Frank's encounter with the cops begins ...

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!”