of Jim's."
 Donnie looked at Mulder's earnest smile and outstretched hand, then pumped it wetly.
 "Oh, my manners," I apologized. "This is Donald Diversey, head of gambling rackets and illegal Mob banking activity for most of Southern California."
 Mulder looked at Diversey and broke into a fit of hilarity. "He's got a real offbeat sense of humor, huh, Mr. Diversey?"
 "He's a funny guy, all right," Donnie chuckled, weakly, giving me the look of death. "I'm a business and financial consultant; here's my card."
 Mulder pocketed it. "Well, if you guys are playing a round…?"
 "Nah, I just ran into Donnie at the clubhouse, and we got to talking about our community work, Microsoft, yada-yada," I said, glancing at the mauve gorilla and the hulking caddy. "Say, Donnie, you don't mind if I cut out on you and catch up on some old times with old Fox, huh?"
 "Sure," Donnie the Divot said magnanimously. "You take care, huh? Real care, you know?"
 "Sure shootin', Donnie. I will see you at the deacon's meeting Monday, won't I? Great."
 Mulder and I strolled as liesurely as we could manage toward the golf cart. "Let's get a cup of coffee. 'Cept first, drop me by the clubhouse men's room. Quickly."
**
 "So, that's a Rueben and fries and a Coke for you, and a chicken salad sandwich and water for you, hon, right?" the tired blonde waitress asked Mulder.
 "Yeah," the agent said, a Mona Lisa smile forming. "Could I have tomatoes with that, instead of potatoes?"
 "No substitutions," the woman sighed, leaning against the red vinyl booth. "I saw 'Five Easy Pieces' when it first came out, sweetie, and I get that line at least once a week from some UC film student. Anything else?"
 "Thanks, ma'am."
 Mulder shrugged with a sheepish half-grin.
 "You know, you don't exactly fit the FBI profile," I suggested, looking out at the mid-day Wilshire traffic.
 "Funny you saying that," the agent commented. "I used to be a profiler. Behavioral sciences, all that."
 "What happened?"
 "I started following a different path, and I guess it played havoc with my credibility within the agency. That stuff about the Organized Crime Unit, that was just for your 'friend' on the course and for Chapman. I work in a highly specialized unit, which is sort of Bureau-ese for the Siberian gulag."
 "This unit -- you work with demons and vampires?" I probed, trying not to sound derisive. In reality, I got the feeling the kid worked with demons every day.
 "Demons, extraterrestrial entities, cannibalistic serial killers, mutant sewer flukes, whatever's on the menu," Mulder said cheerfully.
 "Ah huh," I said as the waitress deposited my Coke. "So what's Jaime Esquival -- Gracia -- got to do with the world of the paranormal?"
 "The cops aren't putting this out," he said, leaning over the table, "but a neighbor of Gracia's reported seeing what she said was a large, furry animal on Gracia's property. This was about a half-hour before you would've come on the scene. Anyway, she said this animal ran -- on two legs -- into the alley behind the house when she turned on her porch light."
 "Raccoon? We get those every once in a while."
 Mulder shook his head. "She said this thing was as big as a gorilla, almost as big as a human."
 "I bet Chapman loved that," I chuckled. "And that's where this aswang thing comes in?"
"The aswang is one of a number of Filipino folk monsters or demons, a sort of combination vampire-werewolf that in at least one version of the story sprouts batlike wings. The aswang lives in a house, can marry and rear children, and is seemingly a normal human during the day."
 "According to legend," I prompted,looking around.
 Mulder chewed his chicken salad. "I do recognize how weird this sounds. But Gracia is a Filipino-American who as a boy might very well have heard tales of the aswang and who may have been susceptible to sudden unexplained nocturnal death syndrome. We don't have a lot of other leads at this point, so this is just a possible line of inquiry."
 "Well, I can think of another few possible lines. How about Donnie Divot -- Diversey? Gracia owes him nearly $100,000 in gambling debts, but he's beginning to become a national music phenomenom. So maybe Jaime figures, what's Donnie going to do -- send some legbreakers over to collect. Maybe Donnie realizes this, and sends some legbreakers over, anyway. They start to get a little rough, or maybe Donnie even tells them to whack Gracia as an object lesson for the MTV generation of inveterate gamblers.
