[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Du-Par’s 11:21 AM[/b] “Sounds like you’re between a rock and a hard place, kid.” Philip Marlowe looked across the table at John. He had the hangdog, grizzled face of Humphrey Bogart and was dressed in the hat with a neat, double-breasted suit Bogie famously wore in [i]The Big Sleep[/i]. Like Bogart, he appeared to be both amused and detached by the sight of the shabby looking Englishman in front of him. “Between a rock and a hard place is where I usually thrive,” said John. He fidgeted with his hands while Marlowe ate plain white toast. That's all he ever ate. John never questioned it because... well, things like Marlowe lived by their own rules. “Fuck," he said before running his hands through his hair. "I wish I could smoke in here.” “That’s LA for you,” Marlowe said wistfully. “Can’t smoke indoors anymore. But you take one step outside and you’re sucking down smog like a fish sucks down water.” Their conversation stopped as Charlie Rembrandt approached the table. He looked curiously at Marlowe as he slid into the booth beside John. “I don’t need another ghost right now,” Rembrandt said wearily. “Especially another ghost of Hollywood. I’m fed up with them right now.” “I’m not a ghost,” said Marlowe. “At least not the way you think I am.” “Marlowe here is a Tulpa,” said John. “He's not Bogart, just a physical manifestation of a fictional character. Belief is power, right? Well, enough people are stupid enough to think that Philip Marlowe actually existed--” “And that belief brought me to life,” Marlowe said with a wink. “And I’m not some special case either. Happens everywhere, pal. I hear London is crawling with Sherlock Holmes of all different stripes. New and old.” “Yeah,” John said softly. “It is.” “So one day I’m going to see Mickey Mouse hanging around a crime scene?” asked Rembrandt. “You got a screw loose?” asked Marlowe with a humorless laugh. “Mickey Mouse is a carton, that’d be ridiculous.” “A living fictional character tells me something’s ridiculous,” Rembrandt muttered. “Where the hell did I fuck up?” “You can debate your life choices at another time,” said John. “Were you able to find out the information I asked for?” He looked at Marlowe. “Both of you.” “I got a friend who’s a deputy with the LASD,” said Rembrandt. “Scuttlebutt about the Lynwood station is there’s a couple of bad apples who work patrol. At least six or seven white guys with more than a few excessive force complaints against them. They call themselves Vikings, subrosa white supremacist. My buddy wouldn’t give me any names. The only thing cops hate more than bad apples is a rat.” John looked at Marlowe and raised an eyebrow. “Past few days I’ve been staked out on a drug corner in Lynwood,” he said as he pulled out a selection of glossy photos from his coat and laid them on the table. They showed Latino teenagers being arrested by three men dressed in the khaki shirts and olive pants of the LA Sheriff’s Department. All three men were heavily muscled with wraparound sunglasses resting on the top of their shaved bald heads. Another shot showed one of the men stepping on a young boy’s hand with the heel of his boot. Yet another was a different deputy striking a teenager on the knee with a nightstick. “Jesus,” said Rembrandt. “So this Hidalgo guy wasn’t full of shit.” “Doesn’t look like it,” said John. He looked up at Marlowe. “How the hell did you get away with hanging around drug dealers taking pictures, dressed the way you are?” “Maybe this old lug is better at hiding than you think,” Marlowe said with a wink. “Well, thank you both for your help, gentlemen,” John said with a nod towards Marlowe and Rembrandt. “John,” Rembrandt said with a touch of caution in his voice. “I would warn you against doing whatever is you’re about to do. These photos are enough to get these pieces of shit run out of the department. Just forward them on to the right people and follow the system.” “You said so yourself, squire. Only thing cops hate more than a bent copper, is a rat. They protect their own. All I can do is promise you one thing: I won’t kill them.” --- [B]Lynwood, CA 6:22 PM[/B] Sergeant Michaels smoked a cigarette on the rooftop of the station and watched the traffic on Alameda down below. There was no designated spot for smokers at the station any more. They couldn’t smoke on the roof, couldn’t smoke out by the street. The department was worried about their image. Michaels shook his head at the thought as he blew smoke from his nostrils. Their fucking image was all they cared about anymore. Not about the job, the decent people out there, and they sure as shit did not care about backing up the men who gave their lives to protect this city. He turned when he heard the stairwell door opening. Lieutenant Milford walked out across the roof with that pleasant smile that was always on his face. The rest of the Vikings looked the part of white supremacists, but not the lieutenant. Milford always looked a bit like Mr. Rogers to Michaels, with his silver hair perfectly coiffed and all-American clean-cut image. The look didn’t match what was in his heart. He’d said shit that had made even Michaels balk. “Can I bum a cigarette?” Milford asked with a sheepish chuckle. “The wife would kill me if she found out so I gotta sneak them where I can get them.” Michaels passed him the pack and lighter. Milford lit up and took a long drag off of it before removing it from his mouth. He studied the burning end of the cigarette. His chipper demeanor slowly melted away, the smile faltering before it turned inward and became a grimace. It only took a few seconds, but in that time Milford’s face had morphed into a scowl. “How well do you know Andy Seward?” He asked softly. Michaels hated that voice. It would have been better if he'd shouted or even had some kind of emotion in his voice when he spoke. Michaels noticed his hand was shaking as he put the cigarette to his lips. “He’s been part of my PAR for four years now. He’s a... good man. Good man.” Milford jerked his head up and stared straight into Michaels' eyes with intensity. “Did you know his sister is a fucking race traitor?” Milford seemed to snarl that last part. It always took Michaels by surprise just how deep the lieutenant’s hatred ran. Michaels was not without his own hatred and prejudices, and they ran deep, but there was a logic there. His hate was tied to his fears about the future and the direction of this country. The Vikings were fighting for the future of his children, Michaels thought, and the future of his children's children. It was slowly becoming more and more of a crime to be white in America. They had to fight back to stop it. And that hate was the weapon Michaels used. But Milford? To Milford, the hate seemed to be the end instead of the means to an end. Michaels got a power trip out of pushing these fucking gangbangers around and showing them who was the boss, but not like Milford. Milford watched from afar and hated quietly, getting an almost sexual pleasure out of the violence and display of white supremacy. “I didn’t know Seward had a sister,” Michaels finally said. "I... thought I knew his whole family." “Yeah, I bet you didn’t know about her,” Milford spat. “She’s got a fucking litter of half-nigger babies. What do you think of that?” “Sounds like Andy hasn’t been completely forthcoming with us,” Michaels mumbled. “Sounds like he’s been hiding it.” “Too fucking right. And if he’s hiding that, what else is he hiding from us?” Michaels sighed and took another drag off the cigarette. There were rumors among the Vikings that internal affairs had started investigating them. The more paranoid among them had started to question if they didn’t have a rat in their midst. “How do I make this right?” Michaels asked. Milford looked at Michaels with eyes so cold that it made him shiver. “Young Andy needs to have his mettle tested. He’s on duty tonight, yes?” “Eight to eight tonight,” said Michaels. “Find some poor wetback to make an example of,” Milford said as he flicked the last bit of the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. “And let Seward do all the hurting. If he even hesitates, then we know he's not all-in.” Milford looked down at the smoldering butt before looking back up. When his eyes met Michaels, the mask was back on and he was back to Mr. Rogers mode and the smile was back. For the first time, Michaels noticed that the smile didn’t reach his eyes at all. “Have a good shift, sergeant. You’re an outstanding example of what it really means to serve the people of LA County, and furthermore you’re a credit to the white race." He raised his fist, that fucking smile still on his face as he said, "White power.”