Warren Palmer

The figure loomed large beside me, the beaming spotlights painting his silhouette as some sort of holy apparition. It was fitting that, upon taking the seat opposite, he'd reveal himself to be none other than Warren Palmer.

Clean-shaven, prominent jaw, broad shouldered, assured, disarming smile... Palmer was the poster child for law enforcement in this city. We hadn't spoken for a while now; two polar opposites set in their ways, we'd clashed over and over back in 'the force'.

"Why are you here, Jack?" Palmer asked abruptly, his tone weary and bothered as if he'd been forced to ask the same question his entire life.
"Wanted to know what was down with the kids," I replied bluntly, lifting my glass and tipping it to my lips. The brandy blazed a burning trail down my throat, one which stung all the more for the look of disdain etched across Warren's face.
"Is that your grand plan to get your licence back?" he called down from the moral high ground. "You got no business here. Why not settle up and call it a night?"

Glancing beyond him, my eye caught the out of order sign now hanging on the executive washroom dooor. I had visions of beyond, of a convulsing crack-head slumped over the toilet bowl, mouth frothing like some rabid animal.
My guy threw a couple of fractious gestures towards the closed off men's room; it was clear his demands didn't often meet the word 'no'.
A few minutes of posturing and whining followed, before he finally caved and I got my break. Glaring daggers one final time at the nightclub attendant, he stormed from the lounge and into the public toilets.

Time to go to work.

"Better be on your way, Warren... I'm sure there's an old lady somewhere 'needs helping across the street."

He didn't rise to it, and I felt like shit.

Bashing my glass on the table, I crossed the dance floor, preparing to get my hands dirty, one more time.