Am I My Buff's Keeper?***by Frank Hickey*** "I'm a Housing cop working in PSA Four," Junior, a stranger, blows at me on my front stoop. "Been just three years, making lotsa collars, overtime." Wide and spongy in the gut, Junior looks and noises like those inflatable childrens' statues blowing in the wind at street fairs. Bright colors pull squealing kids to them. Junior squeals himself. "Got your shield on you?" I ask, all polite. "Naw!" he snorts. "I never carry my piece or my tin off-duty!" Oatmeal-colored hair spills onto a pale forehead. He sweats, smelling like a baby who needs to be burped. The mouth keeps going. "Cop inna seven-five precinct gets held up inna church," Junior spurts. "Find his shield, no gun, they execute him right away!" "I take one mutt out of his car!" he blurts. "Mutt swings at me. I rap him with my cocobolo stick, hardest wood known to man, he goes down. I tell the desk sergeant 'I'll process him myself!' and mutt tries to kick me in the holding area! "Captain passing through," he continues. "Sees me hammer him into the floor and cuff him, shakes my hand, says, 'Good collar, officer.' Puts me in for an EPD and gives me a day off as a reward." His talk hurts my ears. •. *. *. "He's not a cop," Benny says. "Security guard. Part-time. UBATTS, ya really wanna know." The word 'UBATTS' is Sicilian slang for'crazy.' "Junior just moved into my building," I say. "Right away, he starts telling me about his golden adventures as a cop. He's just a guard, a toy cop?" "You betcha," Benny, my private eye partner, grunts. He scans his V.O. and water cocktail. "I know his uncle, a good guy. This kid's driving him crazy, embarrassing him. Don't tell him ya know the truth." "Us cops call these guys 'buffs,'" Benny says. "Buffs come up to ya on patrol and chatter. They pick up our cop slang, maybe a fake shield or some leather. Dangerous, because some carry guns." "You mean, like this?" I ask, digging into my pocket. He rears back. "No gun?" he asks. "Shield," I say. My hand shows him a three-inch gold shield from my guard job at Penn Protective. Blue enamel decorates the center against the scales of justice. "Nice," he says. "Company issue that?" "Naw," I brag. "Went to Times Square and had it made." "How much?" "Twenty-two bucks," I say. "And your guard salary was fifty a week?" he asks. "You pay half for a fake shield. Yup, you're another buff". As usual, Benny scans the bar, looking for beautiful women with his spaniel eyes. "There's more fake cops in a world than real cops," he says. "Does Junior bother ya?" "Yeah, Junior bothers me," I say. "Cause I wanna be a cop, too. Maybe more than he does. Not just a dumb rookie private eye like I am." "So?" Benny asks. "So I could wind up like Junior myself,"I say. "Telling tall tales like a little kid, at age 22. Maybe starting to believe it myself. Fantasy world. I gotta do something, Benny. I gotta make a move". ***Frank Hickey *** Somehow, Frank became a detective. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net