The point is that the cops who swarmed into the room above the coffee shop not long after Fleurette had gone were all different in color, going from very light to very dark. The darkest cop wore the fanciest uniform, fancy uniforms being a little detail you watch for in this business. They all took in the sights in the same order: Mack lying on the bed, Bernie standing nearby, me sitting at his feet. Then they all turned to the fancy-uniform cop, the way humans do when waiting to find out what happens next. The fancy-uniform cop was peering at Bernie. “Bernie?” he said. “Can’t be you.” “Why not?” Bernie said. “Son of a bitch,” said the fancy-uniform cop. Then he took Bernie in his arms and swept him right off the floor, a total first in my experience. “Son of a bitch,” the cop said again, actually waving Bernie around in the air a bit. The eyes of all the cops got very big.
