It all started the day before my obituary was slated to appear in the morning edition of The Globe. Irv typed it up at work. I was in the shower when he stopped by, so he left a copy on the dining room table for me to proof.

    Irv was a master with details, and I was pleased with what he'd composed. After all, who knows more about you than an agent you've bonded with over the past twenty years? A devout Catholic since birth, I thought the Requiem Mass was a nice touch. Ditto the rosary and funeral arrangements. Margaret Tanner-Anders. I knew Maggie wouldn't appreciate the hyphenated name. She never spoke of her family and resisted my attempts to uncover anything about her Midwest origins. Still, Maggie was class and then some.

    We met one rainy afternoon by accident, colliding mid-aisle at Vons. I was mentally going over tomorrow's lines for a romantic comedy shooting at Universal while attempting to steer a shopping cart with a will of it's own down the produce aisle.

    Our courtship consisted of weekend dinners at our favorite Italian restaurant in Malibu followed by long walks on a moonlit beach. For the first time my life was imitating art. Movie scripts were becoming reality. I'd met the perfect woman, and all was right with the world.

    On our first night at my place in the canyon, I'd prepared a four-course meal. Put on Mancini's Greatest Hits, everything from "Mr. Lucky "to "Moon River." Later, a newly restored print of Vertigo unreeled on the VCR, creating a dreamlike, hallucinatory mood while we made love.

    Maggie said she'd always associate sex with exhilarating falls from high towers and endless spirals swirling off to infinity. Vertigo became our movie. We watched it at least once a month, often stopping the film after Judy Barton's transformation into Madeleine. We preferred our happy ending over Hitchcock's darker interpretation.

    We married that June and coasted along blissfully for five years. Then my film career took a nosedive. Maggie hung around for a while but my depression came between us, and we argued constantly. Our life became a B version of Liz and Richard in Virginia Woolf, matching each other drink for drink, insult for insult.

    Finally we separated and lived apart. I offered Maggie a divorce, but she refused. We both knew we’d get back together once the uncertainty of my career was resolved. I was willing to do anything to make it happen. All I needed was the perfect plan to rejuvenate my career and get Maggie back in the process.

    Looking down now thorough the mist and swirling clouds, I see things more clearly: Maggie, Irv, and, of course, the plan we talked about and perfected for weeks.

    Maggie had reservations when I first told her about it. We were in my bedroom. She was sitting by the mirror, touching up her make-up, much younger looking than her thirty-eight years.

    "I’ll be fine, Maggie. You’ll see. I always land on my feet." But this time, I was desperate. My career had hit a serious downswing. I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole, losing my footing, slipping and sliding deep into the land of the featured player. One of those graying middle-aged men, glimpsed in party scenes, passed over by the leading lady as she moves on to greener pastures and into the arms of the much younger leading man.

    "I don’t like it, Harry," she said brushing her blond hair, then pulling and sweeping it into a twist, accentuating her high cheekbones.

    "What’s to worry? I’m not dead. I know it. You know it. Irv knows it."

    "So?"

    "So, the next day, I call the TV station and some studio execs. Hey, guys, I’m alive. I’ve been outta town. The news of my death is greatly exaggerated, etc. etc."

    "But what’s all this prove other than you’re finally down for the count."

    "If Irv’s right, just the opposite. We’re talking publicity, Maggie. Renewed interest, phones ringing, a few good scripts. Not A-list but good, solid character parts. Nobody in town talks about it, but it happens. Lots of times."

    "Name one," she said and turned toward me, away from the mirror.

    "That stage actor in the seventies, the one who made the black and white about West Point. Angry young cadet fighting the system."

    "Not the guy in that thriller with Jack?"

    "The same. Successful for a while, a hit TV series followed by the big fade."

    "Then his untimely death is leaked to the press and...."

    "You got it, babe. He’s back on top."

    The night before we set everything in motion, I went to bed early. Before falling asleep, I made a novena to St. Jude. I was born on his feast day; he'd been good to me so I figured, what the hell? I prayed that Irv’s plan succeed, for my career's return to normalcy, an oxymoron in Hollywood terms, but mostly for my joyful reunion with Maggie. I fell asleep somewhere between the Our Fathers and the Hail Marys.