 "And, hey, what about Debi -- umm, Debi Riddle? Gracia's romantic 'stalker' or partner in fraud, depending on how you view it? Maybe the two of them weren't pulling a publicity stunt, or maybe there was some real obsession going on with Debi, but the pair of them saw an opportunity for some headlines. I'm learning the younger generation is a lot more, let's say, emotionally 'complex' than mine."
 "Jimmy!" someone shouted from near the cash register.
 "Whoo boy," I groaned as Angel Martin strode back toward our booth with a bag of food, leaving the cashier waiting for her cash.
 "Jimmy, man, I have hit the California Lotto and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?," the bearded, wiry little con proclaimed. "You are looking at the next King of all Media."
 "Uh, Angel Martin, I'd like you to meet Fox Mulder--"
 "Fox, huh? You work for CNN, man?" Angel howled at his own wit, and turned back to me. "You know my cousin, Terry? Works at that media production company in West Hollywood?"
"The porn mill?"
"He's diversifying," Angel huffed, sliding in next to Mulder. "Get a load of this: Interview with an Angel."
"You're going porno?" I asked, disgustedly.
"That title's already been used," Mulder advised. He looked at us, and away at the traffic.
 "No, man," Angel scoffed. "Inter-view with an Angel -- each week, former televangelist and entertainment entrepreneur Evelyn 'Angel' Martin engages in lively discussion of the paranormal. With people who've actually been abducted by aliens or boinked by demons or seen angels in their Fruit Loops. Except, get this: We bring in a studio and kind of mix it up between the believers and the non-believers. Sort of Jerry Springer meets The Twilight Zone. See, Interview With an Angel? You got the Tom Cruise vampire thing and the Touched by Roma Downey thing goin' for you."
"Sounds interesting," Mulder concluded.
"Yeah, you don't know the half of it. Terry's gonna do up like a pilot at the studio, bring in a busload of trailer trash -- no offense, Jimmy -- and pay 'em $10 apiece to hoot and holler and maybe even manifest the supernatural a little bit. Then we'll shop it around to all the syndication companies. They'll eat it up, Jimmy; every gooned-out sofa climber who's ever seen Elvis at the quickie mart or got airlifted to Mars. Best part is, I can deduct half of my new living room furniture if I use it on the set…"
"Gotta go to the john," Mulder said quietly but abruptly, nudging Angel out of the booth.
Angel slid back in, started on Mulder's fries. "Who's the geek? You get a new accountant, Jimmy?"
"Mr. Mulder's an FBI agent, Angel," I informed him with a smile. "So you might want to save your tax tips for the trailer trash."
The fry stopped in mid-flight. "Hey, Jimmy, great to see you, but I better get movin'."
"Yeah, okay, but first I want you to check up on a couple of people for me. Jaime Esquival, you know, the kid singer? Ron Peeples, he's Esquival's agent. Oh, and Don Diversey."
"Whoa, man, Donnie Divot? I ain't interested in getting a Greg Norman haircut -- that cat's crazy!"
"Just a little information, Angel. Just find out how deep and for how long Esquival's been into Donnie."
"I'll bill you," Angel said, scampering practically into the arms of the cashier. Mulder came out of the john and was jostled by a biker type leaving a tip.
"Asswipe," the biker growled at him. Mulder held up his palms and returned to our table.
"Mr. Rockford?" the agent asked, concern in his voice. He waved a hand in front of my face as I meditated. "Yo, Jim? What's wrong?"
"You know something, Mulder?" I said. "You may not be as spooky as I thought you were."
**
 We picked up the convivial Agent Scully at Parker Center and headed up to Ron Peeple's office on the fringe of Beverly Hills.
 "I thought the old guy -- Esquival, I mean Gracia -- oh crap, the guy by the pool," I stumbled. "Anyway, I thought he was calling me an asshole, but maybe he was trying to say 'asswang.'"
 "I thought you were a hard-bitten realist, Rockford," Scully challenged from the front seat.
 "I'm not saying I'm ready to get out the garlic necklace and the wooden stakes yet," I countered. "But maybe Esqui-- Gracia thought he actually saw one of these things. I don't know, it was dark, and maybe he'd been napping by the pool when somebody snuck up on him. If he was a superstitious kind of guy, his mind could have done the rest. Pull in right here, Mulder."
