It was a simple, routine kick-the-shit-out-of-the-guy type of interrogation; the subject an eighteen-year-old junkie moving now deep into the withdrawal stages and panic. The collar had been made while the kid was in the act of ripping a handbag off a fat woman in daylight at Broadway and 107th Street in front of the patrol car, an act so stupid that the kid obviously had been far gone to even consider it. Soon enough they would book him in on something or other and throw him into the Tombs where like it or not he would go into his private withdrawal program, but there was a chance before they gave up and took him upstairs that they might get the kid, in his panic, to blurt out some information they could use: something about sources of supply, connections, quality of drugs and so on. You could never tell with these things; you worked every angle you could. Nothing would happen or the junkies would be stupid and then, suddenly, you could fall into a great deal of information, enough to break open a pending case.
What do You think about Lone Wolf #5: Havana Hit (1974)?