    The next morning, I dressed quickly and ran to the corner. I put two quarters into the slot and pulled out the morning edition of The Globe. Unaccustomed to reading the daily obituaries, I searched the table of contents then turned to the listings in the "Metro" section. I ran my finger down the column. The entries were listed alphabetically:

    No "Anders, Harry." I couldn't believe it. Thinking the names were out of order, I scanned up and down the columns a second time. Again nothing. I checked the date at the top of the page. It was today's. I tucked the paper under my arm and returned to the apartment.

    I spread the paper out on the dining room table and went through it column by column. It didn't take long. On page four, I saw it, a large picture of me standing beside my car at the studio. The shock of seeing myself in a feature story was compounded by the headline:

    Actor's Car in Fiery Canyon Crash.

    I knew Irv was creative and had access to my used Toyota stored in a nearby garage. But when did this become part of the plan? I read on:

    Body! What body? There wasn't supposed to be a body. I put a call in to Irv but got his machine. I left a message for him to call me immediately. Then I called Maggie, and she answered on the second ring.

    "Maggie, what's happening? I don't understand...."

    "I know things look bad, Harry. I'm coming over. Stay inside the apartment. If the phone rings, don't answer it." She hung up.

    Fifteen minutes later, we were in the living room. I went to the bar and poured us each a scotch. My hands were shaking. Maggie walked to the window, pulled the drapes then sat next to me on the couch.

    "Tell me about the body, Maggie, whose is it, I don't understand any of this."

    "Calm down, Harry. The car was Irv's idea--well, mine and Irv's, actually. We thought it would add more credibility to the story--dramatic impact and all. We knew you wouldn't go for it. You're too honest, Harry. It's an old car. We'll buy another."

    "But the body. Who was in the car?"

    She opened her purse, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, inhaled deeply then said, "Irv."

    "What?"

    "You heard me. He got a little too creative. Wanted to come back for you. Make it a legitimate death. He knew about the insurance policy. I'm still your beneficiary, right?"    

    I nodded, too stunned to speak.

    "Irv wanted to go halves. He got greedy that's all. And old Irv had plans, Harry. Plans that included me."

    "I don't understand any of this."

    "No, I don't think you do. It must be tough being a one man Legion of Decency. Irv and I had a history, Harry."

    "What kind of history?" I had to know it all, everything.

    "We'd been friends for years since our early twenties. Back in Iowa. Both working small towns, running short cons, always a step ahead of the law. We teamed up, then separated a while. I eventually lost track of him. Then one day we ran into each other in an Omaha bus station. He was heading to L.A., a lucrative job offer at a talent agency. A year later, I followed Irv and the money west."

    Maggie continued her story. She told me they'd argued last night. How she'd hit Irv on the head with a flashlight, belted him into the car, released the brake and sent the Toyota crashing down the ravine.

    "But the police will eventually know it's not me in the car. They'll identify Irv's body...."

    "As yours, Harry. In fact they've already made a positive identification. The police just gave me the sad news. I was on the phone playing the grieving widow minutes before your call."

    "But how is that possible?" I was seeing a new side of Maggie, one I wasn't sure I liked.

    "Use your training, Harry. You didn't play Lt. Benson on that lousy TV show for nothing." She picked up her glass and finished her drink.

    "The dental x-rays," I said.

    "Right, I couldn't count on you to do what had to be done, so I switched them myself."

    "You what?"

    "Don't look so surprised, Harry."

    She reminded me that Irv and I went to the same dentist. Some time ago, I was facing a possible root canal and Irv made the referral. I'd liked Dr. Mervy's gentle touch, forgiven his bad breath and had stayed one of his patients for the past fifteen years.

    "Larry's always had a crush on me. Can you imagine falling for a guy who's up to his armpits all day in spit?"

    "But how did you manage it?"

    "Easy. Last week, I stopped by for an after hours drink in his office. He nipped into the little boys and left me alone with the files. A few minutes, Harry. That's all it took."

    "You've taken care of everything haven't you, Maggie?"

    She moved closer to me, put her hand on mine. "I get things done, if that's what you mean."

    I walked over to the window and pulled back the drapes. The afternoon sunlight streamed into the room. "There's still something I don't understand. How could you have known last week that Irv would be in the car?"

    Maggie looked down thoughtfully at her cigarette and smiled.

    "Only if you'd planned it."

    She stubbed out her cigarette and got up. "Okay. His idea was fine. I knew it might have worked for you. But it wasn't a sure thing. I also knew Irv, that he'd go for the insurance angle once I'd mentioned it. I strung him along, said we'd split the money. But the money was for us, Harry, a chance to start over. I wasn't sharing with anyone."

