Max Grant, private investigator, slipped his right hand inside his coat and wrapped it around the butt of his .38 snubnose. A few feet from the entrance to his building he paused, staring through a couple double-double bourbons and nighttime fog. There was someone hunched over in the alcove-someone wearing a dark raincoat. Not moving, not snoring, just crouched like a cat ready to spring. In his neighborhood, it could be a drunk, but if it was, it...