"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.
No comments:
Post a Comment