The killer was playing desert command and he was a master...He was a champion at this. Great hand-eye coordination...His fingers twitched on the trigger. Ghouls, sand mites, towel-heads. Come at me, baby....Phffft, phffft...Up through the dark corridors...He smashed through an iron door, came upon a whole nest of them, sucking on tabbouleh, playing cards. His weapon spit a steady orange death. Blessed are the peacemakers, he smirked. (p.31)

Last I heard from Cat, he was down in Redondo Beach, doing his own thing, private security. Old-timers down in the Central district still asked me how Marty Boxer was. They still told stories about him, and maybe it was good someone could think about him with a laugh. Marty, who once nabbed three perps with the same set of handcuffs...Marty Boxer, who stopped off to lay a bet with the suspect still in...