 Ron Peeples was one of those perpetually marginal showbiz types: Low-rent office in a high-rent neighborhood, a roster of Victims No. 3 and bargain-bin bands and ex-pageant queens destined for the soft-core straight-to-video circuit. Jaime Esquival had appeared to be Ron's breakout client, but from the wear and tear around the edges of Peeples Entertainment Enterprises Ltd., he hadn't yet made it through the cell wall.
 Like a lot of his type, Ron was a frustrated actor. He'd played a lot of cheap hoods and psycho killers in '70s cop shows, and his salmon-colored waiting room was papered with photos both from his Disco Era career and the amateur theater stuff he'd done since giving up his SAG card and settling for 10 percent of other actors.
 "James, man," Ron enthused as I studied a photo of Peeples playing King Lear. The agent had gotten lost in some kind of '70s time rift -- a mall full of gold jewelry, a shaggy blonde head of hair and brush mustache. "Honest to God, guy, Jaime hired you, not me. Maybe you can check with his, what do you call, uh, executor, about that fee, OK?"
 "You wearing your mourning Guccis, Ron?" I asked drily.
 "Man, it was like losing a nephew or cousin or something," Ron said soberly. "Brittani here's still in a daze."
 I looked at the receptionist's desk, where Brittani was leafing through US magazine, scarfing rice cakes. "Uh huh. You know I was over at Jaime's last night when he died?"
 "Wow, man, no," Ron said. "I was doing some community theater out in Brentwood. You know, some Neil Simon play, they all run together to me. So who're your buddies, James?"
 "Special agents Mulder and Scully, FBI," I nodded toward the quiet pair, waiting for Peeple's reaction. It wasn't what I expected.
 "Whoa, man, Mulder and Scully -- you the guys in that new horror flick just wrapped, the Shandling-Leoni thing? Oh, The Lazarus Bowl, yeah! You guys are golden right now. You got representation?"
 "Christ," Scully muttered.
 "I was thinking about this screenplay," Mulder admitted. "There's this mutant man-fluke who's--"
 "We are not and will not be seeking representation," Scully informed Ron firmly.
 Ron's greedy glint clicked off. "Oh, well. Gotta be real, huh? James, a minute in the office, please?"
 Mulder shrugged. Ron ushered me quickly inside his blonde pine sanctum sanctorum.
 "Got a job for you, you want -- maybe you can make a few bucks without getting clobbered this time."
 "Yeah?"
 "Now don't get me wrong when I suggest this, but you know the way the music biz works today: The average pop-rap life span, if you're lucky, is one, maybe two years. Jaime was maybe a different story; I had a quality movie part just about lined up for him, something could've started him on a grown-up career. Upshot is, it's tragic, his death and everything, but Jaime laid down enough tracks before he died to fill at least four CDs, if you clean up and remix some of the marginal stuff. You know how popular Tupac Shakur's been since he shuffled off this mortal coil?"
 I was beginning to get a whiff of it, and it smelled like a downtown bus station restroom.
 "Anyway, you know his old man's some grease monkey down in Bakersfield. The brother, Ray, is pretty sharp, but maybe if you got to the parents, offered them something in the mid-five figures to sign over the rights to those tracks…"
 "Oh, boy, this is going to be a real three-hankie eulogy, isn't it, Ron?" I asked. "Kid's barely cold, and you want me to schmooze his folks into selling the farm."
 "C'mon, man, think of the living testimony Jaime's music will provide them in their grief," Ron pleaded solemnly.
 I headed for the door. "Let's leave Ron to his bereavement," I growled, brushing past Mulder and Scully.
**
 Ramon Gracia worked for one of the growing crop of small software development companies now sprouting well outside the Silicon Valley. His uptown office was far more prosperous, if much more spartan and sterile, than Ron Peeple's.
"The aswang, sure," Jaime's older brother said, not looking up from a screenful of code, zeroes, ones, and other symbols that meant no more to me than the average episode of Ricki Lake. "The kapre, the mananangal, the tigbalang. Pop was always filling our heads with all these native monster stories to get us to behave, to entertain us, just to be a nasty son-of-a-bitch when he couldn't control us."
"He ever tell you about any firsthand encounters?" Mulder inquired, nodding approvingly at a row of apparently compelling computer digits.
