Dumbshit was sitting on his own desk, his back to Stepovich, his feet on his chair, for all the world like a high school punk bullshitting his way through study hall. The kid had about twenty extra pounds of gear packed into all the shiny leather pouches on his Sam Browne belt. Including the nonregulation and probably illegal sap Stepovich had to take away from him earlier,when he'd wanted to use it on the gypsy. Dumbshit Durand hadn't been content with throwing him up against the fence, he'd wanted to sap him, too. Asshole.

Stepovich spoke to Durand's butt. "What's the name of the street that goes past the cemetery?"

Durand interrupted his monologue to say, "Quince."And resumed it again, saying to Colette, who was hanging on his every word, "so I just catch a glimpse of him going into the St. Thomas, and I say to Step,here, 'There's the bastard now, and I hit the brakes and I'm out of the car and after him before Step's even got his seatbelt unbuckled, and…"

Stepovich let Durand's words dwindle in his mind. Step. Where'd that dumbshit rookie get off anyway,shortening his name? Mike, that's what he could call him if he wanted to be informal. Mike. That's what Ed had always called him before he retired eight months ago. But Dumbshit had to take his last name and cut the end off it. Yesterday one of the office temps had called him Step. Pissed him off. The kid had been his partner for three months now, and Stepovich still couldn't get used to him. If anything, he just grated on his nerves more each day.

He glued his attention to the form, used the release lever to recenter it in the machine, and tapped in"South on Quince." He paused, his fingers on the keys, thinking how to recount the arrest. He'd already left out losing the gypsy inside the bar, simply because he couldn't think of any way to explain it,Nor any way to explain how he had picked up the man's trail again, "Instinct," he'd growled at Durand when he'd had the brass to ask him.