This
one was different from most, he had an air about him that I’d seen on the
really tough characters who tried to get a suspect to confess to anything. He
was a swarthy fellow with a mean-looking face, beefy from too much unhealthy
food, his cheeks were pockmarked, and the cluster of five scars that dotted the
skin ahead of his right ear reminded me of the pattern of some little-known
constellation whose name I couldn’t recall. He was leaning in too close to my
window and the offensive smell of sour sweat seemed appropriate for somebody
whose shirt was stained by what looked like spaghetti sauce right above his
ample belly.
The
low growl from the backset let me know I wasn’t alone in my dislike of these
two cops. Blackjack had sat upright in the middle of the backseat. “Easy,
Blackjack,” I commanded as the flashlight’s beam shown over his form and lit up
the car’s interior.
“Hot
damn, watch out for that dog!” the patrolman said excitedly and jumped
backward, bumping the detective to the side and nearly knocking him down. I saw
the uniformed cop start to draw the handgun from his holster and I shouted:
“He’s a pet, for god’s sake! Put that damn gun away!”