"You get anything to eat?" she said.

"Not really," he answered, starting the car and pulling out onto Seventeenth Street. "Got kinda busy with some asshole thought he was king of the walk down on East Commercial."

She watched the side of his face while he drove, saw the crow's feet start to darken at the corners of his eyes, knew he was in a good mood, building a story in his head. His hands were on the wheel and she noticed the pink abrasions on his right knuckles, a light trace of blood seeping, the moisture catching the light.

"You hurt yourself?" she asked, and he turned and tracked her eyes then flexed the hand.

"Not bad. This punk is still on the sidewalk near the warehouse when we answered the silent alarm. We roll up and he's stupid enough to just stand there thinking he'd act like he was walking the dog or something. I had to drag his ass over the back of the car and give him a little attitude adjustment."

He kept flexing the hand.

"Tell me," she said, turning toward him, her back into the crease of the door and the seat. She liked to listen to his stories, even if she was pretty sure he was embellishing most of them. The perps were always bigger or outnumbered him. He always helped the victims. It was like having someone read TV to you. She listened while he took the city streets west. She never interrupted the story. He didn't like being questioned until he was through. When he went quiet she waited. He stared straight ahead, trying to outlast her.

"What?" he finally yelped, and it made her jump.

"OK. So what did you find on this guy? Like, what was he holding?"

"What did he steal? You mean how much money?" he said, giving himself time to think. "How much do you think?"

"I haven't the slightest."

"Damn right you don't." He looked over at her and let the silence return for a few moments then said: "Five thousand."