Tikki turns in off the street, goes through the door of the row house in
northeast Philly, and briefly pauses in the foyer. On the stairs the slag with 
bright orange hair and teeth filed to points looks at her a moment, then lowers 
the muzzle of his shotgun toward the floor. Tikki stares at him an instant 
longer, then heads up the stairs. She doesn’t like people pointing guns at her,
even if it is their job.