"I believe you have the wrong number," said the old gentleman into
the phone. "You'll have to call the weather bureau for that information."
"Who was that?" his young wife asked.
"Some guy wanting to know if the coast was clear."
Yeah, that's me, Tracer Bullet. I've got eight slugs in me. One's lead,
the rest bourbon. The drink packs a wallop, and I pack a revolver. I'm
a private eye.