Fashion. Style. What the hell are you gonna wear? My first day assigned to Manning, I clomped in in heels I had selected deliberately as the blockiest, clunkiest I could possibly be seen in public in.

MANNING

What is this? Vogue magazine?

Manning takes one peek and orders me to redefine my concept of appropriate footwear.

MANNING

You’re a cop, Dewey. You want heels that can stomp a Puerto Rican to death.

I’m shocked.

ME

(pissed off)

How ’bout a Filipino?

MANNING

Flips? A waste of shoe leather.

This is day one on the job for me, this action going down by the Nespresso machine with detectives and tech personnel sniggering from all corners. I can see that Manning is playing intentionally on the stereotype of the chauvinist Irish cop. Still it hurts.

He sends me after work to a haberdashery called Rubidoux’s on 110th and Amsterdam. The place is row after row of shapeless female business suits—navy, black, gray, pinstripe. Even the sizes are faux-male: S, M, L, and XL. The salesman (there are no women) asks simply, “How many?”

What exactly are the fashion guidelines for gal detectives on duty?

No earrings (they might snag on something, or get yanked by a perp). No jewelry. No nail polish (except clear). No nail art.

No necklines lower than your throat. No push-up bras. No cleavage.

No rings other than a wedding band.

No skirts. Slacks only.

Weapon worn in holster on hip or at small of back, never carried in bag.

Hair short or up, or pulled back into a bun. (French twist okay if it’s “high and tight.”)

No ponytails.

No smoking.

No drinking.

No gum chewing.

No hands in pockets.

In public, you stand—always.

Except when interviewing, sit only in a vehicle or at your desk.

MANNING

I know you think this is bullshit, Dewey. But a detective is like a priest in the eyes of the community. You have to simultaneously command respect and be accessible to confidences. Particularly you as a woman, because other females will look to you to understand their point of view. They’ll open up to you, when they never would to a man.

Here is what an idiot I am: I invite Manning, a week later, down to my loft as a getting-to-know-you courtesy.

He accepts, God knows why.

The first place Manning cruises is my closet, which is (my fault) half exposed beside the open space that holds my bed.

MANNING

The Lo! This is yours?

“The Lo” is short for Polo. Ralph Lauren Polo. These jackets, sweaters, and gooses (goose-down jackets) were the supreme hip-hop fashion statement of the ’90s and well into the new century—all boosted from Bloomies and other upscale outlets by street crews from Brooklyn who called themselves with pride “Lo Lifes.”

ME

They belonged to my father.

Manning scans the hanging items, fixing at last on a shelf that holds a monogrammed cigarette case: MGV.

MANNING