The sign on the door reads MURPHY LAW DETECTIVE AGENCY. It opens to reveal a man, seated behind his desk with his feet up. There's a trilby hat on his head, a .44 magnum in his shoulder holster, and a lit cigarette in his mouth.

His name is MURPHY LAW, and if you think his number is up, then you haven't been counting. He's the sort of man you pray for when you need him — and the sort you curse when you don't.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't ventilate you right now"

His voice is a husky snarl; as if he's got a throat stuffed full of sand-paper and rusty nails.