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WAY home from the bar I got pulled over by a couple of cops. I wasn’t concerned about a breathalyzer test—I had been drinking apple juice all night. And I wasn’t concerned about a laser speed gun—I had not been speeding. What I was concerned about was getting pulled over for no apparent reason at all.
    I took out my license and registration while remaining seated on my motorcycle. Blue lights strobed the darkness. Crickets chirped.
    One cop got out of the patrol car and swaggered up to me.
    I squinted into the flashlight beam.
    “I’m Officer Brown, with the Pottsland Police Department.”
    I nodded.
    “License and registration.”
    “You bet, officer. There you go.”
    He grunted. Which in some primitive societies means thank you .
    I watched him strut back to the patrol car and climb in.
    I knew he was running my tag and driver’s license, to make sure they were valid. It was all part of the procedure.
    But he had skipped one part. He was supposed to have explained the reason for the stop.
    In my rearview mirror I could see Officer Brown and his partner get out of the car. They stood huddled together in the darkness behind me.
    I could hear them whispering to each other.
    It gave me a bad feeling.
    Footsteps sounded on the pavement.
    I squinted into the flashlight beam again.
    “Here’s your license and registration,” Officer Brown said.
    I grunted my thanks.
    Officer Brown didn’t say anything for a while.
    Behind him the other cop stood with a hand on his gun butt.
    Crickets chirped.
    “Mr. Lane,” Officer Brown said finally, “why are you visiting here in Pottsland?”
    “Because I heard the town cops here are charming.”
    He was not amused. Neither was his partner. The town cops didn’t seem all that charming after all.
    The partner stepped forward. His nametag said MILLER .
    “Where do you work, Mr. Lane?”
    “What’s that got to do with anything?”
    “Answer the question, Mr. Lane.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    Officer Miller took out his nightstick.
    “Answer the question, Mr. Lane.”
    These guys were trouble. They were up to something. I had no idea what it was. It seemed like a bad idea to tell them I was a retired deputy U.S. marshal. The less they knew about me the better. So I lied. Sort of.
    “I work at home,” I said. “I’m a novelist.”
    “Oh yeah?” Officer Miller said. “You write books, eh?”
    “I do.”
    “So how come I never heard of you before.”
    “Probably because I don’t write romance novels.”
    Officer Brown snorted.
    Officer Miller turned to scowl at him.
    It was not a romantic moment.
    Office Miller turned to look at me again. He tapped the nightstick against his thigh. He cocked his head. He was trying to intimidate me. I bore up under it as best I could.
    “I don’t like your smart remarks,” he said to me.
    “People don’t like what they don’t understand.”
    “You think?”
    “I know how to. Want me to teach you?”
    The nightstick tapped harder against Officer Miller’s thigh.
    He stepped behind my motorcycle.
    He broke the taillight.
    Officer Brown spoke up.
    “Jesus, Artie. Take it easy.”
    Officer Miller pointed the nightstick at him.
    “Take it easy, Owen? You want me to fucking take it easy? This smart-ass here’s lucky I don’t knock his fucking head off.”
    “I know, Artie. All I’m saying is, we don’t have to do things this way, is all I’m saying.”
    I remained seated on my motorcycle. This was not the first time I had seen cops like this. Dirty cops. Corrupt cops. Cops who abuse their power. They deserved no respect. I had no problem giving them what they deserved.
    The white beam of Officer Miller’s flashlight returned to my face.
    “Okay, smart-ass, I’m gonna ask you some questions, and you’re gonna answer em. Got it?”
    I shrugged.
    “Were you drinking tonight?”
    “Only apple juice.”
    “At the Nobody Inn?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Were you harassing customers there?”
    “I never harass