Then the younger cop angled over toward the weeds, to get a gander at the drunk woman disturbing the peace. “Oh my God-Mike… Mike!”

“What?”

“This girl-poor girl, Jesus Mary, somebody’s cut her in half!”

The older cop, holstering his revolver, had a look at the body in the weeds, joining his partner, who was weaving like he was the drunk.

“Get on the radio, Jerry,” Mike told the boy, steadying him with a hand to a shoulder. “Get put straight through to the watch commander. Have ’em get a team over here pronto.”

Jerry nodded, but paused, thinking about whether or not to puke, didn’t, and-on unsteady legs-somehow got over to the patrol car, reaching in for the dash mike, calling in a dead body “at the 390 location-probable homicide.”

That seemed a fair assessment.

“Monitoring police calls, Mr. Fowley?” the older cop asked.

Fowley shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, hell, it’s legal, Officer.”

“Compromising a crime scene isn’t.”

Fowley was reaching in his pants pocket; but this time no revolver jumped into the hand of the man in blue. “Listen, Officer… I’d like to phone this in to my city editor.”

“You just stay put.” But somehow the cop didn’t sound like he meant it; a ritual was in progress.

Fowley handed the guy a folded-up tenspot. “Maybe you got change for this buck.”

The patrolman took the tenspot, put it in his pocket, and came back with a nickel, which he flipped to Fowley.

“Go make your call,” the cop said.

This would have never happened in Chicago-a buck would have covered it. Maybe two.

“Your photographer stays,” the cop said.

“Fine,” Fowley said, “swell, not a problem.” Then he turned to me, took the Speed Graphic out of my hands, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks,” I said, just thrilled to be left here on deposit.