We shook. His hands were carved from hardwood. The power in his grip reminded me of a video wherein he casually grasped a protester (a kid waving a sign outside of Redlick Tower, natch) by the scruff and flung him over the hood of a car. Here was a man born in the wrong century. He would’ve been right at home as a broadsword-swinging Dark Ages knight mowing down hapless peasants in the village square.

“Hello, Isaiah Coleridge,” he said.

“Hi, Lieutenant. Thanks for the invitation. I haven’t had the distinct pleasure of meeting an NYPD Medal of Valor recipient until today.”

“You’re welcome.”

“By that token, I’ve met my share of cops who’d sweat their own mother. We’ll call it a wash.”

He was pleased rather than offended.

“Flattering that you’ve read the stats on my baseball card. I’ve read yours too.”

“What’s the line on me?”

“A natural hard case who twisted many an arm and no doubt fitted a few mooks with concrete shoes. Got fired from the Outfit and lived to fight another day. Some trick. I bet your boss was sad to see you go—he invested in college education, finishing school. You’ve reinvented yourself as a PI. Another neat trick. My hunch is you’re a lucky guy. ‘Lucky is superior to good’ is a rock-solid aphorism.”

“My confidential file isn’t so confidential.”

“This is the era of Big Brother. Anyway, I have pals in DC. That and a few bucks greased the skids.” His wink intimated there’d been more threats than bucks involved. “Certain circles, you’re as infamous as Sammy the Bull. Except you never ratted.”

“Never got caught.”

He snorted.

“Me neither. We buried more bodies in the Barrens than any of you mobster fucks. Guaranteed.”

“No contest, Lieutenant. Pigs run the largest, meanest gang in the world.”

“Ouch. Keep it friendly, hey?” He edged closer to me. Mr. Intimidation. He smelled of aftershave and meanness. In his segue to civilian life, he’d shed the cop pretenses of protecting and serving and retained the brutishness, the villainy.

“This is me in friendly mode,” I said. “My eyes aren’t glowing red yet.”

“A laconic brute with a sense of humor. I bet the rubes took one look at you and spilled their guts. When it comes to alleged hard cases, you don’t know who’ll squeal, not for certain. I mean, I’ve a nose for it, a dependable intuition. Don’t know until you try. People surprise you.”

“Every minute of the day,” I said.

“We did what it took to get confessions out of our perps. Whaled the soles of their feet with billy clubs. Slapped them in cuffs and a ball gag and shot soda foam up their noses. The nervous system thinks it’s drowning. Tightened their cuffs until their hands swelled like balloons. My favorite? Ram your pinky down real deep into a guy’s eardrum till he hollers. Smart money says it would take ten men and a boy to crack a character such as yourself.”