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.

QUIZ: Jack and Joe leave their homes at the same time and drive towards each other. Jack drives at 60 mph, while Joe drives at 30 mph. They pass each other in 10 minutes. How far apart were Jack and Joe when they started? It was another baffling case. But then, you don't hire a private eye for the easy ones ...

I'd planned to take the day off and spend time with a couple of buddies. My buddies travel light and they're fun to have around. One travels in a holster, and the other in a hip flask. My name is Bullet. Tracer Bullet. What people call me is something else again. I'm a private eye. It says so on my door. The last thing I wanted this morning was a case to solve, but the dame who brought it was persuasive. Most dames are, somehow. Get to work, Calvin. I told her it would cost fifty greenbacks a day, plus expenses.

I stepped out into the rainy streets and reviewed the facts. There weren't many. Two saps, Jack and Joe, drive towards each other at 60 and 30 mph. After 10 minutes, they pass. I'm supposed to find out how far apart they started. Questions pour down like the rain. Who ARE these mugs? What were they trying to accomplish? Why was Jack in such a hurry? And what difference does it make where they started from? I had a hunch that, before this was over, I'd be sorry I asked.

First I figured I'd try the Derkins dame. Susie and I never hit it off, although occasionally we hit each other. Susie had a face that suggested somebody upstairs had a weird sense of humor, but I wasn't going to her place for laughs. I needed information. The way I looked at it, Derkins acted awfully smug for a dame who had a head for numbers and not much else. Maybe she's got something on Jack and Joe. The question is, will she sing? No, I won't tell you what the answer is. Do your OWN work!

The Derkins dame wasn't talking. Someone had gotten to her first and shut her up good. I knew Susie, and closing her mouth would've taken some work. I needed a clue and a drink. One of them I knew where to find. You've made enough trips to the water fountain. Finish your quiz. Suddenly a gorilla pulled me in an alley, squeezed my spine into an accordion, and played a polka on me with brass knuckles. Youse ain't going nowhere, flatfoot.

The inside of my head was exploding with fireworks. Fortunately, my last thought turned out the lights when it left. When I came to, the pieces all fit together. Jack and Joe's lives were defined by integers. Obviously, they were part of a "numbers" racket! Back in the office, I pulled the files on all the numbers BIG enough to keep Susie quiet and want me out of the picture. The answer hit me like a .44 slug. It had to be the number they called "Mr. Billion". Answer: 1,000,000,000. Case closed! Time's up. Bring your papers forward. What did you get, Calvin? I think the answer's 15.

AUGH! Who did this? The Dame's scream hit an octave usually reserved for calling dogs, but it meant I had a case, and the sound of greenbacks slapping across my palm is music to my ears any day. After all, I'm not an opera critic. I'm a private eye.

I keep two magnum's in my desk. One's a gun, and I keep it loaded. The other's a bottle and it keeps ME loaded. I'm Tracer Bullet. I'm a professional snoop. It's a tough job, but then, I'm a tough guy. Some people don't like an audience when they work. Enough of them have told me so with blunt instruments that I'm a phrenologist's dream come true. Snooping pays the bills, though. Especially Bill, my bookie, and Bill, my probation officer. So when a tall brunette opened my door with a case for me, my heart did a few calisthenics and I took the job.

The dame said she had a case. She sounded like a case herself, but I can't choose my clients. She was the pushy type, the kind who'd break your heart, or maybe your arms. I hurried over. Either she had a psychotic decorator, or her place had been ransacked by someone in a big hurry. WELL?! How do you explain this? The dame was hysterical. Dames usually are.

What have you got to say for yourself? Don't touch anything. I'm looking for clues. The click of a hammer being cocked behind my head focused my thoughts like only a loaded .38 can. The dame had set me up! She didn't want me to solve the case at all! She just wanted a patsy to pin the crime on! Well? I didn't like the way this story was shaping up, so I decided to write a new ending with my .45 automatic as co-author.

I introduced the dame to a friend who's very close to my heart. Just a little down and left, to be specific. My friend is an eloquent speaker. He made three profound arguments, while I excused myself from the room. I always leave when the talk gets philosophical. You're in REAL trouble NOW, young man!!

I'd just finished putting the puzzle pieces together when the dame's hired goon jumped out of nowhere and practiced for his chiropractic degree. When the discussion was done, an all-percussion symphony was playing in my head, and the accoustics were incredible. The orchestra went on a ten-city tour of my brain. And I had a season pass with front row seats. I had figured out who trashed the dame's living room, but since she wasn't my client any more, I felt no need to divulge that information. Besides, the culprit happened to be a buddy of mine. I closed the case. I guess we should've played outside, huh?