“Whatever. But who’s gonna tell him not to have a gun?” He slapped his abdomen, where his service revolver was tucked under his belt. “I gotta carry this,” he said. “It’s regulations. But I’ll tell you, I wouldn’t walk around out there without it. I’d feel naked.”

“I used to think that. You get used to it.”

“You don’t carry anything?”

“Nothing.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

I went to the bar and got fresh drinks, more vodka for him, more ginger ale for me. When I brought them back to the table Durkin drank the whole thing in one long swallow and sighed like a tire going flat. He cupped his hands and lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, blew out the smoke as if in a hurry to be rid of it.

“This fucking city,” he said.

It was hopeless, he said, and he went on to tell me just how hopeless it was. He rang changes on the whole criminal justice system, from the cops to the courts to the jails, explaining how none of it worked and all of it was getting worse every day. You couldn’t arrest a guy and then you couldn’t convict him and finally you couldn’t keep the son of a bitch in jail.

“The prisons are overcrowded,” he said, “so the judges don’t want to hand out long sentences and the parole boards release people early. And the D.A.s let the guys cop to a reduced charge, they plea bargain good cases down to nothing, because the court calendars are so jammed up and the courts are so careful to protect the rights of the accused that you just about need a photo of the guy committing the crime in order to get a conviction, and then you might get a reversal because you were violating his civil rights by taking his photograph without prior permission. And in the meantime there’s no cops. The department’s got ten thousand men below what it had twelve years ago. Ten thousand fewer cops on the street!”

“I know.”

“Twice as many crooks and a third less cops and you wonder why it’s not safe to walk down the street. You know what it is? The city’s broke. There’s no money for cops, no money to keep the subways running, no money for anything. The whole country’s leaking money, it’s all winding up in Saudi fucking Arabia. All those assholes are trading in their camels for Cadillacs while this country goes down the fucking tubes.” He stood up. “My turn to buy.”

“No, I’ll get them. I’m on expenses.”

“Right, you got a client.” He sat down. I came back with another round and he said, “What are you drinking there?”

“Just ginger ale.”

“Yeah, I thought that’s what it looked like. Whyntcha have a real drink?”