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We go down to the police station and they ask us about the robbery, what happened, and how I managed to get my hands on the gun.
"He just dropped it?"
"That's what I told you, didn't I?"
"Look, son," the cop says. He looks up from his papers. "There's no need to get shirty with me." He's got a beer gut and a graying mustache. Why do so many cops feel the need to own a mustache?
"Shirty?" I ask.
"Yes, shirty."
Shirty.
I
quite like that word.
"Sorry," I tell him. "He just dropped it on his way out, and I picked it up as I went to chase him. That's all. He was a complete shocker, all right?"
"Right."
We're in there for quite a while. The only time the beer-gutted cop becomes unsettled is when Marv keeps asking for compensation on his car.
"The blue Falcon?" the cop asks.
"That's the one."
"To be blunt, son--that car's an absolute outrage. It's disgraceful."
"I told you," I said.
"It doesn't even have a hand brake, for Christ's sake."
"So?"
"So you're lucky we're not fining you for it--it's unroadworthy."
"Thanks a lot."
The cop smiles. "My pleasure."
"And let me give you some advice."
We're almost out the door when we realize the cop still isn't finished. He calls us back, or at least he calls Marv.
"Yeah?" Marv replies.
"Why don't you get a new car, son?"
Marv looks seriously at the man. "I have my reasons."
"What--no money?"
"Oh, I've got money all right. I do work, you know." He even manages to sound sanctimonious. "I just have other priorities." He smiles now, as only someone who's proud of a car like that could possibly manage. "That--and I love my car."
"Fair enough," the cop concludes. "Goodbye."
"What priorities have you, of all people, got?" I ask Marv on the other side of the door.
