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Authors: Alan Lawrence Sitomer
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door is always open.”
Those were the last words Stanzer spoke to McCutcheon before he had walked away.
A little melodramatic, M.D. thought. Then again, good-byes were always awkward.
“You really think I’m lying about this car, don’t you?” Puwolsky said.
“Ready when you are,” McCutcheon answered.
Puwolsky lunged and M.D. flinched, but the colonel’s meaty hand passed over McCutcheon’s lap and yanked open the glove box. “G’head. Check the registration.”
Puwolsky threw the car’s papers into M.D.’s lap, and sure enough the registration proved the car belonged to a Ms. Madeline Vina on 13579 Sycamore Street.
“I tell the truth, kid. I ain’t perfect by any stretch, but anyone who works for me—excuse me, works with me—knows I tell the truth.” M.D. put the papers back in
the glove box as Puwolsky threw the car in gear and got ready to pull away. McCutcheon turned his head and looked out the window. Larson flipped him the bird.
M.D. didn’t respond.
“Your colonel,” Puwolsky said as they exited the parking lot. “Lemme guess. He doesn’t think you should do this, does he?”
McCutcheon rolled his eyes, the answer too obvious for words.
“Did he tell you why not?” Puwolsky asked.
“’Cause you’re a dirty cop with a history of being investigated by Internal Affairs.”
Puwolsky snapped his head around at the mention of Internal Affairs and opened his mouth to spit out a fiery defense of his actions. However, before any words escaped from his lips, Puwolsky
reconsidered his response and spoke in a subdued tone.
“Done some research, I see.”
“Always.”
“Then you’ve seen that nothing big’s ever stuck?”
“That’s because Detroit’s too fucked up at the top to get anything right.”
“Exactly,” Puwolsky said. “And that’s why sometimes we gotta break the rules. It’s the only way to get shit done. Me and your colonel, we’re not so different
like that, are we?”
McCutcheon ripped open a package of raw almonds. Getting some energy in him before entering the state prison struck him as a good idea.
“I gotta feeling you are,” M.D. replied.
“You’re right, we are. We are very different, son.” Puwolsky sped down the highway driving like most cops do: as fast as he wanted, with little regard for the rules of the road
they expect civilians to follow. “I’ve burned through three marriages; your idol’s never been hitched once. I got four kids; he’s got zip. I coach a basketball team for
inner-city youth down at the rec center; he wouldn’t know how to identify a volunteer if she lifted her blouse and waggled her bazungas at him.”
“What’s your point?” McCutcheon asked.
“My point is that you’ve been played, son.”
M.D. shook his head. “Whatever.”
“Listen to me,” Puwolsky said. “You do not have to do this. I mean that. You are still free to say no. Just give me the word.”
They drove along in silence, each man thinking many thoughts, neither speaking to the other. Puwolsky turned the speed of the windshield wipers from medium to high as the intensity of the
rainstorm grew. Forty-five minutes passed without a word between them until a white sign, its letters written in simple black print, appeared on the side of the road.
APPROACHING JENTLES STATE PRISON
WARNING : DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS
“My offer still stands,” Puwolsky said. “’Cause once you cross through those gates up there, son, it’s an entirely different world.”
“What do you mean, Stanzer played me?” M.D. asked.
Puwolsky exited the highway, turned left, and drove up the long, single lane service road exclusively used by the prison.
“I betcha he said you had to let the girl go, didn’t he? Fucking people who have never opened their hearts to love, they just don’t get it, do they?”
M.D. stared at the wipers zip-zapping across the windshield, throwing spray off the glass.
“Betcha he also said you needed to make your own
Those were the last words Stanzer spoke to McCutcheon before he had walked away.
A little melodramatic, M.D. thought. Then again, good-byes were always awkward.
“You really think I’m lying about this car, don’t you?” Puwolsky said.
“Ready when you are,” McCutcheon answered.
Puwolsky lunged and M.D. flinched, but the colonel’s meaty hand passed over McCutcheon’s lap and yanked open the glove box. “G’head. Check the registration.”
Puwolsky threw the car’s papers into M.D.’s lap, and sure enough the registration proved the car belonged to a Ms. Madeline Vina on 13579 Sycamore Street.
“I tell the truth, kid. I ain’t perfect by any stretch, but anyone who works for me—excuse me, works with me—knows I tell the truth.” M.D. put the papers back in
the glove box as Puwolsky threw the car in gear and got ready to pull away. McCutcheon turned his head and looked out the window. Larson flipped him the bird.
M.D. didn’t respond.
“Your colonel,” Puwolsky said as they exited the parking lot. “Lemme guess. He doesn’t think you should do this, does he?”
McCutcheon rolled his eyes, the answer too obvious for words.
“Did he tell you why not?” Puwolsky asked.
“’Cause you’re a dirty cop with a history of being investigated by Internal Affairs.”
Puwolsky snapped his head around at the mention of Internal Affairs and opened his mouth to spit out a fiery defense of his actions. However, before any words escaped from his lips, Puwolsky
reconsidered his response and spoke in a subdued tone.
“Done some research, I see.”
“Always.”
“Then you’ve seen that nothing big’s ever stuck?”
“That’s because Detroit’s too fucked up at the top to get anything right.”
“Exactly,” Puwolsky said. “And that’s why sometimes we gotta break the rules. It’s the only way to get shit done. Me and your colonel, we’re not so different
like that, are we?”
McCutcheon ripped open a package of raw almonds. Getting some energy in him before entering the state prison struck him as a good idea.
“I gotta feeling you are,” M.D. replied.
“You’re right, we are. We are very different, son.” Puwolsky sped down the highway driving like most cops do: as fast as he wanted, with little regard for the rules of the road
they expect civilians to follow. “I’ve burned through three marriages; your idol’s never been hitched once. I got four kids; he’s got zip. I coach a basketball team for
inner-city youth down at the rec center; he wouldn’t know how to identify a volunteer if she lifted her blouse and waggled her bazungas at him.”
“What’s your point?” McCutcheon asked.
“My point is that you’ve been played, son.”
M.D. shook his head. “Whatever.”
“Listen to me,” Puwolsky said. “You do not have to do this. I mean that. You are still free to say no. Just give me the word.”
They drove along in silence, each man thinking many thoughts, neither speaking to the other. Puwolsky turned the speed of the windshield wipers from medium to high as the intensity of the
rainstorm grew. Forty-five minutes passed without a word between them until a white sign, its letters written in simple black print, appeared on the side of the road.
APPROACHING JENTLES STATE PRISON
WARNING : DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS
“My offer still stands,” Puwolsky said. “’Cause once you cross through those gates up there, son, it’s an entirely different world.”
“What do you mean, Stanzer played me?” M.D. asked.
Puwolsky exited the highway, turned left, and drove up the long, single lane service road exclusively used by the prison.
“I betcha he said you had to let the girl go, didn’t he? Fucking people who have never opened their hearts to love, they just don’t get it, do they?”
M.D. stared at the wipers zip-zapping across the windshield, throwing spray off the glass.
“Betcha he also said you needed to make your own
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