Hi. A few years ago I came up with an idea for a TV series about a unique NYPD detective. Unique because he's only 21 years old and gets recruited. I let it lay dormant for a long time. But I've been picking up the pen again lately, I figure the best way to get feedback is to start blogging it in a weekly serial format. So let me know what you all think.
New York City July 13, 1993
Fucking heat. We oughta get double overtime in this weather. The midwest gets nice cool flooding and we get stuck with this shit.
This was the one thought that kept crossing the cop's mind. It had been two weeks since the heat wave had hit, and it was getting to the point where everyone down at the precinct was starting to get at each other's throats. Det. Vincent Young was near his own breaking point.
His partner Det. Lt. Jack Antonacci had called off the third day running, seeing as his wife was getting along into her seventh month. Jack had insisted that Vince be named godfather to their unborn baby and Young had agreed to it. But he sure as hell didn't think that leaving him to do every bit of the paperwork on the desk they shared, (three stacks now), was a fanatstic way of showing gratitude.
Young signed the last form and stamped it with the department seal with a particular amount of enthusiasm, filed it, and leaned back into the airstream eminating from the desk fan for a few precious seconds. Feeling a drop of sweat blow across his brow, he glanced at the most prized possession he had on his desk. A photograph at which he always smiled. The same photograph he kept paperclipped to the back of his shield.
With a tired sigh he hefted himself out of his chair and saw that it was nearly two in the morning. Seemed like everything around the precinct had changed since he joined the force fourteen years ago. Faces, desks, cases, the cells. Even the damn toilets. It felt like he and Jack were the only two that held any bit of nostalgia.
He grabbed the jacket hanging off the back of his chair, wondering again for the umpteenth time why he had even brought one, and flung it over his shoulder. He grabbed his Beretta from the desk drawer and placed it back in his shoulder holster. He nodded at the new head of night watch, what was her name? Brighton. Serena Brighton. Apparently from the 98th percentile in her class.
"Rough day Detective?"
Young gave her a wan smile. "Like a hundred miles of the Holland Tunnel. If the heat stops, or if Antonacci gets his ass back here, hopefully it'll shrink back to its normal length."
Brighton laughed. "Have a good one Vince."
Young caught the subway from the 57th St. station and over to Queens. He walked in the late night swelter past block after block of rundown apartments, ones who's tennants would even be envious of the Central Plaza.
Young had had some close calls on the force. He'd fired his weapon 67 times on duty. He'd dealt with hostage situations and murderers alike. And if there was one sound that he'd always be able to recognize from fifty feet away, it was the sound of a pistol being cocked. Just like now.
He whirled around. There he was. Down that alley about twenty paces. With an old longbarrel revolver. A .32 from the looks of it. But it wasn't pointed threateningly at anyone else down the alley. It was pointed directly at Young.
Young knew just by looking at him, even without seeing his face through the shadows, it was a mugger. Probably a smack addict looking to get cash for a late night fix. And he knew just how to handle that type....Young grinned at him.
"What? You want money, right? That's how this sort of thing usually goes." He took a couple steps toward the gunman, who said nothing and moved not an inch. "You know, I miss the old days where a guy would come up behind you and say 'Stick 'em up!' That's classic. But I guess you're supposed to be the strong silent type, huh?" He took a couple more steps, to which he again received no reaction.
Funny, thought Young. This strategy was supposed to make the mugger anxious and hopefully lose his nerve. So, why was Young the one getting nervous?
Young kept going though. "You need money for what? Beer? Pussy? Weed? Coke? Smack? What do you need?" He took a couple more steps. The punk raised the pistol an inch higher, indicating that Young had come close enough. Finally, Young decided to play his trump.
He reached to his shirt pocket and pulled out his gold shield. "NYPD pal. I don't give a rat's ass what you want. Either shove off or I'll take you in, right here, right now." The man didn't budge, but slowly brought his other hand to the butt of the revolver.
And then it clicked for Young like a bent firing pin. There was now no way that he could reach for his own gun with his hand holding up his badge. He swallowed hard, looked at the picture attached to the back of his shield, then back at the mouth of the gun.
"You kill a cop...and they'll never stop hunting you."
There was not even two seconds pause after Young said his last words. The gun spoke, its deadly breath carrying a stone from hell that hit Young square in the chest. Young went down in a spreadeagle, his shield hitting the ground face down half a second later.
Young's most prized possession was a picture of his son James. Eight years old and in his little league uniform with a baseball bat.