Ramon looked up, his brown eyes amused behind his wire rims. "Encounters with what, dude? Filipino vampires? What branch of the FBI you with? Naw, Pop could see those stories scared the shit out of Jaime, so he poured it on. I knew it was bullshit, but when we were kids, Jaime'd wake up screaming. I always suspected all that Ricky Martin-Cuban refugee bullshit was his way of paying Pop back."
"That piss you off?" I asked.
"Well, hell, yeah. This is the new millennium, man. The Cyberage. All this racial shit and religious shit is like '90s garbage. With the Internet, chat rooms, all that shit, we're all just one big brotherhood of de-ethnicized screen aliases. I don't mean that means I'm not proud of my heritage. I bust my ass to make all the family holidays, listen to the old folks and their oral history. But it does mean I don't have to hide whatever cultural mask is hip at the time. Jaime always telling me how this whole Jaime Esquival scam was gonna pay off for all of us as long as Pop doesn't show up at some record deal, talk to the press, embarass him. Strange fucking world, huh? Sorry, lady."
Scully gave him a thoughtful smile. "You have no idea what a strange fucking world it is, Ramon."
**
Paradise Cove Beach, California
6:03 p.m.
 We stopped by the trailer so I could change and we could grab a bite across the beach. Angel had left a message: "Jimmy, I got some real dish for you -- that's a showbiz term. Turns out Esquival was leavin' IOUs all over town, not just with The Divot. An' get this -- he had a real rapport with his fans. His female fans. His real young female fans. You know what I mean by rapport, eh, Jimmy?"
 I slapped the stop button. "I want to wash that thing out with industrial strength Tide every time he leaves a message," I told Mulder and Scully.
The phone rang; I reached down, but Mulder held up his hand and pulled a cell phone from his jacket.
"Oh, hey. Yeah, I'm -- Well, not exactly. I know we're not supposed to be -- No, she blew me off. She's out, um, shopping for shoes on Rodeo Drive, I think." Scully raised a brow; Mulder shrugged. "Yeah. Sure, I'll be -- Hello?"
Mulder slowly pocketed the phone, gnawing on his lip.
"Skinner," Scully stated.
"Ee-yeah. He wants me downtown right now. I guess Lt. Chapman remembered us from that COPS episode a few months back -- the, uh, shapeshifter case -- and called D.C. They called Skinner, and the both of them want to see me."
"You want me to go along?" I offered. "I know how to handle Doug Chapman."
"I doubt you know how to handle Assistant Director Walter Skinner," Scully intoned. "Let's go, Mulder."
"I told him you got fed up with me and went shopping like a good fed on paid leave," Mulder assured her. "You guys get something to eat, and I'll be back when I can."
Scully started to protest. I did, too: The idea of two hours of frosty dinnertime banter didn't much appeal to me. But Mulder grinned reassuringly and slipped out the door.
I smiled with my mouth. Scully exhaled and did something that was meant to look like a "Hey, let's eat!" smile. It looked like she was identifying human remains.
When the knock at the door came, we both jumped for the knob. It wasn't Mulder, unless he'd changed into Magilla Gorilla in a pink sports shirt and had brought Donnie Divot as a dinner date. Donnie eyed Scully uncomfortably.
"Sorry to interrupt your little rendezvous, Rockford," the mobster said. "But we have to have a serious dialogue."
"Yeah, sure," I pecked Scully on the cheek; she jumped. "OK, Sis, you just tell Mom I'll be over first thing tomorrow to fix that U-bolt…" I shoved her toward the door.
"Sis?" Scully said, her jaw hanging open.
"You ain't got no sister, Rockford, and your old lady's been dead for years," Donnie sneered. "We're all going on a nice drive down the coastline, and you can tell me what your fed friend knows."
"I just met the guy. He's not even Organized Crime. He works with, well, he investigates… Aw, hell, let's ride."
Mauve Shirt and Donnie Divot flanked the steps as Scully and I stepped into the night. I was considering a move when Scully's left foot went sideways, and she fell facefirst into the sand.
"Damned heels," she cursed, slapping the gorilla's helping hand away. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," Scully snapped, pulling her shoes off for the walk to Donnie's Mercedes.
Then, as I put the weight on my good leg for a major offensive, Scully snapped her fashionable left heel into the soft meat between Mauve Shirt's thighs and the right into Donnie's Adam's apple. Both fell to their knees, and Scully did some footwork that must have discouraged many a pushy fellow student at Quantico.
