Locking the door to my office, I proceeded to stumble awkwardly down the stairs. Too much scotch I guess. I opened the door leading to the concrete jungle and a blast of cold air hit me like a haymaker. I pulled the collar of my coat up and adjusted the brim of my hat then started home. The wind was fierce this evening. The chill in the air was cutting through even the thickest coats and the streets were nearly deserted. It was just me, the streetlights, the wind, and the warm feeling of the rotgut in my belly.
As I stuck my hands into my pockets for warmth, I felt the familiar presence of my worn .38 at my side. My trusty revolver had been with me through my years as a beat cop, and I still carry it everywhere with me. It’s a tired old friend that I feel lost without. I’m starting to get the feeling that, now than I’m investigating on my own, I’ll be needing that trusty .38 more than I ever did as a protector of the innocent. Protector is probably a bit of an overstatement: all the cops in this town are crooked.