IT IS AN UNUSUALLY WARM NIGHT in July, but I’m shivering badly as I stand on the substantial gray stone terrace outside my apartment. I’m looking out over glorious San Francisco and I have my service revolver pressed against the side of my temple. “Goddamn you, God!” I whisper. Quite a sentiment, but appropriate and just, I think. I hear Sweet Martha whimpering. I turn and see she is watching me through the glass doors that lead to the terrace.
