Richard Belzer: ‘I Am Not a Psychic!’

Actor and stand-up comedian Richard Belzer has brought his signature dry wit to the role of Detective John Munch — originally on the NBC drama “Homicide: Life on the Street” and currently on “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit” — making Munch the longest-running character on U.S. prime-time television. Last fall Belzer put his detective skills to the test with “I Am Not a Cop!”, a mystery novel starring Belzer himself. In “I Am Not a Psychic!” “The Belz,” as he’s called, is back and ready to solve the case of a beautiful young movie star who died 26 years earlier. An excerpt.

Chapter one
I watched my part-Lab, part-mutt, Django, and my part-poodle, part-mutt, Bebe, run through the park, circling some bushes and zigzagging between a couple of benches, startling the young couple who had been sitting there immersed in each other. Owing to the season, early February, it could almost be considered a rite of the false-spring we'd been experiencing in the Big Apple. As I kept an eye on the frisky dogs, I was feeling a bit of the old false-spring fever myself, and longed to wrap up this year's filming and head back to my home in France. But first, I had another commitment.

I whistled and their ears shot up. Like they were attuned to catch their master's voice, even in the middle of Manhattan. They changed direction, moving as synchronously as the Blue Angels in flight, and trotted back toward me. Ah, the simple joys of life when you're a dog. Or a stand-up comic/television star with a couple days off.

A pair of NYPD's finest rolled by in a blue-and-white, the officer in the passenger's seat giving the thumbs-up sign.

"Great episode last night, Belz," he yelled.

I waved as both dogs came to a stop at my feet and obediently sat down. As I refastened their leashes, my cell phone rang. The number was unfamiliar, but it had an L.A. area code. I wondered who the hell this could be, and against my better judgment, answered it anyway.

"Richard Belzer, is that you?" the voice asked.

"Yeah."

After a few seconds the voice said, "It's Paul."

Paul? I knew quite a few Pauls, and this one sounded like he'd imbibed his lunch. Actually, it would be closer to his breakfast time if he was calling from La La Land. "Paul who?"

"Paul Venchus." His tone sounded both hurt and surprised. "Don't tell me you don't remember me."

It was close, but I actually did. "Damn, what's it been? Thirty-some years?"

He laughed. "Yeah, thirty-something. Man, you sound the same. Exactly the same." His words ran together, slurring with a drunk's sloppiness.

"Yeah, right," I said. "How you been?"

His voice brought back a period of my life full of bittersweet memories. Paul Venchus and I had been reporters at the Bridgeport Connecticut Post back in my college days, when we'd meet at McDonald's and write jokes on the back of the paper napkins, dreaming of a career in stand-up comedy. Mine had finally taken me to some of the smaller clubs on the Atlantic City circuit, and eventually I moved up from there. I left the newspaper on good terms. The same couldn't be said for Paul. I'd come back from a gig in New York and found out through the grapevine that he'd been fired for showing up drunk one too many times.

Some things never change, I guess, or if they do, they don't change much.

"I been doing all right, Belz," he said. "And ..." His voice took on a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm working on something big. Real big. And I think you'll be interested."

Now, any of you who've read my previous books, like UFOs, JFK, and Elvis: Conspiracies You Don't Have to Be Crazy to Believe, know I'm no stranger to the art of conspiracy theories. But mine have to be grounded in fact, more or less. It sounded like Paul's might be anchored in a bottle of Jim Beam. This was one Pandora's box I wasn't sure I wanted to open. He didn't let my silence deter him.

"Belz, listen. I know who really killed Brigid Burgeon. And there's more. Way more."

I gave it a few more beats, then tried to sound as noncommittal as I could. "That's almost ancient history now."

He snorted. "I know you're thinking I'm full of s--t, but I've got the goods on some big people. Real big."

Every conspiracy theorist's dream. "Like who?"

"Shhh, not on the phone," he said. "This is your cell, right?"

"Yeah, and how'd you get it, by the way?"

"Belz, I — " He stopped and I could hear him in a brief conversation with someone else. "Look, I can't go into that right now. I need to meet with you. You're still filming in New York, right?"

I could've said no to the whole thing, and avoided a lot of trouble, but I tried for a gentler brush-off. "Actually, no. I've got a week or so off from the show, but I have another commitment." Mistake Number One.

I could hear his sonorous breathing — the sure sign of deep concentration. "You gonna be in L.A. anytime soon?"

"Not really. I'll be in Vegas cohosting a telethon with Johnny Leland."

His tone picked up. "Vegas is perfect. I just got back from there myself. It's where my source is. And it's only a quick road trip away from L.A."

I certainly didn't want him showing up at the show, especially in his usual condition. Dino's old "drunk routine" might have worked with the Rat Pack, but it would be a disaster on a prime-time telethon. Time to nip it in the bud, as the late, great Don Knotts used to say. "Paul, I told you, I'm involved in a telethon. It's to benefit charity, and it's nonstop, around the clock."

"Belz, you gotta listen to me." His voice picked up animation as he talked, almost obscuring the faint trace of the boozy slur. "Like I told you, I got the scoop on who really killed Brigid Burgeon. Mark Kaye Jr., too."

"You and half the rag writers in L.A., I'll bet." Although a little voice was telling me to extricate myself from this conversation and then see about getting a new cell number, another voice was urging me to hear what he had to say. I've always been a soft touch for an old friend. Especially one with a conspiracy theory. "So what kind of an angle you got?"

"I told you, not on the phone. Lots of people involved in a huge coverup. Puts Iran-Contra to shame. And I know who did it and why."

Iran-Contra? Now I suspected he might have been on some kind of heavy psych-op drugs in addition to the booze. "Iran-Contra's not exactly cutting-edge news anymore, either."

"Yeah, yeah, I was just being metaphorical, but you got the connections in law enforcement we need to do something with this."

"Listen, I am not a cop."

"Yeah, yeah, I gotcha. When you leaving for Vegas?"

"Tomorrow," I said, realizing I'd just made Mistake Number Two.

"Great, call me when you touch down." He rattled off his number but it was already on my LCD screen. "Got it?"

"Yeah, Paul, but — "

"Belz, please." His voice suddenly took on a drunk's plaintive lilt. "Call me, okay?" Before I could answer, he added, "I gotta go. I'll be in touch," and hung up.

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The dogs looked up at me, their chocolate eyes almost echoing what my good judgment was telling me. Django cocked her big, dark head and Bebe's tongue lashed out to slick back some errant gray fur. I sighed and met their reproachful stares.

"Look, he used to be a really good friend, and I could tell by his tone that he really thinks he's onto something." Django's head tilted slightly. "I know, I know, I can't be sure unless I could read his mind, and I'm no psychic. But I don't think it was all due to the booze. Plus, he's coming to me because he thinks I have connections in law enforcement ... and I do, sort of, but ..."

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