The fog rolled in like a steamroller over the streets of San Francisco. I could tell from my office window that the night was thick and unnavigable. It was good that nothingwas happening tonight. I would keep the office open for as long as it said on the door, but after that I’d go into the supply closet and spend the night with my friends, the two kinds of colt 45s.

However, there came several knocks to my front door. I almost didn’t notice them until a second rapid round of raps came. I kicked my feet off of my desk, jumped out of my chair, and sashayed on over. I opened it, and was greeted by a short man in a plain-looking suit (almost as plain as my own). The only distinguishing feature was a bad-looking gut shot he was holding.

“You look like my mistress,” I said.

“You should take a look at yourself,” he replied. “Are you Mack Dillinger, the private investigator?”

“Yeah,” I said with a pause, then “who’s askin’?”

“A guy who got shot by an eight year old kid, now let me in.”