"Spread them," Detective Mackie spits the words.
I do. He pats me down. Left pocket: pencil, paper, and a pack of gum. Right pocket: a gun, no bullets. I shoulda tossed it.
"What have we got here?" He crows. His grin: broad and brutish. It matches his mug.
"That, detective is a gun."
"No shit, Sherlock. What's it doing in your pocket, that's what I wanna know.
"Not much. Just sitting there."
"Hey, Mack, we got us a comedian," Detective Mackie's partner joins in.
"I reckon we do, Polchek."
Detective Polchek: a pie-faced Polak, chewing on a cigar like candy. Oral fixation, I bet.
"We'll just have to take you downtown, then. Have a little chat."
Polchek cuffs my wrists behind my back. Mackie watches.
"I think we just caught the Klump Street Killer. Captain will be happy," Polchek comments.
Stupid shit. I had enough. "You couldn't catch a three-legged dog at the pound, you fat fuck."
His fist hits my jaw like a jackhammer. He moves fast for a ball of dough.