IT'S LATE OCTOBER IN SAN FRANCISCO AND IF I WERE still human, I'd be freezing my ass off. A frigid wind funnels straight up from the bay making the fifty-degree temperature feel more like thirty. Even my partner, big, tough, ex-football player David Ryan, looks uncomfortable. But it's not the cold that has him frowning. It's realizing that our whole game plan for this particular snag and drag has gone up in smoke. And why. We're standing in the middle of the block on Hollister, watching the entrance of a bar on the corner a few doors away. For a Wednesday, the place is jumping. Good news and bad news for what we intend. Good news because a crowd offers cover. Bad news because there's always the danger that some pain-in-the-ass innocent bystander might misunderstand and try to intervene. It's happened before. But since we know our skip, Tony Tuturo, is inside-we followed him here-it's a chance we're prepared to take. And did I mention we had a plan? I'm dressed in a short black skirt, silk halter top, learner jacket, come-fuck-me pumps. The idea was I'd go inside, entice him with my womanly charms, and make him an offer he'd be too dazzled to refuse. Once outside, David and I would hustle his ass into a car. In less than an hour, we'd be off to the airport and home with our bounty in San Diego. Should have