'Doesn't do anything for me.'

'Me either.'

'Naw.'

'Okay, okay,' Cloud rushed forward. 'I had a backup just in case. How about Tough In Court and Tough On Crime? TIC TOC.'

'I don't like it.'

'Ditto.'

'Wait a minute,' Cloud went on with conviction.

'Everybody's always complaining how slow we are getting to scenes, to their house after their alarm's gone off, right? And how many times do we hear the public bitch about how long it takes to solve a case? I think TIC TOC sends a positive message about a new attitude, about us trying harder.'

'It also makes it sound like we're watching the clock. Like we can't wait for shift change.'

'Or something bad's about to happen.'

'Besides, it would be TOC TIC because being tough on crime is gonna come before you get to court.'

'It doesn't work, Cloud.'

'Forget it.'

Cloud was crushed. 'Never mind,' he said.

Hammer had been silent through all this because she wanted to give her troops a chance to be heard. But she could take no more.

'It's something for all of us to think about,' she said abruptly. 'I'm always open for something new. Thank you, Captain Cloud.'

'Actually, I had a thought on the subject,' Andy Brazil said.

No one spoke. Cops started shuffling through notes and shifting in chairs. They got up for more coffee. Cloud opened a little bag of Fisherman's Friend throat lozenges, paper tearing loudly. Fling rebooted the computer and it beeped and honked as it tried to come back.

Hammer felt sorry for Brazil. She was indignant that he was discriminated against for reasons beyond his control. It wasn't his fault that women and gay men of all ages could not take their eyes off him. He couldn't help that he was only twenty-five and talented and sensitive. Nor was there a thing he had done or intimated that gave credence to the vicious rumor that she had brought him with her to Richmond for sexual pleasure and then he had run off with his landlady.

'Go ahead, Officer Brazil.' Hammer tended to be brusque with him. 'But we need to move along.'

'I really think we'd be better off without a motto,' Brazil said.

Silence.

'CPR makes it sound like we need to be resuscitated,' he added.

No one would look at him. Papers shuffled. Duty belts creaked.

'That we're in extremis,' he said.

Silence.

Then Cloud spoke up, 'I've always thought that. It's about time somebody said it before it got painted on all the cars.'

'It's just one more thing for people to make fun of,' Brazil pointed out. 'Especially since the core of COMSTAT is accountability. And what happens if somewhere down the road someone decides to add accountability to our motto?'

More silence as everyone puzzled. Some wrote words and letters on paper, rearranging acronyms, like Jumble. Hammer knew instantly where Brazil was going with this.

'CARP,' Fling read from his notepad.

'PARC?' Captain Cloud volunteered.

'You get CRAP,' Brazil told them.

'Interesting,' Hammer said loudly, restoring order. 'All of you have made me see this in a different light. Maybe we shouldn't have a motto. Those in favor, raise your hand.'

All did except Cloud. He sipped his coffee, eyes cast down at his half-eaten glazed doughnut, a sour expression on his face.

'So I guess I can delete the motto from the computer,' Fling said, tapping keys again.

'I don't want you deleting anything,' Hammer told him.

Puff Daddy amp; the Family were rapping on the CD player and air was blowing through a stuck back window of Smoke's Escort. He had changed clothes in the car and Divinity was gone, the scent of her cloying perfume lingering as Smoke and fourteen-year-old Weed Gardener headed west to Mills E. Godwin High School.

Smoke had money in his pocket. Tucked under the seat was the Glock nine-millimeter pistol he had traded twenty rocks of crack cocaine for on the street. He was high as he replayed the robbery again and again, a favorite scene in the movie that was his life. He was getting better. He was getting bolder.

He thought how cool it would be to walk into the band room and take out twelve, thirteen, maybe fifteen students and their fucking band director, Mr. Curry, who thought he knew so much and wouldn't let Smoke play in the marching band because Smoke was tone deaf and couldn't keep rhythm on the snare drum. But Weed got to play the cymbals when he didn't know them from garbage can lids, and why? Because Weed was good in art and never got into trouble. Well, all that was about to change.

'… Who you know do it better…' Smoke rapped along, out of sync and off key, his blood heating up. 'Don't make an ass out of yourself… I'm gonna make you love me baby…"

Weed joined in on percussion, playing his hands on his thighs and the dashboard and jumping in his seat as if he had a synthesizer for a central nervous system and a drumbeat for a pulse. Smoke hated it. He hated that Weed saw rainbow colors and pictures to draw everywhere he went. He was tired of Weed's art being put on display in the library. At least Weed was stupid. He was so stupid he had no clue that the only reason Smoke had befriended him and started giving him rides to school was that Smoke intended to use Weed up.

'Ri-dicu-u-lous… you're in the danger zone you shouldn't be alone…' Smoke's monotone got louder.

Smoke turned up the volume on the CD player and pumped up the bass as far as it would go. He kept working the switch for the left back window and swearing when the glass remained stuck open halfway. Air slapped and the music throbbed as Weed played on.

'Hey, retard, cut it out,' Smoke said, grabbing one of Weed's hands to make him stop his solo.

Weed went still. Smoke imagined he could smell Weed's fear.

'Listen to me, retard,' Smoke went on. 'Maybe I'm coming around, to giving you what you been dreaming about, the biggest offer in your puny nothing life.'

'Oh.' Weed dreaded what Smoke was about to say.

'You want to be cool, right? You want to be just like me, right?'

'I guess so.'

'You guess so?' Smoke blurted.

He flicked Weed's nose so hard it started bleeding. Tears jumped into Weed's eyes.

'Now, what was that you said, retard?' Smoke's voice was flat with hate.

Blood trickled down Weed's face and dripped onto his Route 66 sand-blasted, relaxed-leg jeans.

'You get blood in my car, and I'm gonna throw your ass out. How'd you like to be a skid mark on the road?' Smoke told him.

'I wouldn't,' Weed said quietly.

'I know how much you want to be a Pike and been waiting for my answer,' Smoke said. 'And after a lot of consideration, I've decided to let you have a shot at it, even though you don't measure up to the standards.'

Weed didn't want to be a Pike. He didn't want to "be part of Smoke's gang. They beat people up, stole things, broke into cars, cut holes in restaurant roofs and carried off cases of liquor. They did all kinds of things that Weed didn't even want to know about.

'So, what do you say?' Smoke had his hand up, fingers poised to flick Weed again.

'Yeah, man.'

'First you say thank you, retard. You say, I'm so honored I'm about to shit in my pants.'

'It would be fucking cool, man.' Weed dressed his fear in cocky words that started strutting off his tongue. 'Think of the shit we could do, man. And I get to wear the colors?'

'Chicago Bulls, like you're fucking Michael Jordan. Maybe it will make you taller. Maybe it will pump up that flat inner tube between your legs and you can start juicing girls.'

'Who says I don't juice 'em now?' Weed talked big.

'You ain't juiced anything in your puny little mother-fucking life. Not even fruit.'

'You don't know that.'