As soon as the barkeep saw Detective Sergeant Cherry force his way through the crush of humanity, a shot glass and bottle of Old Fitzgerald appeared on the bar. Buster knocked down the first two shots without much of a gap between them. But he took his time over the third. He was used to the jostle and chaos of places like the Black Dog. It felt more like home than his own miserable apartment. He nursed the drink and tried to calm down. Two or three times, he’d been tempted to pop that Francois bitch right on the hooter. She was a goddamn ball breaker, and she looked at him like he was something nasty she’d found on her shoe.

Old Doc Brumm and ADA Crew, they weren’t much help. Not that he could blame them. There was a ton of pressure coming down from above on this case. The chief himself had called Buster and told him to break as many arms as it took to wrap the fucking thing up as quickly as possible. He was taking heat from the military, no doubt about it. And that heat was being applied directly to Buster, like a blowtorch to the belly.

Well, fuck them.

If they couldn’t see how dangerous these fuckers were, they were gonna get swept under. Buster recognized power when he saw it. And those half-breeds and dykes out on that ship thought they had it. You could see they were used to getting their own way at home, and he’d pay a thousand to one that they were already trying it on here. Otherwise, why would the chief be on his ass about a couple of dead colored fuckers? That sort of shit was what his old Ma used to call “an everyday happystance.” You didn’t waste time breaking arms over it.

Buster hunched his giant shoulders against the seething press of the crowd. Hundreds of men were crammed into the Dog. They were mostly drunk and stupid. They stank. They roared. They shoved and pushed and elbowed each other. But they were mostly good guys when you got down to it. They were going off to die, a lot of them. And for what? A country that was gonna turn itself into a fucking ghetto.

Buster threw down the last of his drink and was just about to pour another when the roaring bedlam of the crowd dipped unexpectedly. He turned away from the bar as a general push toward the doors began. There must be a fight outside. He would have ignored it. After all, it was none of his goddamn business, and he’d seen enough ignorant fucking drunks beating on each other over the years that the prospect held no interest for him, now.