"FBI!" she yelled, yanking Donnie's wrists behind him as he spat handfuls of sand. "You're both under arrest."
When she finished Mirandizing the pair and calling for backup, Scully looked up at me, leaning on the doorjam.
"What?" she demanded.
"I think dinner's on me tonight, Agent Scully. Rare antelope sound OK?"
Dana smiled. It was a bit unsettling but it beat the alternative.
**
Brentwood, California
9:56 p.m.
"When you showed up at the golf course, Donnie got the idea I knew more than I was telling," I told Mulder as we sat in the back row of the auditorium. "Dennis -- Lt. Becker -- tells me a special task force on CD bootlegging's been looking real carefully at Donnie's activities. I bet if you look close enough, you'll find Jaime Esquival was Donnie the Divot's 'in' in the record industry. Moderately successful young artist with access to the studios. That's probably why nobody bothered about his gambling debts until recently. But then, Jaime surprised everybody, and started to hit it big. Donnie was losing control of his talent. And then I show up with J. Edgar Mulder, and he starts to sweat."
 "Why'd Diversey shave Gracia's head, fake those wounds, and hide the body?" Scully asked. "Gracia's death could easily have passed for a simple -- well, not-so-simple -- heart attack."
 "Oh, I don't think Donnie the Divot was up to anything more than peddling secondhand Limp Biskit on the European black market," I said, watching as the actors began to disperse. I stood up; the agents followed, confused.
 "Hey, Ron," I called to a man in a bulky costume who was auditioning a few lines on a young actress. His feline head swiveled around in annoyance, then he grinned widely.
 "James, man," he said. "You come to critique me?"
 "Nah, I'm just a big fan of Neil Simon," I said from the front row. "Now, which one of the Odd Couple are you? Felix the Cat?"
 "Middle age," Ron laughed. "Guess I just got my plays mixed up. Neil Simon last spring, CATS for the fall season."
 I stepped up to the stage. "Was it an accident, a joke, or did you actually mean to scare Jaime Esquival to death? You must have known about Jaime's real background; maybe he joked around about those old horror stories his dad used to tell him. Maybe you could see he wasn't totally joking, and you decided to have a little fun by showing up in your kitty costume here. Or maybe put the fear of God in him."
 "James, you have a few before you came out here?"
 "Your problem, Ron, was that you volunteered just a little too much information back at your office. When you asked me to go out and fleece Jaime's parents, you told me I could make a few bucks and not get clobbered this time. Now, how'd you know somebody tried to make a Denver omelette out of my head last night?"
 Ron smacked his forehead.
 "Yeah, harder, Ron," I said bitterly.
 "It was a bad joke, man," Ron insisted. "We'd finished up rehearsing, and I remembered all those weirdass Stephen King stories Jaime'd told me. I thought, hey, let's give Jaime a little jolt, and we'll have a laugh or two over some beers. I didn't know he took all that shit so seriously."
 "Nice deposition, Ron, if you'd lifted a finger to try to save the kid's life. But I think that whatever you meant to do, after it was done, you decided this was a way to get rid of a world-class headache. Jaime'd been getting himself in deeper with guys like Donnie the Divot and was pulling lame, unauthorized publicity stunts like that drama with little Debi. Maybe you even found out what he was up to with the CD bootlegging.
"Plus, like you said, you have enough cuts to put together three or four posthumous Jaime Esquival CDs. Cash in on the memories without the headaches, huh? So when I showed up, you gave me a five-pound scalp job, let nature take its course, and dumped Jaime out on Mulholland. That's the only part that confuses me. Why go through all that complicated stuff with shaving Jaime's head and faking his head wounds?"
 "Unless you thought it pointed to you," Mulder spoke up for the first time.
 "What do you mean?" Ron sneered.
 "Unless you thought that somehow, Jaime dying of fright might focus unwanted attention on you," the agent theorized. "You thought a subsequent investigation might expose you. One of Gracia's neighbor's already reported seeing a large creature fleeing the scene."
 "Expose me as what, the Flying Vampire of Manila?" Ron laughed.
"I don't think you're an aswang. But you can control it, can't you? It's a full moon out, but here you are at rehearsals. You can do it at will, can't you?"