    "So what really happened last night? You owe me that much."

    "Irv and I met at my place. We had a few drinks, his laced with sleeping pills. I'd picked up your car earlier at the garage. Thank God, Irv was a little guy. It wasn't much trouble dragging him to the Toyota."

    I couldn’t believe any of this.

    "I drove out to the canyon, and the rest you know."

    "It must have been a long walk home."

    "Not really. I managed to catch an all night bus on Overton. I was in bed and asleep before three."

    I walked to the phone and picked up the receiver. "You've killed someone, Maggie. We can't live with this between us."

    She pulled a gun from her purse. "Put it down, Harry. I was afraid you'd do something noble, so I came prepared. Like I said, you're much too decent. Unfortunately your Mother Teresa won't play."

    I put the receiver back in its cradle and made a move toward her.

    "Don't try anything. You're already dead, Harry, remember? It wouldn't take much to finish the job."

    "But we were happy once. How could all this happen?"

    "We were happy at first. When everything was going our way, the studios couldn't do enough for you. You gave me everything I wanted. But then some of your pictures bombed. We lost our beautiful home. I had to pawn my furs and jewelry to pay our living expenses, to keep us afloat financially. Your head was pretty much in the clouds, reading scripts with parts you'd never play. Sitting around, listening to those sentimental movie soundtracks."

    I turned and walked toward the patio door. "But I continued to work. Irv saw to that. And we were in love. It wasn't all...."

    "A con? Pretty much, Harry."

    I slid open the patio door, and she followed me out.

    "Trivia time, Harry. I've a movie in mind. The themes are the fallacy of romantic love, the deceptive nature of appearances? Give up?"

    Maggie was on a roll. She couldn't be stopped. "Hitchcock's bloody Vertigo. You missed the point entirely on that one, Harry. God how I hated watching that old chestnut."

    "That was our movie. It was...."

    "Special? You thought I was having orgasms over all that romantic baloney. Well, guess again. Like Judy, I played my part pretty well, don't you think?" Her voice was getting louder now.

    "You and I, it was all an illusion?"

    Maggie was leaning up against the railing, the gun in her right hand, pointed at me. I knew she couldn't miss at that range.

    "A lovely illusion. Yes, Harry, that says it all." She laughed and raised the gun.

    I moved toward her. My fist came down hard on her arm knocking the gun from her hand, sending it spinning across the concrete floor. She came at me, her fingers clawing my face. I pushed her back against the railing. I heard the splitting of wood. One moment she was there, reaching out to me. The next she was tumbling and falling. Like Madeleine's decent from the mission tower, Maggie fell face down fifteen stories to the pavement below.

    I don’t know how long I stood there. I bent down, picked up the gun and rushed inside. I closed the drapes and went to the bedroom. Maggie’s words came flooding back to me, "You're already dead, Harry, remember?"

    I glanced in the mirror--a middle-aged, everyman’s face. Hadn’t I played a scene like this before--a man on the run, someone able to blend easily into a crowd? I closed my eyes, tried to remember. Yes, yes. I could do this.

    I filled a suitcase with clothes, and slipped my passport and a ragged map of Mexico into a coat pocket. I finished my scotch, then washed and put away the two glasses. I wiped the prints from the gun and returned it to Maggie’s purse on the coffee table.

    I found some money I'd squirreled away. Irv had been good to me. The bit parts had paid off. I'd worked regularly over the past months, cashed the checks and kept the money in a bureau drawer. There was close to fifteen hundred. I grabbed a wide-brimmed hat, put on a pair of dark glasses and, taking the back stairway that led to the street, hailed a cab for the airport.

    Two hours later, high above the brownish blue clarity of a Southern California coastline, I settled back to my thoughts and to a Margarita. I wondered how Lt. Benson would interpret Maggie’s death. "Most likely a suicide," he’d say, "a desperate act by a distraught woman unable to cope with the loss of her husband." I loved that line, having actually said it on a TV episode. Poor Maggie. She’d have a sappy, sentimental ending after all.

    I slid the earphones over my head, switched to easy listening and the sweeping sounds of a full studio orchestra. A Mancini melody took me back to the comforting images of childhood and to the bittersweet memory of a golden smile fading fast behind a closing door.

    I fell asleep, and in my daydream, a ribbon of road unraveled before me--an unmarked highway with no clear destination--and in the passing view from my speeding car, I could see for miles in either direction.