Years ago, Bobby was a Marine. As my cop partner, whenever he sees something or someone difficult, he mutters, "This look like a job for the old Devil Dog Marine." I am not a Devil Dog Marine, but an unknown writer, scared and fascinated by policing. Every night, I sit outdoors and try to write something fresh about working patrol for two years. "Slow down, Bobby," I tell him."'Make haste slowly,'" like the Roman soldiers said." Bobby is always getting into trouble, on and off-duty. Some days, he will not show up for work. He limps in the next day, bruised and just grunting to questions. Bobby always plays it quiet. "You're right, player," he says one day."This jazz DOES happen fast. Happened to me." "What are you telling me, Bobby?" "Me and this guy got into it inna club," he says. "Some kinda stupid stuff. Don't even remember what. I was pretty polluted on whiskey. So was he. "I forgot all about it, heading out to my car. Dude slams me in the head, starts shooting. I grab his arm. Shots go wild. More shots. Gets me down on the ground, gun to my head. Last thing I remember thinking was 'Hickey's right. Stuff happens fast." "That was your last thought?" I wisecrack. "I''m honored." "Drunk fool, forgot to count his shots," Billy says. "I hear the hammer go CLICK!Empty chamber on a two-inch gun. No bullet. I'm pumped. Get up and beat him bloody, old Marine Corps hand-to-hand. Just thought you'd like to know, about these marks on my face." ***Frank Hickey If today looks a bit grim and you need to laugh, why not view frankhickeystories.blogspot.com? (The question mark is optional.). Frank Hickey became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.