Just over a year ago, fate dealt him a winning hand. He had been promoted to Detective and was assigned to homicide investigations. This was a radical, though welcome, change from knocking down the doors of crack houses, which had been his previous assignment. Now, at times, his work schedule had become less structured and was often expanded with overtime. However, that time was more often spent interviewing suspects and gathering evidence than dodging bullets sprayed from an illegally modified, Tech Nine machine pistol in the hands of a fifteen-year-old gangbanger.

I knew for a certainty that his wife was happy to have him out of the direct line of fire. Felicity and I had made no secret of the fact that we were just as relieved.

The van door made a loud groan of protest as he pushed it shut, then he turned and strode up my sidewalk with a brown paper bag tucked casually under his arm.

“I can’t believe you’re still driving that old piece of crap,” I called to him and motioned toward the decrepit looking Chevy.

He was halfway up the flagstone walkway when he stopped, looked back at the vehicle for a moment, then turned back to me. “What?” he answered, feigning insult, then with a shrug continued walking. “It still runs.”

He climbed the stairs and parked himself on the edge of the porch then stretched and let out an exhausted sigh.

“Ya’know,” he finally said as he set the paper bag carefully on the first step. “Bein’ a copper is a menial job… It’s kinda like bein’ the secretary for all the chaos out there in the world…But anyway…” He reached into his jacket and pulled out two cigars then handed one to me. “Congrats on the kid ya’ silly ‘effin white man.”