The Gambler and his Lady

My name's Regan. I get ten a day and expenses from a detective bureau run by a guy named Anthony J. Lyon. They call me the lion's eye. With Jack Webb as Jeff Regan, the lion's eye stand by for hard-boiled action and mystery and thrilling adventure in tonight's story of the gambler and his lady.

You find it in Hollywood on Taft Avenue. Four-story apartment building in the color of a rainy afternoon. afternoon. They call it the Havenwood. It's ag in the middle like a tired frankfurter. That's where I live. Apartment 3K. Two rooms with a pull down bed and a pair of windows that stick when it's hot. Oh, the view isn't much. Six strands of

telephone wire in the head of a shaved off palm tree. Beyond is the city. L.A. Spread out on the map like a Roy with a broken yolk. All the towns are, I guess, if you can afford the sedatives.

The lion likes it. He set himself up as a receiving clerk for trouble and I worked for him. It was about 11.15 Tuesday night when my phone began making itself felt. It turned out to be the lion breathing hard.

It figured he was running his fingers over a green bag. Send me a record. How do you sleep? Who's? Try me tomorrow. I want it from you.

Don't you ever check into things? I don't care. Yeah, you drag a wet rag over the 15 if the ink stays on. We got a client. Accent software. How would you know? Do you care?

Well, I put on some clothes, picked up my car, and moved out to Venice Boulevard. The good humor men were all gone, and I had the street to myself. Twenty minutes later, I came to a stop-asatic garbage can near San Pedro.