Sarge stepped in front of me, his face in deadly earnest. "How about it, Turner? You a narcotics user?"
He grabbed my wrist and started rolling up my sleeve to look for needle marks. I twisted away from him.
"Resisting an officer," Sarge said almost sadly.
At that, Carl loped up beside him.
The two of them started to beat me.
They hit clean, in the belly and guts, but not in the groin. They gave me clean white flashes of pain, instead of angry, red-streaked ones. I didn't fight back, not against the two of them. I knew that much. I didn't even try to block their blows. I stood with my arms at my sides, leaning back against the car, and hearing myself grunt at each blow.
They stood away from me and let me fold helplessly to the greasy brick.
"Stay away from that neighborhood and stay out of trouble," Sarge's voice said above me.
I looked up a little bit and saw an ugly, battered hand thumbing across a stack of half a dozen magazines like a giant deck of cards.
"Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me.