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windows of houses and passing vehicles. There were complaints of terrorized dogs and cats. There were complaints from boaters lodged against other, aggressive and drunken boaters. There were complaints of bands of drunken and/or drug-addledyouths, Caucasian, African-American, Hispanic, congregating in the city’s parks. There were drug arrests, arrests for public drunkenness and drunken driving, public prostitution, solicitation, lewd and lascivious behavior. There were scattered fires, some of them suspicious. There were barbecue accidents and swimming pool accidents. There were arrests beneath the bleachers at the Rocky Point baseball field, in the men’s lavatories and in the parking lots. A considerable quantity of controlled substances was confiscated by police officers, predominantly marijuana, cocaine, and a powerful synthetic drug newly popular in the Niagara region, meth amphetamine.
    Meth was the worst. Fried and sizzled the brain.
    Zwaaf said, disgusted, “Any asshole who wants drugs, they should lock ’em up and give it to them. Let ’em kill themselves and good riddance.”
    Zwaaf and his younger partner Dromoor had made several of these arrests. Petty drug dealers, at the park. Other arrests that night had been for drunk driving, youths involved in muggings, assaults. A few weapons had been confiscated. Illegal fireworks. Fourth of July was a perverse holiday, Zwaaf believed. He’d come to hate it. He was a veteran of the NFPD patrol scene. His mood oscillated between scorn and dismay. He looked forward to retirement yet there were scores to settle. He behaved toward Dromoor in the way of an elder brother of an inscrutable youth whose differences from himself he wished to ignore. He complained to Dromoor that Dromoor was too fucking quiet even as he, Zwaaf, talked nonstop. Of the Fourth of July he complainedit was a holiday with no point except breaking the law with fires, explosions, noises indistinguishable from gunshots. Dangerous and out-of-control like New Year’s Eve at midnight except worse than fucking New Year’s Eve because July was summer and everybody was out on the street.
    Dromoor only half-listened to Artie Zwaaf. Dromoor was not thinking that this Fourth of July was out-of-control, yet. There was something to come, maybe. To Dromoor always there was something-to-come. He was restless, edgy. He drove the patrol car which gave him something to do every minute, but still. He did not cherish quiet times. He had domestic problems of which he would not speak to Artie Zwaaf who was not to be trusted with confidences even if Dromoor was a man to confide in another which certainly he was not. Dromoor did not think his problems were profound or even unusual. He supposed that they were not even insoluble. They were vexing the way a too-tight collar is vexing around a dog’s neck, that the dog can feel but can’t see. Dromoor was becoming impatient patrolling the potholed Niagara Falls streets. He had hopes for moving up in the NFPD. He was the father of an eighteen-month infant and would be the father of a second infant in less than seven months. As a cop he had not been in personal danger since the shooting involving J. J. on that August night nearly two years before, he had scarcely had cause to draw his gun. He had not had cause to fire. But this Fourth of July night, the arrests he and Zwaaf had made had been without incident. Even the drug-addled had not resisted. No one had resisted arrest, even initially. No one had struggled when he wascuffed. No one had suddenly shoved at the officers, tried to run away. No one had wished to turn his back on the officers and run away. At the park, approaching a noisy crowd of black and Hispanic youths, Dromoor had wielded his nightstick. But he had not needed to use it.
    This call from Rocky Point Park. A 911 from a motorist who’d been stopped on a roadway by a child, a young girl of approximately eleven/twelve,