My cigarette smoke mixed with the smoke of my .38. If business was as good as my aim, I'd be on easy street. Instead, I've got an office on 49th street and a nasty relationship with a string of collection agents. Yeah, that's me. Tracer Bullet. I've got eight slugs in me. One's lead, and the rest are bourbon. The drink packs a wallop, and I pack a revolver. I'm a private eye. Suddenly my door swung open, and in walked trouble. Brunette, as usual. Take your hat off at the dinner table, Calvin. It's not polite. She was a pushy dame. But she had a case.