The minute he saw the dame, Orson Randall knew he was in for a heap of hurt -- all in. But he wouldn't be the hard-boiled hero he was if he didn't go sniffing after trouble. Hero? Randall stopped the laugh in his throat. Drowned it in a slug of bourbon. Randall's no hero. 1920s Los Angeles just ain't the time or the place for a guy like that. Ain't the time or place for the Immortal Iron Fist. Orson Randall's just trying to figure the angle. And if he has to unload his .45s to do it, so much the better. Orson Randall's just in it for the skirt.
