Our brand new cop car is where Murray parked it: haphazardly angled against the curb. “Guess we should give Dylan a ticket,” I crack, trying to break some of the father-son tension, which has to be higher than the humidity. It’s at 98 percent. I know because my shirt just attached itself to my back. “No need to write up the parking violation, Danny. Police officers are allowed certain leeway in the execution of their official duties.” My partner has officially switched into automaton mode. Ceepak does that sometimes. They say a lot of children of drunks become cops and soldiers so they can finally have some control over their screwy world. After hanging with John Ceepak for a couple years, I know that’s where his more robotic moves come from. It’s how he stuffs down the rage. He controls his emotions, clips his words, and recites the nearest rule book. Me? I usually pound the steering wheel and scream. I pull out the keys to the Crown Vic. “You want to drive?” I ask. “Haven’t you heard?
