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the ink, splotching all ten imprints into the appropriate squares on the form. Kowalski then searches the drawer again, this time removing a pair of hospital gloves. He snaps the latex over his big mitts and announces, “Okay, now for your dickprint.” The perp says, “My what?” Kowalski explains sympathetically, “Son, I don’t like this any more than you do, but it’s regulation in this here age of AIDS. Anybody arrested, we got to keep records of their fingertips, right? Now we got to also do the same with their johnsons. Understand? So now, drop your pants and flop it proud up here on the ink pad. Go ahead, son, close your eyes. Won’t take but a few seconds.” The perp, who is grateful to close his eyes during this indignity, does what he has to do, though not proudly. Kowalski makes some more rummaging sounds in the desk drawer, muttering, “Now, where’s that dickprint form?” Of which there is no such thing, of course. Instead of gently inking down the perp's johnson, Kowalski takes a braided sap from his belt, raises it high over his head with both meaty paws, then whomps it down across the guy’s vegetables.
    So I did what I had to do: I complained. I make no claim to being a perfect cop and I carry no particular brief for homosexual gentlemen. But this Kowalski violates my code, such as it is. If I myself should for instance break somebody's thumb in the line of duty, which I have done, I will make certain of two things that to me seem only sporting: the perp should be guilty as hell, and his eyes should be open so he can see me coming at him.
    So, two years ago I filed against Sergeant Kowalski. The only thing that has happened to date is my being wreathed twice, and now told by this sergeant with the shiny pants from Massapequa I should watch my back.
    As I walked away from Becker and the latest threat, I was thinking with a cringe not only of cops who think the greatest sin—the only sin—is blowing a whistle, but of Ruby in her delicate condition. It was only luck, my finding the wreath on the apartment door before Ruby. It pains me to say so, but cops who make threats are like rabid dogs; they will bite, and they are not choosy about their victims. What ¡ if my luck ran out?
    I headed for the stairs that would take me up to the squad room that Midtown South has seen fit to assign my sector of the SCUM patrol. My steps fell into the rhythm of Becker’s wetly gnashing jaws. He chewed like a dog, open-mouthed, the sound of him echoing through the station house lobby.

    The squad room is painted government green—windows included, which does not matter, since there is only an air shaft view of soot-crusted brick. Whatever time of year it is, and whatever the outdoor temperature and wind patterns, I it is always about eighty-five degrees and humid in this room. There are a half-dozen steel desks and a like number of steel filing cabinets, all of them beige and dented; a hot plate for making coffee; a miniature refrigerator with cans; of soda inside, along with cockroaches and mold; an oscillating fan, usually on the fritz; fluorescent lights buzzing overhead; a rogue’s gallery of wanted posters taped to cement walls; and a lieutenant by the name of Rankin who is in I charge of the daily assignments. Rankin sweats a lot, accounting for a share of squad room humidity. He does not wear deodorant.
    “What do you know, Hock?” Rankin greeted me as I walked through the door, panting from the six-flight climb. The squad room was empty. My colleagues and I prefer clearing out fast and working the streets over hanging out in a close room with a ripe lieutenant. Rankin was breaking the law by smoking a Winston. Also he was pawing through a stack of complaint sheets. Stains under his armpits arced clear down to his gunbelt. When I had reached his desk, he said, “I hate to give you this two-bit job, Hock. But as you I can see plain, I’m shorthanded.”
    “What is it?” I took the sheets Rankin