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It’s 3 AM on an extremely cold and dark New York City winter morning in 1984. The dispatcher breaks the quiet over the police radio with his disinterested, sleep deprived and monotone transmission:

13 Edward - Shots Fired - Latham Hotel...Room 606 - Anonymous  Caller.

“Don’t these fuckin’ people ever sleep?” Frankie grumbles to himself as he finishes a long yawn and adds an audible and drawn out “Shitttttt!” as an afterthought. He gets a chill in deep in his bones.

If you think this cop and his partner were upset about going on another gun run? Think again. These cops just don’t want to leave the warmth of their RMP.


They walked right past the sleeping Desk Clerk behind his bullet resistant glass cage.  They know this Single Room Occupancy Hotel. It’s one of the many magnets of the dregs of the 13th Pct. A conduit of street scum filled with hookers, pimps, junkies and other assorted miscreants.

Sean and Frankie then take the slow ride up in the urine smelling elevator.

All is quiet on the sixth floor, except for the hum of the intermediately blinking dim neon light’s ballast. In addition, the clanking of the steam radiator provides an eerie cadence as they move down the narrow hallway.

They hug the wall as they quickly converge on the room.

The door of Room 606 is slightly ajar.

The lights in Room 606 are out.

Ambient light is practically nonexistent.

But they can make out the form a man slumped in a big chair with a whiskey bottle in his lap.

Also exposed is a big shiny silver gun in the man’s lap.

His face remains in the shadows.

It’s Sean’s turn to take the “point.”

Sean draws down on the figure as he kicks open the door.

Frankie immediately follows him in.

They triangulate on the man.

“Give it up, Mother Fucker!” Sean yells as they watch for the man to grab the gun lying within his grasp.

But the man does not move.

They move in closer. Their guns trained on the man.


They’re both confused when at that exact moment, a goopy mess falls right on the Sean’s left shoulder as they simultaneously notice about half of the man’s head is missing.

Unknown to the cops, this guys brains and part of his skull were barely sticking to the ceiling.

M U T H E R F U C K E R!  - Sean  screams.

Apparently, this guy blew part of his head off and some of his brains and skull stuck to the ceiling. All with that big old .45 Caliber pistol now resting peaceably in his lap.

Frankie says, “I gotta start wearing my fuckin’ glasses!”

“Well, at least we didn’t shit ourselves.” Frankie observes as he breaks out in a loud laugh.

But then in a few seconds, the odor from Sean’s pants reaches Frankie…………


Stephen A. Murray’s first novel : NYPD: The Way Things Were:

Frankie Neptune left driving a New York City taxi and a career in academia to become a NYC police officer. It was a tough time—back in the seventies and into the early nineties—to be a cop. Crime was soaring, and the city was wild. Back in the day, unconventional cops could still have a good time protecting the innocent, teaching skells some manners, and annoying their suspicious sergeants- all while finding out who really killed a respected transvestite.

Politically Incorrect Fiction at its BEST!


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