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round table. Most of them were drinking beer. A younger officer came in and sat down at the table.
    â€œHey, Charlie, where you been?”
    â€œHad to put in some overtime,” Garcia said, explaining his late arrival. “Have you guys ever seen that thing the fire department has, that big tool they use to pry metal open?”
    One of the men at the table nodded. “Yeah. What do they call that thing? Jaws, or something like that.”
    Garcia signaled to the barmaid. He ordered bourbon straight up.
    â€œWas it a traffic accident?” the other officer went on. “I seen them use that gadget to rip a car in two. They were trying to get somebody out, they were dead when we got to them, but I was certainly impressed with that tool.”
    Garcia nodded his agreement. “You know those sanitation trucks with the metal hydraulic scoop on the back that crushes the garbage into the truck?”
    â€œYeah, most of those independent salvage outfits use ’em.”
    Garcia nodded. “Yeah. That’s why I was late. We had a run to an accident involving one of those trucks. The garbage truck was owned by a small company. It was so small that the owner’s son was driving the thing. He had an old black man along as a helper. Anyway, the hydraulic crusher got stuck. A piece of metal got jammed into the hinge that swings the thing. The old black guy climbs back there with a sledge hammer and starts whacking away. He did a good job. Of course, as soon as he knocked the wedge out, the damn thing started working again and it crushed him like a grape. Then the compactor stuck again, and when we got there we couldn’t get him out. The fire department came out and took that big scoop apart like butter.”
    â€œGuy was killed, right?” one of the men asked.
    Garcia grinned. “Only his upper half, just his head and chest. Everything else was just fine. He was one hell of a mess.”
    â€œHey, Shirley,” one of the men at the table called. “Officer Garcia here would like a glob of spaghetti, heavy on the tomato sauce.”
    Everyone laughed.
    â€œThe young son-of-a-bitch driving the truck tried to deny that the old black guy worked for them,” Garcia said.
    â€œTrying to wiggle out of paying workmen’s compensation benefits,” one of the men at the table said in disgust.
    Garcia nodded. “Yeah. At first he tried to say he didn’t even know the guy. I think he was trying to make me think the old man climbed into the back of the truck and committed suicide. But finally he caved in and told the truth.”
    The waitress brought his bourbon, and he quickly jolted it down. “Another, Shirley,” he said, putting a bill on the wooden table.
    Garcia felt the liquor burn, but it was more consoling than painful. “Money! You know, that’s the only thing some people think about. It turned out the old man had been working for those people for over three years. But they always paid him in cash. That way they didn’t have to pay his Social Security or screw around with deducting taxes. He got no benefits, no nothing, just a couple of bucks an hour. I guess everybody is trying to screw somebody. At least it seems that way.”
    The conversation fell off and for a few moments everyone at the table was silent.
    â€œHeard they had a police shooting over at three,” one of the older men said. “The accident car came up on a holdup. One of the blue coats nailed the robber right in the head. One shot.”
    â€œBlack guy?”
    â€œNo, white luckily. Shit, if you run into black gangsters you’re smarter to just fire over their heads and hope they go away. Goddamn, if that punk had been black, the mayor would have sent down the chief and forty-seven commanders just to hang that white copper’s ass. I guess that’s what the department calls a ‘suspension.’”
    Everyone laughed.
    Again there was a lull in the