Ted had seen this shakedown often enough on the streets, though he had always ignored it. It was an indignity inflicted mostly on young black or brown men—though to be fair he had also seen kids with white or yellow skin treated the same way. Race-based profiling was difficult to maintain in a borough that boasted citizens of almost every ethnic persuasion on the planet. The possible aroma of burning weed was enough of an excuse to demonstrate the power of the beat cop. But Ted wasn’t young or in any other way an obvious choice for rousting.

“I don’t smell anything, Officer,” Ted said.

“Would you turn out your pockets, sir?”

He wasn’t armed or carrying drugs. He didn’t even have any loose change. But the pockets on his grey flannel slacks were tacked in place. They did not turn out.

“I’m afraid they don’t work that way. I’ll empty my jacket pockets, but . . .” He shrugged.

“Place all the items on the bench and then step away,” the cop said.

“What’s this about?” Ted asked, though he quickly complied. “I’m simply waiting for a friend.” His wallet, his phone, a pen, a small tin of Altoid mints. Then his fingers found the envelope with the remaining $800 of Cheryl’s money. That much cash in this neighborhood was going to generate suspicion. He paused for a moment before placing it on the bench.

Lester snorted in his sleep. The cop gave him a quick glance and then ignored him. Ted stepped back and the cop picked up the wallet.

“Edward Molloy,” he read aloud. “What’s your address, Mr. Molloy?”

Ted rattled it off. “That’s really my wallet and ID.” Keeping his voice level and free of any attitude, he continued. “I can tell you my Amex number if you want.”

The cop ignored this. He reached for the tin of mints. “Is there anything in here?”

“Yes,” Ted said. “Mints.”

The cop shook the container before handing it to Ted. “Would you open it, sir?”

Ted snapped it open and risked a look up and down the street. No sign of the Judge or a car that might be his.

“Is your friend running late?” the cop asked with the barest hint of disbelief in the existence of this party.

Ted ignored the innuendo. “Is there anything else, Officer?” Why had this cop chosen Ted? What unimaginable profile could he possibly fit?

The cop glanced at the tin and then down at the items on the bench. “Would you open that envelope?”

Ted froze for a split second.

“Sir? Do we have a problem?”

“No, Officer.” Ted felt as if he were falling down a steep precipice—in slow motion. He picked up the envelope and opened it.

The cop looked inside. “Would you mind stepping over to the car? I want my partner to see this.”