"What in the world, dude?" Ron said. "Look, I told you, I went over to Jaime's wearing this costume. His imagination went apeshit on him, and he cacked. I -- I knew how that white hair, scared crapless shit would look in the press, so -- so I decided to fake something a little more mysterious, more, I dunno, more gangsta."
Mulder smiled thinly. "Only one problem."
"I can think of several," I interjected, trying to figure out how to get him out of here before he bought himself a federal mental disability leave.
"Only one problem," Mulder persisted. "Your costume is dark brown. I forgot to tell you, Jim, but the neighborhood witness said the creature was covered in blonde fur."
Ron touched his blonde mustache instinctively. It was extremely weak, and I didn't see an L.A. Criminal Courts judge buying into lycanthropy. But I guess plausibility's in the eye of the beholder, because Ron threw Mulder into me and dashed up the theater's side aisle.
"Oh, beautiful," I cursed, scrambling to my feet.
Ron's cat costume had been tossed aside in the lobby, and a knot of his fellow thespian's were standing like statues, their faces pale, their eyes wide. The agents and I pushed through the glass doors onto the sidewalk, spotting a furry thing sprinting at superhuman speed down the block.
"Ron! Peeples!!" I shouted as I limped after Mulder and Scully. Peeples, who was jayrunning across the street, looked back; it stopped me in my tracks. Then a Jaguar screamed around the corner, and the blonde werewolf or whatever he was was lifted into the air. He landed a few feet away.
When we caught up with Ron, he'd changed back, and I could tell he was in bad shape. Mulder dialed 911 as Scully checked Ron's vitals. Though he was bloody and scraped up and probably hemorrhaging, the former hack actor was chuckling painfully.
"Hey, Ron, just relax 'til the paramedics get here," I told him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"James, man, don't you get it?" he laughed coughingly.
I gave him a weak smile. "Guess I don't."
"Everybody thinks us agents are a bunch of vampires," he wheezed with hilarity. "Well, we're not, are we?"
**
Los Angeles, California
4:15 p.m. the following day
"You know, I don't mind you brought the two feds with you, police courtesy and everything," Dennis bitched, flipping steaks and spritzing his fire. "But why'd you have to bring that one to my home?"
 He was talking about Angel, who'd actually come at Mulder's invitation. They were sitting at Dennis' picnic table, Special Agent Mulder seemingly rapt as the King of Entertainment held forth about syndication rights and audience demographics.
 "Sorry, Dennis," I said, munching a chip. "For some reason, those two've struck up a real friendship. Some fraternal bond of weirdness, maybe. Tell you what, though, the kid has his points."
 "I'd like to know them," Lt. Becker said, stabbing the ribeyes. "Neither your buddies or Chapman will tell me anything about why Peeples would go dashing out into the middle of traffic naked. And what healthy kid in his twenties gets scared to death by a guy in a cat suit?"
 I leaned back on my lounger. "Guilt can be a real bear, Dennis. You might say Jaime Gracia was literally dealing with his personal demons. Or thought he was."
 Peggy Becker knelt by the side of my chair. "Hey, Jim, I was just talking with Dana, and, well, you know she's single, right?"
 I glanced over at the redhead, who was lining up carrot sticks on a relish tray with mathematical precision.
 "Too much age difference," I concluded.
 Dennis' wife shook her head. "You're only as old as you feel, Jim."
 "Didn't mean physically," I said, closing my eyes.
 "Hey, Jimmy," Angel called over. "Foxy here's agreed to be my first Interview with an Angel."
 "Mulder," Scully warned, snapping a carrot spear.
 "It sounds fun," Mulder defended himself. "And I've got lots of great stories of the paranormal. Scully, the truth must be told."
 "Yeah, you gotta hear this," Angel said, thumping the picnic table. "Tell him the one about that girl. Jimmy, girl goes to take her granny some chow, some munchies, 'cept this werewolf or somethin's already made brunch out of the old girl. You're gonna love the ending."
 Dennis snorted, and I covered my mouth.
 "He got a million of 'em, man. Hey, Foxy, tell Jimmy that one about the old lady was eatin' kids. You gotta remember on the show to mention the part where that Hanson or Hansel or whatever shoves the old bitch in the oven."
 Mulder yawned. "I haven't even got to the one about the three mutant bears."
 "I LOVE this guy," Angel exclaimed.