“Life's a bitch.”

     “Is it a joke to you?” he said.

     “That's right. It's a damn joke. Sure. Better than sitting around, wishing you could get back something that you'll never have again. I was doing all right, I got shot—it happens. I quit the job. It happens. I got myself another job. It happens. If you're waiting for me to feel sorry for myself, I've got news for you, you better find another dog to hunt with. Because I won't do it. I refuse.”

     I squared my shoulders and sat back in the chair.

     “Anyway,” I said, “I don't feel like I've stopped being a cop. Not in the important way.”

     “What is that?” he said.

     “Who you are. Your outlook on life. Cops are highly moral people. Go ahead and smile, I don't mind, that's the usual reaction. But it's true. Cops have a highly developed sense of right and wrong. Almost like a priest. For priests and cops it's written down. The priest has Canon Law, the cop has criminal code. It's in the books. Cops do not go for any of this situational ethics bullshit. For a cop it's right or wrong.”

     “You feel this way about yourself?”

     “Yes I do,” I said. “I'm not saying all cops. I'm not saying you put on a badge, you immediately turn into something else. But real cops. Yes.”

     “You still feel you're a real cop?”

     “Why not? This job, it's the same story. Some asshole does something wrong, he tries to hide it. You work and work to get at it because you know it's there somewhere, the truth. If he was smart, or lucky, you dig like hell and you don't get anywhere, and that's when it gets bad. You feel like he's laughing at you, the son of a bitch. It eats at you.”

     “You take this personally.” He seemed amused.

     I said, “Shit, is there any other way?”

* * *