“Oh [i]hell[/i] no,” Grace mutters under her breath when the girl gets backhanded the first time. She’s shifting gears when the pimp gets a second hit in and the girl goes down hard. “Mother[i]fucker[/i],” Grace hisses and peels out across the wet pavement, flipping on the lights and siren before she grabs hold of her shoulder radio. “Dispatch, this is 11662,” she says, throwing the cruiser into park and shoving the driver’s door open. “I’ve got a 10-32 on Southern and 163rd. Gonna need a 10-13, over.”

[i]“10-4, 11662. 10390 en route, over.”[/i]

Hookers and druggies are already scattering in all directions as Grace steps out into the rain and rounds the hood of the squad car, but she’s only got eyes for the girl on the ground and the man standing over her. “Hey, hey, hey!” she shouts. “What the hell you playing at? Get your hands off that girl.”

The pimp backs up a few steps and raises his hands. “Just havin’ a private conversation with my girlfriend, officer.”

“Uh-huh. [i]That[/i] what laid her out on the ground?” Grace snaps. 

"She tripped. She's real clumsy sometimes."

"Guess that's how she got those bruises too, huh?"

He shrugs and Grace squints at him, sizing him up. He's a fairly big man, thuggish, likely in his mid-thirties. She's taken down bigger, but it never hurts to let them know you're packing. Casually, she pushes her windbreaker back and rests a hand on the pistol grip of her sidearm, makes sure he sees her do it.

“Got a lot of girlfriends on this street waiting for cars to pull up," she says finally. "You know what the penalties are for pimping in New York? Seven years and double the money you’ve made off these girls."

“Those hoes got nothin’ to do with me,” he says. “I told you, man. I was just talkin’ with my girlfriend. Ain't that right, baby?”

The girl looks up at him from where she's sitting, cross-legged on the wet pavement and cradling her face, then she looks at Grace. She stays silent.

“Is that what you call this? Talking?” Grace says, gesturing at the girl’s wide, hurt eyes and bruised face. On her shoulder, Grace's police radio crackles to life.

[i]”11662, this is 10390. Coming up on you, over.”[/i]

"10-4, 10390. Ready when you are," she replies and looks over at the pimp. "All right, I've had enough of you. Get your hands behind your head," she tells him as a second squad car pulls up to the curb.

"Bitch, you got nothin' on me," he says warily, but he does as he's told.

"How about assault and battery?" Grace asks. “I got more than enough evidence right here to put your ass in jail. Not to mention all those outstanding warrants that are going to come up when we run a background check.” She nods at the burly Italian cop stepping up onto the curb. “Hey, Jim.”

“What’s up, Jones,” he replies. “We booking someone tonight?”

Grace nods in the pimp’s direction. “That one.”

“I got rights, man!” the pimp says, indignant.

“Shut up and get against the car,” snaps Jim, grabbing him by the shoulder and steering him towards the cruiser. Grace leaves the frisking and cuffing to him and crouches down beside the girl.

“You all right?” she asks.