…called nine-one-one,” Howie was saying, “and then I heard something in the alleyway, so I went back there and” –Howie coughed– “and valiantly attacked his knife with my guts, to no avail.” “Did you get a good look at him? Could you describe him?” Howie smiled wanly. “Yeah. He was about yay long” –he held up his hands, four inches apart– “thin, made of steel. Pointy. Sharp.
