“Ay, man, hand me that ganja,” was something S’tevo said to him several times daily. Cops weren’t supposed to say that to each other.
“How’d it go?” Greg asked, picking his partner up in front of the courthouse.
S’tevo shrugged his neck; his hydroxinator collar rose and fell. “The usual. Fool lawyer got me say ganja tree time.”
“Perp walked?”
“Nah, trap by di evidence against him. Judge S’lavaston was not fooled by lawyer tricks.”
What the sharks lacked in vocabulary skills, they made up for in jurisprudence. The Great Mutation of 2019 was a boon for the side of law and order.
“Well, congrats on getting another dirty dog off the street. Lunch is on me.”
They stopped at a deli near Preston Park. Greg munched falafel; S’tevo, hovering vertically, flipped mice into the air, snatched them mid-descent.
“Want di last one?” S’tevo asked.
“Sorry, not my thing.”
S’tevo shot him a surprised look, then realized what he’d meant. “Not your ganja. No worries. More for me.”
Greg gestured at the corner of S’tevo’s mouth. “Got a little tail there.” S’tevo slurped it down.
As they got back in the cruiser, the radio squawked: “All units, robbery on Fifth. Witnesses say it’s Pomeranians. Be advised, subjects are armed and possibly rabid.”
They rolled.
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