It's Sunday night, and I'm up late, watching a video, when the call comes in from Big Bob, a neighbor down the street.

He's got a problem with Fatso, his neighbor — a big piece of shit who lives in the two-flat near the corner. Dude's been keeping everyone on that end of the block up late, setting off firecrackers until the wee hours. Also illegally parks his truck behind the tow-zone sign, openly flaunting the law, like he's got an in with the Man.

I'm not sure why Big Bob's calling me for help — a sure sign of desperation — but it's fortuitous in a way. I've been going through a heavy private eye phase — reading detective novels by Raymond Chandler and George Pelecanos. I tell Big Bob: I'll take the case.

I ring off, sit back and think: What would Marlowe do?

It hits me! I go the computer and run a property-tax search that tells me the house belongs to a lady named Barbara — at least that's who pays the taxes — and she's getting the homeowners exemption. I run her name through Google — nothing. Try the Tribune clip file. Nope. One last try with the Sun-Times. Bingo! I read her obit — Barbara died in `95.

Obviously, she doesn't live there anymore, but her name's still on the bill. Hmm? At this point — if I was Marlowe — I'd light up a cigarette just to help me think.

I check the recorder of deed's website — no sign the house was sold. She must have left it to a son or daughter.

I get the leash. "C'mon, Nicky," I tell the dog, "we got a job to do...."

Outside it's dark as coal — not a light in the sky. The only sound is the crunching of my feet walking along the sidewalk. I walk to the house and look around. Deadly silent. No firecrackers tonight. I tie the dog to a pole, and walk up the porch. It's hard to read in the dark, but I make out the letters. Barbara's name — first or last — is not on the mailbox.

I hear a noise. Footsteps coming from the back. I hop off the porch. Too late. A big man emerges from the side of the building. It's Fatso. He looks enormous standing in the shadows.

"Excuse me," I say, thinking fast. "Is Richard here?"

"Richard?" he growls.

"Is this Henderson Street?"

"No — Byron...."

I smack my forehead with my hand. "Oh, brother — wrong block," I say. "I'm such a dummy...."

I feel him watching me as I get the dog and walk away.

I walk around the block, so he can't see where I live, and think about what I have learned so far. Fatso is renting the house from a landlord, who's breaking the law. That is, he, the landlord, is getting a property-tax break that's only intended for people who live in their homes. I don't know what good this information will do Big Bob, but I'll give it to him in the morning.

Of course, if I really was like Marlowe, I'd visit the landlord tonight — just drop in on his house, wherever that is. I'd tell him he'd better crack down on Fatso — no more firecrackers — if he didn't want me taking what I know to the law.

But, I'm not Marlowe. I've done enough for one night.

I light an imaginary cigarette and blow out an imaginary puff of smoke. Just another day in the life of Benny Jay — private eye....