I knew from the moment she came in the office

that she was the kind of doll that make people say "Hollywood Hills" with a certain awe and exaltation, as if it were a magical Shangri La wrapped in moody mists, the kind of place so removed from the humdrums of Joe and Josie Blow that they'd have to invent gods and goddesses to inhabit it.

Well, enter the goddess, in a cream colored outfit and back-slung heels to match. You know, the kind of outfit that clings to a woman in the summer heat, and which, given the right combustion of figure and curls, can incinerate the super-ego and cause the disruption of certain public services.

I didn't hear any fire sirens though, except for the alarms that went off in my head when she sat on the edge of the desk and crossed the finest set of gams I'd seen since Sunday.

She leaned over just far enough for me to get a whiff of the perfume, French and the kind most saps can't afford, and dropped the envelope of stamps right in front of me with a click of her crimson nails.

"My hubby has run off with some dame," she said, "and I want him back." There was a kind of dislocation in my cerebellum when she spoke, for though the voice suggested a midnight cozy before a fireplace, it didn't match the acid in the tone, the kind of hydrochloric that can burn a hole through boiler plate.

"Don't get me wrong," she said standing before the open window. "I don't love the old fool; I just love his dough." She lifted the spiral of blonde curls from the back of her neck and took a deep breath. I was glad she wasn't facing me. "Say, don't you believe in air conditioning?"

"I think it's a wonderful invention," I replied, "but it's not in the budget for this fiscal year."

"Find Erskine," she said, "and I'll see that you keep cool for the rest of the century. You'll be able to buy a better view," she added looking down over the shopper's delight of fast food joints and liquor stores below. "Or at least a view. Van Nuys is the pits."

"About Erskine."