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Manny finally. They slowed to a stop sign a block from her house.
    “I want to show you something, Detective, but I don’t know if you want to see it.”
    “Try me.”
    “I would, but you don’t know what it is. Maybe I shouldn’t.” “You trying to make me beg?”
    Manny sat back in the seat and rubbed his neck. His car, an unmarked Impala the color of mayonnaise, had been issued previously to a Pittsburgh P.D. lieutenant in Vice named Hanes. (Upper Marilyn got most of its equipment, and some its employees, used.) Hanes’s claim to fame was a ten-year lawsuit that kept him on the force despite tipping the scales at 390. What the mammoth vice dick’s behind had done to the seat of the Impala was fairly predictable. For Manny, it was like riding in a bomb crater, but the seatback was worse. His spine sort of curved in, where the stuffing had been smashed down to the springs. No amount of adjusting could make it bearable. There wasn’t a Comfy Cushion, Sacro-Ease, or inflatable pillow invented that countered the discomfort of sitting in the fat detective’s divot.
    It was the Hanes seat-crater, as much as anything, that made him say yes—or at least “Why the fuck not?”—when Tina made her proposi tion. He’d been pleading with the department for a new car for two years.
    “Okay, pull over,” she said, when the house was in sight. She was already fishing in her purse.
    Part of Manny worried someone might see him sitting with a pos sible perp. But it wasn’t like she had her head between his legs—he wasn’t the sex-for-favors type. They weren’t even touching. Besides which, detectives had a lot of leeway when it came to “freshies,” sus pects close enough to the crime to still be freaked out about it. (As a rule this meant being caught, if not red-handed, then right after a crime had been discovered, in situations too ludicrous to explain by
    coincidence: the teen with panties in his pocket, outside the dorm where three cheerleaders had been raped; the lug with the diamond choker in his ashtray, geezing speed in a clunker three blocks from the broken-in jeweler’s.) In freshy-state, souls were more likely to spill than they were when they’d had time to mull.
    Manny himself was famous for bonding with suspects. He’d once dined at Der Wienerschnitzel with a man found on the scene at a mosque-defacing. Midway through his bratwurst, the fellow confessed that he’d hated Moslems ever since an unscrupulous Armenian sold his ex–father-in-law a bad toupee. Just recounting it got him furious. “The thing slipped off at our wedding dinner, right into the lobster bisque. After that, the whole thing was a joke. Whenever anybody mentions my wedding, they never mention how pretty the bride looked, or the beautiful service.... Never! It’s always, ‘Ha-ha, remem ber when Mr. Depew’s rug slipped in the bisque!’ Ha-fucking-ha! I bet we wouldn’t even be divorced if that camel-kisser hadn’t sold us the crappy rug!”
    When Manny pointed out that Armenians weren’t actually Arab, that they pretty much hailed from Europe—though, admittedly, some oddball corner of it—Depew’s ex–son-in-law dropped his head onto his bratwurst and began to weep. “Now there’ll be a jihad... .”
    Happily, Manny’d got the DA to recommend a psychiatric work-up and community service.
    “You sure you’re ready?” asked Tina, when he finally finessed the Chevy within shouting distance of the curb. “I always heard cops can’t parallel park. I mean, why should they learn? It’s not like anybody’s gonna give them a ticket, right?”
    “That’s not true,” Manny said. “Sometimes I give them to myself, just to keep me honest.”
    “Is that right?” Tina had the envelope in her hand, and a look in her eye that said ‘Fuck with me now and I’ll kill you, too.’ In that moment, Manny had to admit, he was so in love it hurt.
    “What I’m gonna show you,” she began, then stopped and fired up another