They fight just as hard when their arms are broken. They fight to the death. —The Brass Bed, Act III This was all wrong—like reading another man’s diary. Carpetbagger. Captain Halston had entered the incident room uninvited and unannounced. Playing prince of the city today, the new commander of Midtown North—smarmy twit—had explained his plan to cut the legs out from under Special Crimes. Prick. And then, in a show of no hard feelings—Oh, yeah—the captain had extended his soft manicured hand, maybe expecting the lieutenant to kiss it. This interloper was leaning way too heavy on his higher rank. In response, Jack Coffey had taken a seat in a metal folding chair—no handshake—and finished eating his sandwich. Screw Halston. Now, done with his lunch, the lieutenant crumpled his empty deli bag into a wad the size of a walnut—while the captain from the Theater District strutted up and down the length of the cork wall.
