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poignant.”
    â€œJust don’t put me in the ground too soon, Dix.”
    â€œWouldn’t dream of it, boss.”
    My next call is to Detective Sergeant Fury, an imposing homicide detective with the San Francisco Police Department who took me under his wing after a feature I wrote about the murder of his wife at the hands of a thief, and the subsequent “death by misadventure” of her killer.
    The thief’s death proved controversial, as he was shot while climbing out the window of an apartment he had just robbed. The cop who shot him was Frank Fury.
    â€œYou have time for a chat?” I ask when Frank answers the phone.
    â€œI was thinking of being totally unpredictable and dropping into the Dog House tonight,” he says.
    I laugh. The Dog House is a dungeon of a pub two blocks from the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street that is a local drinking hole for the sad sacks of the night crew, who often prefer to drink alone: cops, journalists, musicians, and a few curious writers and misfits who’ve heard about the bar’s resident ghost, Al Capone.
    Frank and I are regulars.
    â€œI was hoping to see you sooner than that,” I say. “Want to pick your brain about something.”
    â€œYou in trouble?” he asks.
    â€œNot yet.”
    I can almost hear his lips bending into a thin smile, but he’s not going to give me the satisfaction of a chuckle.
    â€œI have a proficiency test coming up and need to get in some practice.”
    â€œPerfect,” I say. “Meet you there.”

    I own a gun license but not a gun. However, I’ve been toying with the idea ever since a scary encounter in my apartment with someone who seemed intent on throwing me out of my second-story window.
    An ugly scar that puckers the center of my left palm aches when the weather gets cold, but that’s nothing compared to how the attack damaged my confidence. I never actually believed I was invincible, but I certainly lacked a proper respect for how unprepared I was for direct violence.
    And although I don’t like to admit weakness, neither do I ever want to be considered a victim. Since that event, Sam has introduced me to her Mixed Martial Arts class, and Frank’s been teaching me how to shoot.
    Off the books, I also called in a favor from a former mob enforcer named Pinch. Our paths crossed on a feature I was writing for NOW, when he took a chance on trusting me and I earned his respect by staying true to my word.
    Pinch—who, at five-foot-four and more stout than wiry, looks nothing like my preconceptions of a trained killer—has been teaching me the proper way to use my switchblade and unladylike ways in which my feet, thighs, teeth, and nails can become lethal weapons.
    Every bruise on my body since that day has been a medal, earned through sweat and determination. They are marks I wear proudly—like my silly, hidden tattoo.
    The indoor shooting range that Frank uses is called Duck! It’s a private members’ club in an unremarkable corrugated steel Quonset hut located on the edge of an industrial park near the docks. Catering mostly to the law enforcement and private security crowd, its name comes from the front entrance: a black steel door that, for a reason nobody’s yet been able to explain to me, is only five feet six inches tall. Unless you’re Pinch, to gain entrance you need to, quite literally, duck.
    The interior of the club looks nothing like its exterior. Soundproofing foam, still visible on the high, curved ceiling, is sprayed thickly over the ribbed steel skin. The front area is finished in oak, chrome, and glass for a boys’ clubhouse feel: chairs designed for comfort, plasma TVs on the wall, and a small bar.
    The much larger rear area—separated from the front by a steel-core wall and safety prep area that still allowed for a few bulletproof acrylic windows—is kept clean, sparse, and professional to accommodate twelve