It was Maurice Brisbois, back in uniform and looking pretty good for a guy who’d been shot in the arm a couple of weeks ago. Dougherty said, “For this, of course.” “What is it exactly?” “The International Conference of Police Associations.” “So that’s why they told us not to arrest any hookers this week.” “Yeah,” Dougherty said, “they’re getting overtime, too. Is it raining yet?” Brisbois shook his head as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, took one out and held open the pack to Dougherty. “This goddamned summer; it’s July and we haven’t had one nice day.” He lit his cigarette and handed the matchbook to Dougherty. “Not one day has it been over seventy degrees.” “You watch, though, August’ll be stinking.” “And me with no more vacation this year.”
