Crete was a cop. That didn’t mean much anymore, but that was what he was. Used to be the uniform meant something. Some looked at the black and silver with respect. Others looked at it with fear. Either way worked for Crete.
What he couldn’t stand was the uniform being a joke. Garbage men got more respect.
Crete pushed the damp cotton swab through the smooth bored chambers in the cylinder of his revolver. The sour odor of the powder solvent was welcome. It masked worse smells.