." Scharf abruptly perks up, his head on a swivel. "That there looks good. High beams going west, four bodies."

"Going west?" Lugo floors it in heavy traffic. "Think thin, girls," as he takes the driver-side wheels up onto the concrete divider to get past a real cab waiting for the light, then whips into a U-turn to get abreast of the target car, peering in. "Females, two mommies, two kids," passing them, hungrier now, all of them, then Scharf ahoying once again: "Green Honda, going east."

"Now east, he says." Lugo does another 180 and pulls behind the Honda.

"What do we got . . ."

"Two males in the front."

"What do we got ..."

"Neon trim on the plate."

"Tinted windows."

"Right rear taillight."

"Front passenger just stuffed something under the seat."

"Thank you." Lugo hits the misery lights, climbs up the Honda's back, the driver taking half a block to pull over.

Daley and Lugo slowly walk up on either side of the car, cross-beam the front seats.

The driver, a young green-eyed Latino, rolls down his window. "Officer, what I do?"

Lugo rests his crossed arms on the open window as if it's a backyard fence. "License and registration, please?"

"For real, what I do?"

"You always drive like that?" His voice almost gentle.

"Like what?"

"Signaling lane changes, all road-courteous and shit."

"Excuse me?"

"C'mon, nobody does'that unless they're nervous about something."

"Well I was."

"Nervous?"

"You was following me."

"A cab was following you?"

"Yeah, OK, a cab." Passing over his papers. "All serious, Officer, and no disrespect intended, maybe I can learn something here, but what did I do?"

"Primary, you have neon trim on your plates."

"Hey, I didn't put it there. This my sister's whip."

"Secondary, your windows are too dark."

"I told her about that."

"Tertiary, you crossed a solid yellow."

"To get around a double-parked car."

"Quadrary, you're sitting by a hydrant."

"That's 'cause you just pulled me over."

Lugo takes a moment to assess the level of mouth he's getting.

As a rule he is soft-spoken, leaning in to the driver's window to conversate, to explain, his expression baggy with patience, going eye to eye as if to make sure what he's explicating here is being digested, seemingly deaf to the obligatory sputtering, the misdemeanors of verbal abuse, but ... if the driver says that one thing, goes one word over some invisible line, then without any change of expression, without any warning signs except maybe a slow straightening up, a sad/disgusted looking off, he steps back, reaches for the door handle, and the world as they knew it, is no more.

But this kid isn't too bad.

"This is for your own benefit. Get out of the car, please?"

As Lugo escorts the driver to the rear bumpers, Daley leans into the shotgun-seat window and tilts his chin at the passenger, this second kid sitting there affecting comatosity, heavy-lidded under a too big baseball cap and staring straight ahead as if they were still driving somewhere.

"So what's your story?" Daley says, opening the passenger door, offering this one some sidewalk too, as Geohagan, all tatted out in Celtic braids, knots, and crosses leans in to search the glove compartment, the cup caddy, the tape storage bin, Scharf taking the rear seats.

Back at the rear bumpers, the driver stands in a scarecrow T looking off soul-eyed as Lugo, squinting through his own cigarette smoke, fingerwalks his pockets, coming up with a fat roll of twenties.

"This a lot of cheddar, cuz," counting it, then stuffing it in the kid's shirt pocket before continuing the patdown. "Yeah, well, that's my college tuition money." "What the fuck college takes cash?" Lugo laughs, then finished, gestures to the bumper. "Have a seat."

"Burke Technical in the Bronx? It's new." "And they take cash?" "Money's money."

"True dat." Lugo shrugs, just waiting out the car search. "So what's your major?"

"Furniture management?"

"You ever been locked up before?"

"C'mon, man, my uncle's like a detective in the Bronx."

"Like a detective?"

"No. A detective. He just retired."

"Oh yeah? What precinct?"

"I don't know per se. The Sixty-ninth?"

"The fighting Sixty-ninth," Geohagan calls out, feeling under the passenger seat now.

"There is no Sixty-ninth," Lugo says, flicking his butt into the gutter. "Sixty-something. I said I wasn't sure." "What's his name." "Rodriguez?"

"Rodriguez in the Bronx? That narrows it down. What's his first name?"

"Narcisso?"

"Don't know him."

"Had a big retirement party?"

"Sorry."

"I been thinking of trying out for the Police Academy myself." "Oh yeah? That's great."

"Donnie." Geohagan backs out of the passenger door, holds up a Ziploc of weed.

"Because we need more fuckin smokehounds."

The kid closes his eyes, tilts his chin to the stars, to the moon over Delancey.

"His or yours." Lugo gestures to the other kid on the sidewalk, face still blank as a mask, his pockets strewn over the car hood. "Somebody needs to say or you both go."

"Mine," the driver finally mutters.

"Turn around, please?"

"Oh man, you gonna lock me up for that?"

"Hey, two seconds ago you stepped up like a man. Stay with that."

Lugo cuffs him then turns him forward again, holding him at arms length as if to assess his outfit for the evening. "Anything else in there? Tell us now or we'll rip that shitbox to shreds."

"Damn, man, I barely had that."

"All right then, just relax," guiding him back down to the bumper as the search continues nonetheless.

The kid looks off, shakes his head, mutters, "Sorry ass."

"Excuse me?"

"Nah, I'm just saying"-pursing his mouth in self-disgust-"not about you."

Geohagan comes back with the baggie, hands it over.

"OK, look." Lugo lights another cigarette, takes a long first drag. "This? We could give a fuck. We're out here on a higher calling." He nods at a passing patrol car, something the driver said making him laugh. "You know what I'm saying?"

"More serious shit?"

"There you go."

"That's all I got."

"I'm not taking about what you got. I'm talking about what you know."

"What I know?"

"You know what I'm saying."

They both turn and look off in the direction of the East River, two guys having a moment, one with his hands behind his back.

Finally, the kid exhales heavily. "Well, I can tell you where a weed spot is."

"You're kidding me, right?" Lugo rears back.